Thanks to the outdated, almost ritualistic mentality that dominated family structures in most Wuxia worlds, practically everyone within a clan could be considered cousins—whether distantly related or not. Bloodlines were everything, even if most of them had long since been thinned by tradition and ignorance. Marriages were rarely about love or compatibility; they were transactions, extensions of political maneuvering cloaked in the rhetoric of heritage and legacy.
Only those from the lowest or highest tiers of society dared to break from these practices. The low-ranking clans, because quite frankly, no one outside their borders cared who they married—or even if they married at all. Their bloodline didn't carry weight, so their choices didn't either. Meanwhile, the high-ranking clans played a very different game. Their unions were strategic, designed to intertwine legacies, merge power, and consolidate spiritual resources. Love was a luxury, not a requirement. It was all about strength, survival, and social standing.
But amid all this obsession with bloodlines, what no one in these clans seemed willing to acknowledge—or perhaps simply refused to see—was the creeping decay that came with centuries of insular thinking. Generations of intermarriage within limited gene pools dulled talent, thinned spiritual roots, and eroded potential. It was as if the clans had built a house of cards from their ancestors' greatness, and with every generation, another card was removed.
Only on rare, almost miraculous occasions would a true talent emerge from such stagnation. A burst of brilliance in an otherwise dull sky.
Lin Tian's grandfather had been one of those exceptions. A prodigy who, rather than allowing his talent to be stifled by the petty politics and suffocating tradition of the Lin Clan, had chosen to leave—severing ties and forging his own path. It had been a scandal at the time, but one that ultimately allowed him to thrive and grow in ways the clan could never have supported.
Now, standing opposite Lin Tian, preparing for a formal duel, was Lin Yemin—considered by the clan to be one of those rare prodigies. But to Lin Tian, it was laughable.
Their standards were pitifully low.
Lin Yemin, at 15, was approaching the fourth level of Qi Gathering. In this isolated village, that was treated like the pinnacle of success—a feat worthy of celebration, of pride. They whispered about his future as if he were already destined for legend. But Lin Tian knew better.
The word genius was always relative. In this backwater corner of the world, yes, Lin Yemin might stand tall. But in the wider realm—where ancient sects spanned mountaintops and kingdoms thrived on cultivating monstrous talents—children even younger had already surpassed the fifth level, many without breaking a sweat. In the grand tapestry of cultivation, Lin Yemin wasn't even a footnote.
Still, appearances mattered.
Lin Yemin looked the part—handsome, poised, confident. His long black hair was tied neatly behind his head, his robes crisp, his posture steady. His eyes were calm, but behind them was the unmistakable gleam of someone who had been praised his entire life. He had been raised on the belief that greatness was not just possible, but inevitable. Groomed for power, prepared for command.
A polished sword hung at his waist—a sleek, elegant weapon that caught the sunlight just enough to hint at its quality. Not some mass-forged blade from the outer village smiths. No, this one had been made for him, perhaps even infused with spiritual essence. As the grandson of the First Elder, Lin Yemin had access to resources most of the clan could only dream of. His cultivation might've been average by real-world standards, but within the clan, he stood at the top of the hill.
Lin Tian, by contrast, wore a relaxed smile—unbothered, even friendly. He had no personal vendetta against Lin Yemin. They had simply been pitted against one another for show, for politics, for the entertainment of the elders and the illusion of fair competition.
Lin Yemin, of course, did not return the courtesy.
His expression remained blank, sculpted into a perfect mask of superiority. He didn't need to show disdain—his silence was louder. Why bother showing emotion for a duel he was sure he'd win? As far as he was concerned, Lin Tian was just another stepping stone on the path he had been promised since birth.
The Second Elder stepped between them with deliberate solemnity, scanning both boys with a practiced eye. His voice rang out with ceremonial gravitas, though the words themselves were simple: "Are you ready?"
Without hesitation, Lin Yemin drew his sword in one fluid motion. It gleamed as it caught the light, humming softly with restrained power. He shifted into his stance, feet planted firmly, his form textbook-perfect. A pose he had likely practiced a thousand times, with tutors correcting his every movement, polishing every detail.
Lin Tian's response was far less dramatic.
He raised one brow, amused, then lifted both hands slowly in front of him, palms open, as if signaling surrender.
"You're going to fight with a sword?" he asked, voice light, tone playfully surprised.
His expression was almost comical in its innocence, as though he'd just realized his opponent brought a weapon to a friendly sparring match. But beneath that boyish curiosity was a glint in his eye—a spark of calculation, of something much deeper than the moment suggested.
