In that fleeting moment, Yang Lan, daughter of Li Yue, leaned forward just enough to seize the pause in conversation, her voice ringing with a resolve that caught the room off guard.
"It's not that simple," she began, direct and unwavering. "Having a supreme constitution doesn't automatically make someone the strongest. With effort, focus, and the will to go beyond, a person can surpass even those born with every advantage."
Her words danced in the air, nearly coaxing a faint smile from Nael, who observed her with sharp, attentive eyes. He admired the fire in her—how she dared to challenge notions carved in stone, even if it meant standing against her own kin.
Yang Po, son of the first concubine, let out a sigh thick with skepticism, his face twisting into a blend of disbelief and scorn.
"That's absurd! Surpassing someone with a supreme constitution? No matter how hard you try, there will always be a limit. Those born with rare gifts already have their path set to stand above others."
Lan rolled her eyes, a wry, almost taunting smile curling her lips.
"It's possible. Talent is just the first step. What truly matters is how someone builds themselves, how they face what seems impossible."
The exchange hung over the table, stifling the chatter for a heartbeat. Then Aunt Yang Mei, a figure of quiet authority and the Patriarch's younger sister, chose to stir the pot further, her voice carrying a spark of provocation.
"I would say that the Holy Son of the Dao Holy Land deserves to be called the strongest. He possesses a physique unlike anything seen before. Rumors suggest it could rival the five most powerful physiques ever known. And to think, he's not even thirty yet and already in the Inferior Saint Domain."
With a flicker of irony, she added,
"If he isn't the foremost, who else could be? Does anyone here have another name in mind?"
Her words settled like a heavy shroud over the room. The Holy Son's reputation loomed large, a titan among his peers, hard to dispute. But then Nael, silent until that moment, set down his napkin after a deliberate dab at his lips and spoke, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade tempered in frost.
"Perhaps the mistake lies in trying to pinpoint the strongest. What truly matters is who will manage to survive until the end."
The statement struck like thunder, electrifying the hall. Every gaze snapped to him. Nael folded his napkin with unruffled calm and pressed on, his expression a mask of stoic truth that pricked at their comfort.
"In a world that never stops changing, strength isn't found in grandiose names or birthrights. It's in knowing how to adapt and face what cannot be avoided."
The clamor of voices faded, replaced by a silence brimming with unspoken reflection. Each person there faced a bitter truth: power wasn't just a gift of talent or blood—it was forged in the crucible of an unyielding fate.
"Power can deceive for a moment," Nael continued. "How many with supreme constitutions or impressive bodies have ended up dead before achieving anything worthwhile? It's easy to forget that talent without wisdom, without preparation, and without the ability to adapt means nothing."
The room fell hushed, as if an undeniable reality had pinned them all in place. Old Yang, who'd been watching Nael with a glint of fresh intrigue, broke the quiet with a laugh laced with both mockery and reverence.
"This boy… You truly have the manner of a genuine Yan… Or rather, a Supremium."
Nael offered no reply, only a steady, piercing look. As the others slowly picked up their murmurs, he slipped back into his usual quiet. For him, words were a mere spark; deeds were the fire. And he was ready to prove that true strength—gifted or not—lay in something deeper, something uniquely his own.
He resumed eating, his motions precise and unhurried, as if the surrounding buzz slid past him like wind over stone. Even Xia Xiang's honeyed, self-assured voice failed to ripple his calm.
"The strongest of this generation doesn't need to be someone from here," she declared, her smile radiating triumph. "That place undoubtedly belongs to my brother, Yang Ming."
Whispers rippled through the room, accompanied by wide-eyed glances. Across the table, Yang Wei, the eldest son, clenched his fists, fury simmering in his gaze. His rivalry with Yang Ming was no secret—and worse, he always fell short.
"Yang Ming?" an elder ventured, brow furrowed in puzzlement. "I don't know anyone from our house with that name who is… such a prodigy."
Xia Xiang arched an eyebrow, her chuckle dripping with pride.
"It's not surprising. He doesn't show himself around much. He rarely leaves the Dao Holy Land, so many only speak of the main Divine Son, the one who follows the future Mistress of the Holy Land. But Yang Ming… he is the chief disciple of the Rosy Clouds Peak. He possesses the most powerful physique ever heard of: the Primordial Chaos Physique."
