Snow fell in silence, as if the heavens mourned—but the world turned as it always had.
In the quiet reaches of Lianxu County, nestled within the Qiyun Continent of the Tianxuan Realm, there stood a town untouched by time: Qinghe Town. Four great clans governed its lands—Li, Zhao, Han, and Wei—each proud of their lineage and cultivation heritage. Among them, the Li Clan towered like a red-crowned crane amid the reeds: dignified, ancient, and feared. Their banners still danced boldly upon the eastern hills, their stone halls still echoed with ancestral pride.
Yet beneath that grandeur, not all the clan members are treated equally bright.
Beneath an old plum tree at the edge of the clan's outer grounds, Li Xuan stirred.
The branches above him were bare, stripped of their spring blossoms. His fingers twitched in the half-frozen dirt, nails cracked and bloody.
They had branded him a traitor.
Though Li Xuan was of the Li Clan, he had never been seen as part of the core members. His father, Li Zheng, was the third son of the Li Clan patriarch—once a prodigy celebrated across Qinghe Town. But that had changed years ago, when a mission into the beast-infested forests left Li Zheng gravely wounded. His cultivation regressed, and with it, the respect of the clan withered. Even the patriarch, his own father, grew distant and cold.
Li Zheng, his wife, and their children were pushed aside—relegated to a crumbling courtyard near the servant quarters, their names whispered with pity or scorn. Still, they endured. Still, Li Xuan dreamed of restoring their honor.
He trained harder than any of his peers. His talent bloomed early, undeniable even to the elders. But that brilliance cast shadows. His cousins—the sons of the clan's favored heirs—grew envious. They whispered lies, forged letters, twisted chance meetings into allegations.
They accused him of colluding with the rival Zhao Clan to steal the Li Clan's core techniques, a crime punishable by death.
The patriarch didn't question. The elders didn't investigate.
The punishment was swift.
His cultivation was crippled. His dantian shattered. His name struck from the family rolls. He was thrown from the clan grounds and left for dead.
His father could only kneel in silence, powerless to stop it. His mother wept behind the closed doors of their courtyard. His younger sister, Li Xioran, clutched her sleeve, watching with tearful eyes. Li Xuan saw their pain—and knew he could not stay.
If he remained, they would suffer for him.
So he left.
Now, beneath the tree where he once recited scriptures as a boy, he lay bloodied and broken. His breath came in shudders. Every muscle screamed in pain. Yet somehow… he was still alive.
And the earth beneath him was warm.
It began as a hum—a slow, pulsing vibration that rose from the roots of the plum tree into his spine. The pain dulled, replaced by stillness. His blood soaked into the frozen ground, and the tree, long dormant, stirred.
A pulse echoed through his bones.
Then—
[System Notification: Soul signature recognized.]
[System Notification: Condition: critical.]
[System Notification: Dantian: severed.]
[System Notification: Spiritual Root Dantian reconstruction—approved.]
[System Notification: System activated.]
[System Notification: Welcome, new user.]
Warmth surged through him, flooding the hollow where his dantian had once been. But this energy was different—not mere qi, but something deeper. A force that reshaped him, anchored deep within his soul.
He gasped, clutching his chest. He could feel it—mending, reforming, rebirthing.
Not what he had been. Something more.
A flash of light. Three glowing objects appeared—a jade stone, three pills, and a scroll bound in golden twine. They vanished into a space beyond sight, but he could feel them in his mind: resting, waiting.
He exhaled, steam rising in the winter air.
They had taken everything from him—his future, his name, his place in the clan. And yet, something older had chosen him. Something buried. Silent.
He rose slowly, snow clinging to his torn robes. Behind him, the Li estate remained tall and proud, untouched by what had been done. Before him lay the Green Ember Mountains, vast and ancient.
He did not walk for vengeance. Not yet.
He walked to reclaim what had been taken—to grow, to root, to rise.
He would follow the path spoken of only in broken scrolls. A path of balance, of stillness, of strength born from within. A path no clan could control.
And one day, when the world looked upon him again, they would not see a discarded son.
They would see the storm born of the quietest seed.
---
[System Notification: New Quest – Begin First Meditation.]
[Reward: 1 Unknown Item.]