Lin Yemin didn't even dignify the question with a response. He simply stared at the Second Elder, not moving an inch from his perfectly maintained stance—clearly one he'd practiced thousands of times.
The Second Elder let out a soft chuckle. "Of course he's using a sword. If you don't have one, that's your problem. In a real battle, you can't expect your enemy to put down their weapon just because you're unarmed, can you?"
Lin Tian narrowed his eyes at the old man. In truth, he could fight just fine without a weapon—even against someone with a sword—but this was too good of an opportunity to pass up.
"Clearly, the Second Elder hates me and wants to make things difficult," Lin Tian said, his voice loud enough to carry. "Otherwise, why would he put the clan's best fighter—someone an entire realm above me—with a weapon—against me, who has nothing? I mean, is he scared of me? Or is he trying to use this duel to kill me?"
He made a face of exaggerated sadness—the kind a child might make when denied a piece of candy.
The reaction was instant. Whispers spread like wildfire throughout the hall. Clan members began murmuring among themselves, casting glances between the Second Elder and Lin Tian.
The Second Elder's face darkened. He was old enough to know exactly where Lin Tian was trying to lead the conversation, but he couldn't afford to fall into the boy's trap. This was nothing more than another political game—one of many he'd had to play throughout his long career, both before and after becoming an Elder of the clan.
As much as he would have loved to dismiss the whole thing by ordering them to fight unarmed, the situation wasn't that simple. Lin Yemin was the First Elder's grandson, and the technique he was cultivating relied on constant use of the sword to build a spiritual connection with the weapon. Forcing him to abandon it would not only risk his progress but would also offend the First Elder.
Though deep inside, the Second Elder wanted nothing more than to kill Lin Tian himself, he had no choice but to paste a friendly smile on his face.
"You say the strangest things, boy," he said with feigned warmth. "At the end of the day, this is just a friendly sparring match to test the talents of our new generation. Don't forget, we Elders are present, and we won't allow anything truly dangerous to happen. That said…"—he paused slightly, his eyes gleaming—"as a warrior, you must be prepared to take a few hits. Of course, Lin Yemin will make sure not to injure you too badly."
He chuckled softly, as if his words were meant to comfort.
Lin Yemin didn't even dignify the question with a glance, let alone a response. His eyes remained locked on the Second Elder, his stance frozen in textbook precision—spine straight, feet balanced, sword angled just so. It was the kind of pose that wasn't just practiced, but drilled into muscle memory. A stance meant to impress, to intimidate. He stood like someone who had been told his entire life that he was destined for greatness and had come to believe it without question.
The Second Elder let out a short, patronizing chuckle. "Of course he's using a sword," he said, the smirk on his lips too restrained to be anything but mocking. "If you don't have one, that's your problem. In a real battle, you can't expect your enemy to put down their weapon just because you're unarmed, can you?"
Lin Tian's expression didn't shift, but his eyes sharpened, narrowing at the old man like a dagger being drawn in silence. Of course, he could fight without a weapon. He could fight blindfolded, with one hand tied behind his back, and still stand a chance against someone like Lin Yemin. But that wasn't the point.
This wasn't about the fight.
This was about the message.
And this was too good of a moment to let go to waste.
He took a step forward, raising his voice so that every corner of the hall could hear. "Ah, I see now. The Second Elder must truly hate me," he said, letting mock innocence coat his words like syrup. "Why else would he arrange such a one-sided match? I mean, look at it—our clan's so-called greatest young talent, already an entire realm above me, armed with a sword against me, who has nothing but my fists?"
He placed a hand over his heart and pouted dramatically, the kind of exaggerated display a child might make when scolded unfairly. "I wonder—could it be that the Second Elder is afraid of me? Or maybe… maybe he's using this duel as an excuse to get rid of me."
Gasps and low mutters rippled through the gathering like a breeze through dry leaves. A few elders shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Others leaned in, their curiosity piqued. Some of the younger disciples glanced nervously between the Second Elder and Lin Tian, unsure of whether to laugh, scoff, or remain silent.
And just like that, Lin Tian had done what he intended. He'd changed the narrative—not by power, but by implication. The Second Elder had turned a trial into a trap, and Lin Tian had called it out in front of the entire clan.
The Second Elder's smile twitched at the corners, just slightly—almost imperceptibly—but Lin Tian saw it. He was old, yes, but not foolish. He understood exactly what the boy was doing. Twisting perception. Shifting blame. Turning an obvious mismatch into an ethical question that now hung in the air like smoke. He couldn't lash out without confirming the very suspicion Lin Tian had planted.
This was the kind of game the Elder had played for decades, but it was rare—dangerously rare—for someone so young to be this skilled at it.
