The whip sang through the air, a sharp crack splitting the stillness of the Lin Clan courtyard. Its leather tip found flesh, slashing across Lin Feng's back with a wet thud. He staggered forward, knees slamming into the dusty earth, a thin line of blood seeping through his tattered tunic. Above him, Lin Hao towered, his silk robes a gaudy splash of crimson against the gray squalor. The young lord's lips curled into a sneer, his eyes glinting with cruel delight as he coiled the whip for another strike. "Trash!" he spat, voice thick with disdain. "Can't even haul a bucket without spilling half of it. A stray mutt's worth more than you!"
Laughter erupted from the gathered crowd—servants in patched rags, junior clansmen with smug grins—their jeers a jagged chorus bouncing off the cracked stone walls. A young maid, her hands stained with kitchen grease, pointed and giggled. "Look at him crawl! Pathetic!" An older guard, his sword rusted at the hip, shook his head. "Waste of a marriage. Should've fed him to the pigs."
Lin Feng stayed down, head bowed, muddy-brown eyes locked on the dirt. Beneath the frail shell, Zhan Tian—the Martial God of Ten Thousand Realms—smirked inwardly. The whip's bite was a tickle, a child's tantrum compared to the divine chains that had once bound him. These ants thought him broken, a plaything to torment. Let them. Their ignorance was a gift, each lash a spark to stoke the inferno of his vengeance. The seal Tian Xu had forged locked away his power, a cage of celestial malice, but its edges were fraying—a crack he'd widen with their arrogance.
"Get up, you worm!" Lin Hao barked, snapping the whip again. It caught Lin Feng's shoulder, tearing cloth and drawing a fresh trickle of blood. The crowd cheered, a hungry pack baying for more. Lin Feng rose, slow and deliberate, his thin frame quivering—not from pain, but from the effort to leash the qi pulsing within. A sliver, a faint echo of the god who'd shattered heavens with a glance. Enough to endure this farce. Soon, enough to bury it.
Lin Hao scoffed, tossing the whip to a wiry servant with a gap-toothed grin. "Clean that mess, dog," he said, gesturing to the overturned bucket, its water soaking into the dirt. "And don't show your face 'til it's done. You're a stain on this clan." He turned away, the crowd parting for him like water, their laughter trailing as they dispersed.
Lin Feng limped to the well, bucket in hand, his steps heavy but sure. The courtyard emptied, leaving only the wind and the faint drip of blood from his arm. His mind churned, a storm behind the mask. Three years he'd rotted here—fetching water, scrubbing floors, taking blows like a whipped cur. The Lin Clan had been a middling power once, its name whispered with respect in these hills. Now it was a carcass, picked apart by greed and petty squabbles. They'd bound him to Lin Mei, their eldest, thinking a nameless drifter would bend to their will. Fools. They'd tethered a god, and they didn't even see the leash fraying.
He filled the bucket, the cold water splashing his hands, and paused. The seal pulsed—a heartbeat in the dark, its fracture a promise. He'd probed it daily, testing its seams with every humiliation. It was weakening, a dam cracking under pressure. Soon, it'd burst. But not here. The Lin Clan was a dead end, a pit of vipers too weak to wield, too blind to fear. He needed new ground, a spark to ignite his ascent.
Dusk painted the sky crimson as the main hall flared to life, lanterns casting a warm glow over the feast within. Lin Hao's promotion to Iron Fang Sect disciple—a minor title, but enough for the clan to preen. Lin Feng stood in the shadows, a jug of wine clutched in his bruised grip, his presence a ghost among the revelry. The air thickened with roasted meat and incense, the clatter of cups a dull roar. Elders in faded robes droned about alliances, their voices slurred with drink. Servants scurried, dodging Lin Hao's swagger as he strutted among them, his silk rustling.
Lin Mei sat at the high table, her beauty a cold flame—hair black as ink, eyes sharp as frost. She hadn't spoken to him in months, her gaze sliding past him now like he was a smudge on the wall. He poured wine for a leering elder, the liquid sloshing, and felt the weight of her indifference. Once, he'd been a ruler of realms, emperors kneeling at his feet. Now, he was this—a servant to children playing at power.