Her words lingered, charged with the promise of a gathering storm. Silence followed, broken only by the faint howl of the wind beyond the walls. Elders, concubines, and youths alike grappled with the weight of her claim, a tension rising as old certainties began to fracture.
"That can't be real…" an elder muttered, his voice trembling with astonishment. "That physique is just an ancient tale! It never truly existed."
Xia Xiang's smile widened, brimming with unshakable confidence.
"It did exist. From now on."
She reveled in the stir she'd caused, drinking in the awe and disbelief that turned toward her. With her Heavenly Fragrance Physique, she wielded charm like a blade, feeding her pride with every gasp and glance.
Yet Nael remained a still pond amid the ripples. Her smile wavered as she noticed his indifference—he ate on, tranquil as ever, untouched by her grandeur.
"I've never felt so invisible, except around Yang Ming," she thought, a pang of envy and frustration twisting within her.
"He also reached the Inferior Saint Domain before thirty," she pressed on, raising her voice to reclaim the room. "And that's not all. He understands alchemy, inscriptions, formations, and refinement. They even say he has another special constitution, something related to healing. He can cleanse poisons, close severe wounds, and even regrow a limb."
The whispers swelled, and the women at the table seemed spellbound by the near-mythic figure she wove—each detail painting an unreachable ideal that stirred longing in every heart.
Nael, unmoved, finished his meal with measured grace. Setting down his utensil and wiping his mouth, he lifted his eyes at last—cold, unyielding, like a winter dawn.
"Interesting," he said, his voice soft yet edged with a sarcasm that sliced the quiet. "It seems Yang Ming is the savior everyone has been waiting for."
The irony landed sharp and clear for those who caught it, though some let it slip by. He went on,
"But I wonder one thing. With so much power, so many skills, and so much talent, why hasn't he done anything yet beyond accumulating titles and tales told by others?"
The silence that followed was suffocating, as if the room collectively held its breath. Xia Xiang parted her lips to counter, but her words dissolved, overwhelmed by the raw weight of Nael's question. It cut to the bone, laying bare an uncomfortable truth: for all his splendor, Yang Ming remained a towering name without a proven legacy—a flame yet to cast light.
The air grew thick with unease, the wind outside weaving with the room's muted sighs. Every glance reflected the clash between the allure of power and the stark demand of survival.
Nael rose slowly, smoothing his robe with a composure that defied the restless mood. His gaze, firm and unflinching, swept across them as he spoke, his voice a quiet blade.
"Well-spoken words and beautiful ideas change nothing for those who have already seen the world as it is. When someone shows something real, then we can talk. For now, all this is just noise."
He turned and left without a backward glance. The silence he left behind pressed down, heavy with awkward stares and faltering pride. For once, Xia Xiang felt her confidence flicker, unsure how to reclaim the moment she'd lost.
The tension hung like a taut thread, until a faint yet steady voice pierced it.
"Excuse me…"
All eyes turned to the doorway, where a young woman stood, her presence a jarring contrast to the opulence around her. Her face bore scars, as if clawed by some merciless force, and her thin frame spoke of a life carved by hardship. Yet her eyes burned with a quiet, defiant strength—an ember that refused to fade.
Murmurs sparked, mingling curiosity with disdain. Who was she? How had she slipped in unnoticed? Judgmental glances flickered, tinged with unease and faint revulsion.
Xia Xiang spoke first, her tone icy with contempt.
"What do you want here, Elowen?"
Her words dripped with dismissal, as if addressing something beneath notice. But Elowen didn't waver. She stepped forward, frail yet commanding, her presence a silent force.
"I came looking for someone… to ask for help."
A mocking laugh rang out. Yang Wei, arms crossed and smirking, tossed out,
"And what do you have to offer in return?"
Elowen raised her scarred face, locking eyes with him. Her voice quivered, but her words carried a chilling certainty.
"I see the destiny of all that exists."
Her declaration hovered, casting a shadow over the petty rivalries and vanities that filled the space. Silence descended once more, dense and charged, her words a whisper of upheaval—as if fate itself stood poised to unveil its hand.