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The chandeliers above shimmered like a constellation suspended in midair, casting torrents of golden brilliance over the opulent banquet hall of the Shen family estate.
Each element, from the polished marble flooring to the exquisitely engraved ivory pillars, exuded luxury and an air of untouchable nobility. The entire place reeked of inherited wealth and generational dominance.
Servants, dressed immaculately in onyx-black tuxedos with accents of molten gold, moved with a grace that mirrored choreography—each one a silent note in the symphony of wealth.
They carried crystal decanters filled with decades-aged wine, silver trays laden with exotic delicacies, and desserts so exquisite they resembled priceless art pieces more than consumable treats.
Everything was all curated to perfection… a theater of dominance and a masquerade of affluence.
Yet none of it belonged to him.
This was his world by blood… and yet, he had always been an outsider. A phantom. A shameful mistake the family wished they could erase.
At the farthest, most shadowed corner of the magnificent hall, Shen Tian sat in stillness—a statue of rejection and disgrace.
His "seat," if one could call it that, was a splintered wooden stool that groaned under his slight weight. And before him, a crooked, uneven table leaned pitifully to one side.
There was no velvet cloth, no cutlery, no place card to acknowledge his existence. It was a deliberate insult, carefully orchestrated.
He was the stain on an otherwise flawless canvas. The whisper no one acknowledged.
Dozens of attendants glided across the polished floor like wraiths in service of royalty, but not one spared him even a passing glance. No goblet of wine. Not a crumb of bread. Not even water, had he not taken it himself.
To them, he was invisible.
To them, he was invisible.
A blemish they hadn't yet found the courage to cast out completely.
His black blazer, the most presentable thing he owned, hung from his shoulders like a funeral shroud.
It was a threadbare remnant of his old school uniform, now nothing but a garment of disgrace. The fabric sagged around his gaunt frame, unable to mask the jutting bones beneath his pallid skin.
The stitches… hundreds of them crisscrossed like battle scars, sewn together over time with trembling hands. Each one told a story of violence, of being beaten into silence, of surviving in a home and environment where love was extinct.
His body bore bruises that had long faded from purple to gray, yet the pain still lingered beneath the surface.
At that moment, laughter echoed across the room.
His father—Shen Hong—sat proudly at the main table like a king on his throne, raising a glass toward his elegant, bejeweled wife.
Around these two were his step-siblings, uncles, and esteemed relatives. They drank, feasted, and toasted their wealth, their comfort, their perfect lives.
Shen Tian, on the other hand, watched from afar, an unwilling spectator to an opulence he had been denied since birth.
They were all jubilant, immersed in celebration.
Because for them, life had always been kind.
They had never known the definition of hunger, never faced a night without warmth, never tasted fear at the hands of their own blood.
But him?
Shen Tian lowered his gaze to the chipped glass in his trembling hand.
In it was plain, ordinary water. Not wine.
His fingers curled tightly around it beneath the table, the tremor in his grip betraying his hunger.
His stomach released a soft growl, an almost inaudible cry of protest. But no one heard it. Not that they would care even if they heard.
Shen Tian couldn't remember his last proper meal. Two days ago? Three? Maybe longer. The days had blended into one long, dark tunnel of starvation and despair.
He was no longer sure if he lived or merely endured now.
Gradually, his thoughts drifted—unwillingly, painfully—to her.
His mother.
The only soul who had ever held him with warmth. The only person who had always whispered hope into his ears when the world offered only cruelty.
She was gone.
Ripped from him five years ago.
She had suffered in silence for years, her illness untreated. No hospital visits. No medication. No mercy. And when her body could no longer fight, she collapsed on the cold, merciless ground. Her eyes dimmed. Her heart stilled.
The Shen family hadn't even given her a funeral. Not a flower. Not a prayer. Not even a shred of dignity.
Dang! Shen Hong—his father hadn't shown up.
"I'm sorry, Tian," she had whispered, her voice fragile as snow. "Mama wanted to keep shielding you from the wind… from the arrows… from this world. But… I must go now."
Her smile that day was so faint, so tragic, and it still haunted him to this day. Her fingers had barely curled around his own before she slipped away.
"Be strong, alright? Survive for me, Tian… survive."
Her final words were like broken glass embedded deeply into his soul.
And he had tried since that day.
He had tried with everything he had.
But life in the Shen family was nothing short of a slow death.
Even the dogs were treated better than he was.
The servants were forbidden from acknowledging him, and he had to work twice as hard as them just for a few morsels of cold rice.
When he got sick, they accused him of faking it. If he bled, they claimed he fell. When he wept, they shut the door on his cries.
The treatment had only gotten worse day after day.
And just last night—
He had been forced to sleep in the bitter chill of the horse stables. Why? Because a porcelain plate had slipped from his numbed fingers while he was washing it.
Now, tonight, they had summoned him here. Not for a celebration. No.
For humiliation and a reminder and a cruel showcase.
A performance where he was the butt of the joke.
Shen Tian sighed quietly again, exhaustion etched into every line of his thin face.
Just at that moment.
Across the opulent hall, the sound of glassware clinking drew attention. Shen Jun—Shen Hong's eldest and most beloved son suddenly stood tall, his goblet raised.
"Father," Shen Jun called out, loud enough for everyone to hear, "do I smell a rat all the way from the end of the hall?" He paused dramatically, then sneered. "Oh, wait—my bad. That's just Shen Tian."
"Hahahaha!"
Laughter exploded like fireworks in the hall. Cruel. Unrestrained.
However, Shen Tian's gaze didn't waver. His expression remained carved from stone. He had heard worse. Felt worse.
Shen Yue, the pampered daughter, covered her mouth as she giggled. "Didn't we send him to the horses' stable? Why's he inside again? Ugh, are we hosting garbage now?"
More laughter. Louder this time.
But Shen Tian sat unmoving. Silent.
He had long mastered the art of indifference because pain was a feast they loved to devour. And he refused to feed them.
Unhurriedly, he lifted the chipped glass of water to his lips, taking another slow sip.
And just then, Shen Jun stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with scorn as he twirled his wine.
"It's almost poetic, isn't it?" he said suddenly, his voice venomous. "That your useless dead mother—our dear stepmother—only managed to bring a beggar into this world?"
Silence fell upon the hall.
A single sentence that felt like a single, sharp knife.
And something within Shen Tian cracked.
It was as if everything he had bottled up for years… the grief, the rage, the humiliation had erupted.
It all rose like a tidal wave, and in the following second, his body moved before his brain caught up, and in the next second…
SLAM!!!