Chapter 10.
But something had.
He told himself it was irrelevant.
He had been called a monster before.
He had become one by necessity.
Yet when she looked at him, there was no fear in her eyes.
Only pride.
And that, more than anything else, was dangerous."Stop… or I am going to faint," he said flatly as she continued turning him lightly in her arms.
Lady Yin Fu immediately stopped.
She lowered him onto her lap instead, smoothing his sleeve as if nothing dramatic had happened.
"How is my precious Son?" she asked softly.
"I can sit perfectly fine on my own," he replied.
She tilted her head. "Why? You don't want to sit here?"
He didn't answer that.
Instead, she looked toward Wei Zhi. "Isn't he more beautiful than before?"
Wei Zhi's gaze met his.
Her breath paused for half a second when their eyes locked. He was cold. Measuring. Not childish at all.
"He has… become more refined," she said carefully. "Even the Crown Princess or the Emperor would acknowledge he is truly your blood, Madam. The resemblance is undeniable."
Yin Fu hummed, satisfied.
Her eyes shifted to the texts stacked near him.
"You've been reading these?"
"Yes."
She did not ask where he obtained them.
A clever woman.
"I would like all the volumes," he added evenly, watching her reaction. Testing.
If she could give them, she was the most favoured person in the empire, he thought. She was the royal princess and the first lady of the Xuan clan which had the most profound and Heavenly level sword arts. His thoughts rambled.
She reached forward and suddenly pinched his cheek.
"No," she said.
He froze.
The small, unexpected physical contact startled him more than any threat would have. His breath caught slightly. No one touched him like this. Not without purpose.
He looked up at her, faintly taken aback.
"Then what am I supposed to say and do ?" he asked.
She leaned closer, eyes warm but firm.
"You should say, 'Mother, I have been studying our family's martial arts. I want a reward.'"
He stared at her.
"Aren't you glad?" he pressed.
"I am not unhappy," she answered honestly. "But I am not glad either."
She pinched his cheek again.
He winced this time, small hands instinctively bracing against her shoulder.
"You should ask for fun," she said. "Play. Be lively. You are seven."
"I am living."
"No," she corrected gently. "You are passing time. Living is different."
"This is living," he insisted.
She held his gaze a moment longer, then softened.
"If you say so."
He did not respond.
Instead, he shifted slightly and, almost absentmindedly, leaned back against her. Not fully. Not consciously. But enough that she wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her chin lightly near his hair.
"He's grown so big in such a short time," she murmured.
He let her hold him.
It was uncomfortable.
But he endured it.
Not because he needed it.
But because rejecting it would create questions.
She clapped once.
A high-ranking maid appeared immediately. "Yes, My Lady?"
"Bring the remaining volumes of the Xuan martial archives to the young master's quarters."
The maid bowed and left.
He noted it silently.
He liked her authority.
She turned back to him. "And what did you find in them?"
"Knowledge."
She smiled faintly. "Only that?"
"For now."
Their eyes met again.
A quiet exchange passed between them—subtle, layered.
She was not naive.
He was not transparent.
They both knew it.
"If I ask you a twisted question," she said lightly, "will you answer me honestly?"
"If you ask a twisted question," he replied calmly, "I will give you a twisted answer."
She laughed softly.
"Very well."
For a moment, the room felt strangely balanced—mother and son, neither fully revealing, neither fully hiding.
Wei Zhi observed silently from the side.
And Wuming, though still calculating, found himself momentarily still.
He did not understand her fully.
Two intelligent people discussing blades the way others discuss politics.
Lady Yin Fu noticed the sword manual open beside him.
"You're reading the fifth volume?" she asked.
"Yes."
"That one discusses form before intent."
"It discusses control before ego," he corrected.
Her brow lifted slightly.
"Oh?"
He picked up the wooden practice blade resting near the table.
"The Xuan sword does not favor aggression," he said. "It favors inevitability."
She extended her hand.
"Give it to me."
He did.
She stood, white hanfu flowing, jade ornaments faintly chiming. She moved to the center of the room.
"Show me," she said.
He stepped down from the window.
No theatrics.
Just stance.
She attacked first.
Not fully—but fast enough that an ordinary child would freeze.
He didn't.
He pivoted.
Redirected.
Did not clash.
She narrowed her eyes.
"You yield space too easily."
"Space is cheaper than blood," he replied calmly.
She pressed again, sharper this time.
Steel met wood.
"You retreat," she said.
"I reposition."
She stopped.
Lowered the blade slightly.
"And when there is no space left to reposition?"
"Then you create it."
"How?"
He met her gaze.
"By breaking what stands in front of you."
A pause.
Her expression shifted—not displeased. Not impressed. Observing.
"The Xuan sword is not meant to break," she said quietly. "It seals. It controls. It subdues."
"That is why it stagnated," he replied.
The room stilled.
Wei Zhi's eyes sharpened.
Lady Yin Fu did not move.
"Explain."
He lowered the blade.
"A sword that only seals assumes righteousness. It assumes authority. It assumes moral superiority."
"And you disagree?"
"I disagree with this assumption."
He stepped forward.
"Sealing techniques work against those who follow structure. Against those who cultivate properly. Against those who fear loss."
He looked directly at her.
"But what about someone who has already lost everything?"
Silence.
She understood what he was implying.
"The sword should not only seal," he continued. "It should decide."
"And who decides?" she asked softly.
