Fang Lin returned to his room after bathing.
Water still dripped from his long black hair, droplets falling softly onto the wooden floor. His breathing was calm, his mind unusually clear. On the table before him lay a neatly folded set of clothes—white and silver, faintly shimmering under the morning light. They had been brought earlier by Ling'er, sent on the personal order of the family head, Fang Qinxian.
Without hesitation, Fang Lin changed into them.
The fabric fit his body perfectly, light yet dignified. Over his chest was an embroidered symbol shaped like a sword, glowing in a refined silver sheen. His long black hair flowed freely down his back, reaching all the way to his waist.
He stood before the mirror.
For a moment, Fang Lin simply stared.
Then he murmured to himself, almost in disbelief,
"…Is this really me? This body is actually quite good. Like the protagonist of a novel—smart, handsome, talented."
Lingyi, floating quietly in the air beside him in his soul form, reacted at once.
"I didn't understand those strange words you just said," Lingyi replied, "but hearing you praise this body makes me very happy."
Fang Lin chuckled lightly, his gaze never leaving his reflection.
"I'm not lying. This very body gave me A-grade aptitude—such a rare talent. Because of it, your entire life changed. Your parents look at you with pride now. The Fang family is proud of you. They even prepared a banquet just for this."
He paused, still staring at himself in the mirror.
"Tell me—was there ever an atmosphere like this before?"
Lingyi fell silent for a brief moment, then nodded slowly.
"Yes… you're right. Before this, everyone looked at me like trash. As if my existence here was a mistake. But now… everything has changed."
Fang Lin's gaze finally shifted—from the mirror to the items resting quietly nearby.
The sword.
The manual.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"To be honest, I never really wanted to cultivate."
He turned his head toward the window, watching the sunlight spill in from outside.
"I came to this world just to live freely… peacefully."
Then his expression slowly hardened.
"But after so much has happened because of this body, I don't have a choice anymore. If I don't grow stronger, all of this could be taken away again."
Turning back toward the bed, he asked casually,
"By the way, Lingyi… do you know how cultivation is actually done here?"
Lingyi, still floating in the air, scratched his head in embarrassment.
"How would I know? That's something taught in sects. All I know is that cultivators sit cross-legged, absorb energy into their bodies, and fill their primal sea."
Fang Lin nodded in understanding.
"So it's taught in sects… that means I'll probably go to a sect too. And what you described—I've read about that in many novels."
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
"Alright then. Let's try it."
He moved to the bed and sat down cross-legged, his posture steady. Slowly, Fang Lin closed his eyes.
He focused inward, trying to sense something—anything.
He searched for his primal sea.
He searched for energy.
But no matter how hard he tried…
Nothing he finds.
Fang Lin remained seated on the bed, eyes still closed.
No matter how many times he tried to focus inward, there was nothing—no warmth, no flow of energy, not even the faintest trace of his so-called primal sea.
His brows slowly knitted together.
I can't even sense my own primal sea…
If this is the case, how am I supposed to cultivate at all?
A trace of helplessness surfaced in his heart.
It seems I won't be able to do this by myself.
I'll have to go to a sect and learn it properly.
With that realization, Fang Lin finally opened his eyes, a calm yet resolute light flickering within them.
Just as Fang Lin was about to stand up, a soft knock echoed from outside the door.
Knock. Knock.
A gentle female voice followed, clear yet restrained.
"Fang Lin… are you ready? Everyone is waiting for you."
The sound pulled Fang Lin out of his thoughts. He lifted his gaze toward the wooden door, sunlight still lingering on his shoulder from the open window.
Lingyi floated slightly closer, a faint smile appearing on his translucent face.
"Looks like the banquet is about to begin."
Fang Lin exhaled slowly, his earlier confusion settling into calm determination. He reached out, lightly adjusting the silver-trimmed robes on his body before replying in an even tone,
"I'm coming."
Fang Lin reached out and pulled the door open.
Standing outside was the same servant who had come earlier to call him—
but the moment his eyes fell on her, he froze.
It was Ling'er.
Her usually neat appearance looked slightly disordered, and on her forehead, just above her brow, a narrow strip of cloth had been carefully tied. Faint traces of dried blood marked its edge, impossible to miss in the morning light.
Fang Lin's brows knitted together in surprise.
"Ling'er… what happened to you?" he asked instinctively. "Did someone hurt you?"
There was no deep bond between them—no affection or familiarity—only a simple, human concern. After all, she was the servant who always appeared on time, guiding him where he needed to go, doing her duties quietly and efficiently.
Behind him, Lingyi's reaction was completely different.
The moment he saw the bandage, his expression changed. His usually calm face darkened, his soul-form trembling faintly as anger surged through him—raw and uncontrollable, as if someone had crossed a line that should never have been touched.
He clenched his fists, teeth grinding, eyes burning with a quiet fury.
Ling'er lowered her head before Fang Lin could say anything more. She avoided his gaze entirely, her fingers unconsciously brushing the bandage on her forehead.
"It's nothing," she said softly, her voice steady but restrained. "I slipped and fell. I was helping decorate the banquet hall since last night, so I didn't get much rest."
Her tone was humble, almost practiced.
"I must have been careless."
Lingyi stared at her, disbelief and anger twisting together inside him. He knew her far too well—
this wasn't carelessness.
But Ling'er didn't look up again. She simply stepped aside, making space at the doorway, her posture as respectful as ever.
"If you're ready, Young Master Fang Lin," she said quietly, "the family head and the guests are waiting."
Fang Lin studied her for a brief moment longer. Something about her explanation didn't sit right with him—but he didn't press further.
