Deep within the Marquis of Zhendong's household.
In a grand seven-story ancient tower radiating a unique aura.
"The Basic Blade Technique has truly been improved?" Seven imposing, white-haired elders reacted—some leapt from their seats, others yanked out their white beards, a few spilled their tea, none able to stay calm.
The Basic Blade Technique, as its name implied, was the cornerstone of martial foundations—a fundamental art.
A person's combat strength and future potential were deeply tied to their fundamental art.
Thus, the household's Basic Blade Technique was a closely guarded secret, reserved for legitimate heirs and exceptional side-branch youths who'd passed rigorous trials.
This technique was the bedrock of the Xia family's 600 years of enduring prosperity.
Every martial clan had its own fundamental art—a secret never shared, a monopoly of knowledge ensuring longevity.
Theirs, pioneered by their ancestor Xia Xuanzhen and refined by generations of clan leaders and elders, was deemed perfected, no less than the royal family's own.
Yet now, it had been improved—by a youth, no less. How could they not be stunned?
But as they eyed the scorched, fiery crack on the floor—left by Xia Chen's demonstration before them—their questioning words belied hearts already convinced.
Their dramatic reactions stemmed from sheer disbelief.
"Excellent, excellent, excellent! Though you bear a crippled physique, your contribution to the clan surpasses even your father Xia Yuan's!"
The lead elder, hair streaked with white, boomed with laughter.
Xia Yu, elder brother to Xia Chutian, uncle to Xia Qián and Xia Yuan, and Xia Chen's great-grandfather by rank.
Of Xia Chutian's generation of eight brothers, he ranked third but rose as clan head due to unmatched talent and intellect, inheriting the Marquis of Zhendong title. His seven siblings had served in the military in their youth.
Thirty-six years ago, during the Battle of Huaiyang against Dafeng, Xia Chutian became a war god, later relinquishing command to retire from the army. His brothers followed suit, returning as clan elders to mentor the next generations and bolster the family's legacy…
"No amount of military merit compares to creating this art!"
Another elder, Xia Xuan—Xia Chen's fifth great-uncle—chimed in.
The household's 600-year glory owed much to its generals. Over 300 years ago, an ancestor earned the Marquis of Anwu title for great deeds; 173 years ago, another secured the Marquis of Andong.
Thus, one house boasted three marquises.
Military honors were plentiful.
But Xia Chen's refinement of the fundamental art promised stronger, swifter descendants—an impact profound beyond measure!
…
Xia Chen left the Merit Hall. Truth be told, it was his first visit, and these clan elders—his great-uncles—were faces he'd seen for the first time in seventeen years. Yet their reactions suggested they'd heard of his infamous crippled physique.
"This boosted my presence—a boon to my standing here. The seven elders view me favorably. Trading the Shouyang Demon-Slaying Blade for this was worth it!"
Xia Chen mused. As for their claim that his name would enter clan annals, joining history's greats in the ancestral shrine to share in posterity's incense and qi yun, he cared little.
He craved fame in life!
Posthumous glory wasn't his concern now.
Xia Chen wound through the twisting back courtyard to the training grounds, alive with fervor. Five- and six-year-olds trained in foundational punches under instructors, while eleven- and twelve-year-olds brandished spears, their blades glinting with cold light in striking displays.
Some teens hefted thousand-pound stones, sweat pouring, eyes gleaming with resolve.
"Brother Chen!"
A thirteen- or fourteen-year-old dropped his stone, darting to Xia Chen with ape-like agility in a few bounds.
"Brother Chen, did you come to see me?"
The boy, stocky and cheerful, scratched his head with a goofy grin.
Xia Wen, son of Xia Chen's third uncle Xia Han. Though born to a martial clan, Xia Han favored scholarship over combat, pursuing an official's path.
He'd named his son Xia Wen, hoping for a scholar, but the boy loved martial arts over books, excelling in the former while floundering in the latter.
Xia Chen's crippled physique had dashed his martial hopes, so Xia Han had taken him under his wing, teaching him to nurture righteous qi through Confucian study.
Before ten, Xia Chen often dined at his third uncle's courtyard, growing close to Xia Wen.
"I'm heading to the Merit Building to pick a technique and stopped by to check on you."
Xia Chen smiled. Household youths, regardless of gender, began training at five, braving all weather daily.
But his crippled physique earned him an exemption.
As a child, he'd stubbornly joined them, only to watch peers surge ahead while he struggled to start. Eventually, he stopped coming.
Sweeping the grounds, he noted the young faces. Those his age or a year younger were mostly gone.
They'd reached the Eighth-Rank Refining Essence Realm and joined the military—a household tradition based on cultivation, not age.
"Brother Chen!"
Another voice called. A delicate girl, about ten, in light training clothes, approached timidly, cheeks flushed from a punch set.
Xia Yuxi, Xia Qián and Cui Mengrou's youngest daughter.
"Brother Chen!"
"Brother Chen!"
More approached—offspring of the seven elders' lines and gifted side-branch youths. Some hesitated, blending in after seeing others greet him.
Whispers identified him as a legitimate heir.
Though a quiet figure these years, Xia Chen's name was known.
A martial clan producing its first talentless heir was noteworthy.
Some greeted him warmly, others nodded neutrally—neither cozying up nor offending. No one mocked. Young as they were, most were mature, sharp, and tactful.
No one would rashly cross a legitimate heir, crippled or not—especially now that he was an Imperial Son-in-Law. Why taunt over martial talent alone?
Besides, Xia Chen outranked them all by generation. After 600 years, the household prized fraternal respect.
Xia Chen returned each greeting with a gentle smile, warm as a spring breeze. His gaze settled on a few youths, growing solemn.
These few would shine brilliantly in the future!