No more. The jug hit the table with a soft clink, unnoticed in the din. Lin Feng turned, walking to the hall's center, his steps a quiet drumbeat. Whispers followed, a ripple of confusion threading through the noise. "What's he doing?" a servant muttered, clutching a tray. "Gone mad?" another hissed, elbowing his neighbor.
Lin Hao's head snapped up, his cup pausing mid-sip. "Oi, trash!" he shouted, slamming it down. "Who told you to move? Back to your corner!"
Lin Feng stopped before Lin Mei, his gaze locking with hers. The hall hushed, a breath held. Her delicate brows furrowed, a flicker of unease piercing her ice. "I want a divorce," he said, his voice low but clear, a blade slicing the silence.
A gasp—then chaos. A cup slipped from an elder's hand, shattering on the tiles. Lin Mei's lips parted, shock cracking her composure. Lin Hao roared, leaping to his feet, his face flushing red. "You dare speak to my sister like that, you filthy dog?" The table rocked as he shoved it aside, fists clenched.
The elders erupted, their shouts overlapping— "Insolent!" "Ungrateful wretch!" Servants froze, trays trembling in their hands. Lin Hao charged, grabbing Lin Feng's collar with a snarl. "We took you in, fed you, and you spit on us? I'll beat you 'til you beg to stay!" His fist reared back, knuckles white, but Lin Feng didn't flinch. He could snap the boy's neck with a thought, even with the seal. Instead, he let him rage—a final gift to their delusion.
Lin Mei stood, her voice a whip cutting through the storm. "Enough." She stepped forward, her silk gown whispering against the floor, her stare a dagger's edge. "You want to leave? After we sheltered you? You'll die out there, nothing but a beggar."
Lin Feng's lips twitched, a faint smirk breaking his mask. "A beggar? We'll see." He turned to the elders, ignoring Lin Hao's grip. "Write the papers. I'm gone by dawn."
The hall exploded anew—elders bellowing, Lin Hao shaking him like a rag doll—but Lin Mei's silence was a guillotine. She nodded once, sharp and cold. "Do it," she told the scribe, her voice steel. "Let the fool go. He'll rot in the wilds, and we'll be free of him."
By sunrise, the papers were signed, the ink still wet as Lin Feng walked through the gates. Guards jeered, hurling stones that bounced off his back, their taunts a fading echo—"Good riddance!" "Die out there, trash!" He didn't look back. Freedom surged in his chest, a bitter flame licking at his ribs. The Lin Clan's stench fell away, swallowed by the hills.
He wandered the dirt road, the sun climbing higher, his body a map of bruises. The seal pulsed stronger now, its fracture a jagged line he could almost touch. Three years of probing had borne fruit—the dam was splintering. He needed a new forge, a place to temper his will. The Lin Clan had been a shackle; he'd find a blade instead.
Near dusk, a groan pulled him from his thoughts. A ditch beside the road cradled a toppled cart, its merchant sprawled in the dirt, blood matting his gray hair. Bandits, judging by the scattered goods—sacks of grain torn open, a broken crate spilling tools. Lin Feng knelt, pressing a hand to the wound. A thread of qi—barely a breath—sealed it, invisible to mortal eyes. The man's lids fluttered, revealing desperate gratitude.
"You… saved me," he rasped, clutching Lin Feng's sleeve with trembling fingers. "I'm Ye Qing, Ye Clan. We're nothing now—just scraps the wolves pick at—but come with me. Please, we need help."
Zhan Tian studied him. The Ye Clan—a name whispered in taverns, a house fallen to ruin. Weak, clinging to the edge, unseen by the mighty. A perfect ember. "I'll come," he said, hauling Ye Qing to his feet. "But I'm no savior—just a man passing through."
Ye Qing's eyes welled, his grip tightening. "That's more than we've had in years." They limped toward the Ye Clan's lands, the horizon swallowing the light. The seal thrummed, its crack a quiet roar in Zhan Tian's soul. The Lin Clan's ants had unleashed a storm they couldn't fathom. As night cloaked the road, a shadow shifted in the trees—silent, watching, a blade glinting in the dark.