"The one holding it."
"That," she said, "is how tyrants are born."
"And that," he replied, "is how clans survive."
Their eyes locked.
No anger.
Just ideology.
She walked closer until they were a step apart.
"You speak like someone who has seen collapse."
"I speak like someone who studies patterns."
She tilted her head.
"The sword," she said, "is not for domination. It is for protection."
He did not flinch.
"Protection is domination with a prettier name."
That made her laugh once—quiet, amused.
"You argue like your father."
He shook his head slightly.
"No. Father argues to win. I argue to refine."
She watched him carefully now.
"You believe the Xuan sword must evolve."
"Yes."
"Into what?"
"A blade that seals when necessary. Kills when required. And controls without announcing control."
Her golden eyes softened—but sharpened at the same time.
"And what of morality?"
He thought for a moment.
"Morality," he said calmly, "should never hold the sword. It should guide the hand."
She studied him for a long time.
"You are seven."
"I am learning."
She stepped back, placing the wooden blade aside.
"You are dangerous," she said quietly.
"Only to those who insist on standing in front of me."
Wei Zhi, who had been silent the entire time, finally spoke.
"You both speak as if swords are philosophy."
Wuming glanced at her.
"They are."
Yin Fu smiled faintly.
"In the Xuan clan," she said, "a sword reflects the mind."
Wuming responded without hesitation.
"Then it must never be dull."
A small silence followed.
Not hostile.
Not warm.
Just understanding.
For the first time, Lady Yin Fu looked at him not just as her son—
But as someone who would one day stand above the clan.
And perhaps beyond it.
His father overheard only fragments of their argument — words about existence, power, and the meaning of life — but what truly unsettled her was not the debate.
It was him.
Wei Zhi stood silently at a distance, observing Xuan Wuming.
He is dangerous.
That much was certain.
His soul… it was old.
Ancient.
She had confirmed it the moment she tried to sense his oath. But there was no visible tether. No contract seal. No spiritual mark.
And when she focused her inner sight deeper—
Something struck her.
A force.
Not evil.
Not righteous.
But overwhelming.
It wasn't killing intent.
It wasn't hostility.
It was simply… strength.
Raw. Vast. Silent.
The kind of power that made even a sword master's spirit tremble.
For a split second, she felt her own soul recoil — like prey recognizing something far above it in the food chain.
If he wished… he could have crushed me.
When he had forced her to kneel earlier, she had believed it was dominance.
Now she understood.
It was mercy.
She lowered her gaze again — not out of humiliation, but acknowledgement.
Respect.
But the question clawed at her mind.
How?
An ancient soul without an oath.
A child without spiritual backlash.
A presence that even Heaven did not dare to suppress.
Who… are you, Xuan Yin Wuming?
The study doors were half open.
Outside, his father stood still.
He had come to speak… but stopped when he heard his son's voice.
How is he so insightful?
This was not the Wuming he knew.
He remembered a gentle child — kind, soft-spoken, always smiling even when hurt.
He knew who had broken that gentleness. His second wife.
He had seen the bruises once. The silence after. The way the boy stopped laughing.
He could not punish her.
Politics bound his hands. Alliances were more fragile than glass.
And so guilt had taken root in him.
Yet now, as he watched the scattered Xuan clan texts in his son's hands, something else stirred inside him.
Pride.
Because whatever that woman had tried to destroy…
She had forged instead.
His son was reading the core texts.
And understanding them.
Understanding what even elders failed to grasp.
The true intent of their ancestor.
Inside the room, Wuming's voice broke the silence.
"Mother," he said quietly, "why is my name Xuan Wuming?"
Yin Fu smiled faintly.
"I had wished to name you Xuan Yu Hang," she said softly. "Cosmic Voyage. A name that would let you wander freely."
He looked at her.
"But?"
She exhaled.
"It is a tradition in the Xuan clan. Every sixth generation… the clan master must name his most precious son — Xuan Yin Wuming."
The wooden sword in his hand slipped.
It hit the floor with a hollow sound.
His body stiffened.
"Why?" he asked.
His voice was steady.
Too steady.
Yin Fu didn't notice the way his fingers had gone cold.
"It dates back centuries," she began. "To the era of the Seven Sovereigns."
"There were seven of them. The strongest figures in recorded history."
Her gaze turned distant.
"The strongest among them… was Xuan Yin Wuming."
Outside the door, his father slowly clenched his fists.
Inside, Wuming's breathing became shallow.
"Xuan Ye Xiao, our first patriarch, was not his blood brother," Yin Fu continued. "But he was his disciple… and something more. From what i know about, the history of xuan which is as large as two nations, royal family's history. According to that, the first patriarch Xuan Ye Xiao was the disciple and younger brother of Xuan Ying Yue, by blood. Its said that their were 7 best friends and they were the strongest in the history; the strongest, of them was Xuan Yin wuming."
She exhaled remembering words carefully.
"Even though xuan yin wuming wasn't related to xuan ying yue and xuan ye xiao but it's said that xuan yin wuming gave his surname to Ye Xiao, as in xuan ying yue. And he had named Xuan Ye Xiao when he was a baby. It is not some folklore but the mentioned in the personal diaries of Xuan Ye Xiao."
"It is said Xuan Yin Wuming gave Ye Xiao his surname."
"In his personal diaries, Ye Xiao wrote that he admired him more than anyone in the world."
She smiled faintly.
End of 10