"Alright," he replied at last. "Lead the way."
As he stepped out of the room, Lingyi floated close to his shoulder, his voice low and tense.
"…This isn't over."
And Ling'er, walking just a step ahead, clenched her fingers tightly within her sleeves—
her expression hidden, her thoughts unreadable.
In the hall, Ling'er was about to step out, but her eyes fell on Fang Lin's long, loose black hair.
She paused for a heartbeat, her fingers brushing against the strands as if instinctively drawn to straighten them. A faint warmth lingered in her touch.
With careful hands, she took out a
hairband and began tying his hair neatly.
"You have to attend the banquet today, so your hair shouldn't be left like this," she murmured softly, her voice carrying a hint of concern.
Fang Lin felt a flicker of surprise, and for a brief moment, he noticed the gentleness in her movements—the way her fingers lingered slightly longer than necessary, almost as if she didn't want to let go. He stayed quiet, allowing her to finish.
Ling'er secured the hairband, gave him a quick, almost shy glance, and stepped toward the door. Just before leaving, she hesitated for a split second, then whispered under her breath,
"Be careful today…", before quietly disappearing down the corridor.
Fang Lin's eyes followed her retreating figure, a strange warmth spreading in his chest, though he didn't fully understand why.
************
Morning light filtered into the Tian Court, but it never truly reached the space directly behind the throne.
There, shadows remained dense and unmoving—like a domain forbidden to ordinary eyes.
Upon the elevated stone throne sat Tian Wuxian, his deep-blue ceremonial robe flowing naturally along the carved seat. His presence was calm, absolute. Even without speaking, the court seemed to breathe more quietly in his presence.
Standing directly behind him, half-hidden within the shadows cast by the throne, were two figures.
They did not move.
They did not speak.
Yet their existence could not be ignored.
Both wore pitch-black robes, so dark they appeared to swallow the surrounding light. Their faces were concealed behind white masks, smooth and expressionless, each marked with curved crimson symbols—like dried arcs of blood etched into porcelain. Those symbols were not decorative; they carried an oppressive intent that made even veteran elders instinctively avert their gaze.
At their waists hung long swords, still sheathed.
The scabbards were simple, unadorned, but the space around them felt unnaturally tense. Even while sealed, a faint sword intent leaked out—sharp, cold, and disciplined—causing the air nearby to tremble ever so slightly, as if it feared what would happen should those blades ever be drawn.
They stood perfectly straight, hands resting calmly near their swords, like shadows given form—
not guards, but executioners who existed solely by the will of the throne.
To the Tian Court, they were known only as the Masked Sword Guards.
Their identities were unknown.
Their cultivation unfathomable.
One thing, however, was certain—
If Tian Wuxian remained seated, the court was safe.
If either of those swords ever left its sheath…
then the Tian Court would become a place of judgment.
Below the throne, the crimson carpet stretched outward, and along its sides sat the elders of the Tian family and allied clans. Though they maintained composed expressions, many subconsciously straightened their backs, careful not to let their gazes linger too long on the shadows behind the throne.
This was the Tian Court in the morning—
not merely a hall of discussion,
but a place where authority, fear, and order existed in perfect balance.
The silence within the Tian Court was suddenly disturbed—not by sound, but by presence.
From the far end of the hall, a solitary figure stepped onto the crimson carpet.
His pace was unhurried, each step steady and measured, yet with every footfall, the invisible pressure filling the court subtly shifted. Elders seated along both sides opened their eyes one after another, their expressions turning solemn.
Elder Chu Baishan had arrived.
He wore a simple grey robe, devoid of ornamentation, yet it carried the weight of countless years. His hair, streaked with silver, was tied neatly behind his back, and his eyes were calm—so calm that they seemed to have already seen through the rise and fall of generations.
As he advanced, the Void Mask Guardians behind the throne reacted.
Not by moving.
But by focusing.
The faint sword intent leaking from their sheaths sharpened for a breath's length before returning to stillness—an unspoken acknowledgment.
Chu Baishan stopped several steps before the throne and placed his fists together in a respectful salute.
"This old man, Chu Baishan, greets the patriatch".
His voice was neither loud nor soft, yet it traveled effortlessly through the vast hall, reaching every corner without echo.
Upon the throne, Tian Wuxian remained seated, his posture unchanged. The veil before his face stirred slightly, as though a wind had passed.
"Elder Baishan," Tian Wuxian's voice finally sounded—deep, steady, and carrying unquestionable authority.
"You arrive early."
Baishan smiled faintly.
"Matters involving the future of the clan do not permit delay."
At those words, several elders exchanged subtle glances.
The morning light filtering into the Tian Court seemed to brighten—yet the air grew heavier, as if something important was about to be spoken.
Elder Chu Baishan calmly drew out several neatly arranged parchment sheets from within his sleeve. The ink upon them was still fresh, yet the handwriting was firm and precise, each line written with careful intent.
He raised the parchments just enough for the elders seated in the Tian Court to see clearly.
A faint murmur passed through the hall.
Some elders leaned forward in their seats, others stroked their beards thoughtfully, while a few simply watched in silence. Today's record was no trivial matter—these numbers were not merely awakening results, but a glimpse into the future strength of the clan.
The soft morning light filtered into the court, illuminating the parchments and making the A-to-E grade markings and their corresponding figures clearly visible.
Tian Wuxian remained seated upon his throne, composed and unmoving, listening without a word. His presence alone kept the court orderly.
Behind him, the guards stood silently in the shadows—unobtrusive, existing only as part of the court's unspoken order.
Chu Baishan lowered his gaze to the parchments once more, as if arranging his thoughts.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head and looked across the court.