And even worse: Lin Tian knew it.
He forced a warm smile onto his face, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You say the strangest things, boy," he said, his voice dripping with manufactured patience. "At the end of the day, this is just a friendly sparring match to test the talents of our new generation. Don't forget, we Elders are here. We would never allow something truly dangerous to happen."
He paused for just a heartbeat—long enough for the tension to settle again.
"That said," he added, his tone shifting subtly, his gaze hardening, "as a warrior, you must be prepared to take a few hits. Pain is part of the path to growth. Of course, Lin Yemin"—he glanced at the boy, whose sword glinted in the light—"will be careful not to injure you too badly."
A soft chuckle followed, meant to disarm, but it rang hollow—like the echo of an old lie. He was trying to make it sound like reassurance, but everyone heard the implication beneath it: Expect to bleed.
Lin Tian smiled sweetly in return, tilting his head just slightly. He was done playing the victim.
On the surface, Lin Tian smiled politely and nodded, playing the role of the obedient junior with convincing ease. His expression was the picture of youthful humility—calm eyes, relaxed posture, not a hint of resistance. Anyone watching might have thought he was grateful for the Second Elder's "kindness." But inside, he was reeling.
This Elder was even more of a fool than he'd anticipated.
Not only had the man publicly admitted that Lin Yemin, the so-called "genius" of the younger generation, was going to injure him in what was supposed to be a simple demonstration of talent—but he'd done it with a self-righteous smile, as if granting a favor rather than revealing a blatant abuse of authority. And worse, he framed it as mercy.
Mercy.
Did he seriously believe everyone in the crowd was blind to his intentions? That they couldn't see the strings he was pulling behind the curtain? Or—Lin Tian thought bitterly—were they really that blind? Had decades, even centuries, of this broken system dulled their sense of reason so thoroughly that this passed for justice?
This was one of the things Lin Tian had struggled with most in his previous life: the normalization of cruelty wrapped in tradition. In these so-called noble clans, corruption didn't wear masks. It paraded around openly, flaunting its power, and people simply bowed their heads and accepted it. No one questioned why a seventy-year-old man—an Elder, no less, entrusted with the guidance and protection of the clan—could stand in front of a crowd and all but announce his intention to have a child maimed… and not be condemned for it. On the contrary, many nodded in silent approval, pleased that the path had been cleared just a little more for their own sons or grandsons.
That was the logic of clan politics: sharpen your kin, and cut down the rest.
But Lin Tian had lived nearly a thousand years in his past life. He had walked through empires that spanned continents, studied beneath true immortals, survived betrayals that shattered sects, and wielded power that once made entire cities tremble. Compared to those memories, the schemes of this backwater clan were laughable. Transparent. Childish.
And now, in this second life, he didn't just have the cultivation potential to rise again—he had the experience, the cunning, and the patience. These people were playing checkers while he was drafting war maps. They weren't prepared for someone who carried the ruthless clarity of modern logic combined with ancient power. Not even close.
So while the Second Elder probably thought he had just delivered a wise and strategic speech, Lin Tian was smiling not because he was grateful—but because he had just been handed the perfect excuse.
"Oh, how considerate of you," Lin Tian replied, voice light and cheerful. "I'll be sure to hold back too. I'll also try my best not to hurt him too much."
There was a gleam in his eyes as he turned to Lin Yemin—friendly, innocent, almost naive. It was the kind of look that made people drop their guard, the kind that said, I don't really understand what's happening here. But behind that mask, Lin Tian was already envisioning the duel in exact detail.
He wouldn't kill him—no, that would be foolish. That would spark unnecessary retaliation. But he could leave a mark. Something his cousin would see every time he looked in a mirror. A scar, a broken tooth, a humbling defeat so public it would follow him for years. All of it perfectly justified now, thanks to the Elder's "merciful" speech.
And best of all, no one would be able to stop him.
Lin Yemin, standing tall with his sword loosely gripped in one hand, finally cracked his stoic façade. A faint, smug smile appeared on his lips—barely there, but noticeable. The kind of smile that said you're beneath me. Clearly, he still didn't believe Lin Tian could even touch him, let alone hurt him. It was the same arrogance Lin Tian had seen a thousand times before in self-proclaimed geniuses who thought talent was the same as invincibility. That assumption was going to cost him.
"Well then," the Second Elder said, stepping back with a sweep of his sleeve, "if everything's clear, let the duel begin."
The courtyard fell silent. The breeze stilled. And in that moment—between the announcement and the first movement—Lin Tian's smile deepened, just a little.
It was time to teach them a lesson they wouldn't forget.