Time moved like mountain mist in Lin Clan village—slow, unhurried, and heavy with the scent of pine and spirit herb. A decade had passed since the Crimson Conjunction, but the memory of that night still lingered in half-remembered tales whispered by the old and curious glances cast toward the now ten-year-old Lin Xian.
If the village folk had expected him to grow into a prodigious storm—loud, proud, and overflowing with power—they were sorely disappointed. Lin Xian was, by all outward appearances, unremarkable.
He trained, but never too well.
He studied, but never enough to draw notice.
He ate little, spoke less, and smiled only when it was calculated to disarm.
Yet behind those violet eyes, veiled behind the mask of mediocrity, the gears of an exceptional mind turned ceaselessly.
Lin Xian awoke every morning before the sun, not to meditate or train in public fields, but to walk the village's perimeter. There, away from prying eyes, he drew formations in the dirt, practicing low-grade array work he had pieced together from observation and pilfered notes.
Arrays were not taught to outer disciples, let alone village-born children. But Lin Xian had long learned that knowledge was never truly locked away—only buried beneath neglect, laziness, and poor memory.
He studied discarded scroll fragments, observed how elders traced sigils into the air when they thought no one watched, and mimicked them with sticks and ink at home. He began to see the underlying structure of cultivation itself—not as a mystical art, but as a system. A system with rules, weaknesses, and exploits.
And Lin Xian excelled at exploits.
On the day of the clan's annual assessment, the air in the village buzzed with tension. Children between the ages of ten and thirteen were tested to determine their cultivation progress and future eligibility to join sects.
For most, this was a moment of pride.
For Lin Xian, it was a stage.
He stood quietly among the group, dressed in rough linen robes patched at the elbows. The children around him jostled and boasted, comparing imaginary battle scars and exaggerated cultivation tales.
"Lin Bao said he reached the fourth level of Body Tempering!" someone whispered.
"Bet Lin Xian's still stuck on the first," another muttered, smirking.
Lin Xian said nothing.
He had, in truth, already passed into the Qi Condensation stage—a feat unheard of for a child his age without formal instruction. His meridians were not just open; they were fortified. His control over qi was precise enough to thread energy through a needle.
But he knew better than to reveal it.
Let them think him weak.
Let the elders sigh and move on.
Let the world lower its guard.
The assessment took place in the central courtyard. A tall stone platform had been erected, engraved with runes that measured spiritual pressure. Each child would step forward and place their palm against the Awakening Stone, which would flare with light and emit a tone indicating their level.
Lin Bao swaggered up first. His family had always believed he was destined for greatness.
The stone flared red—a clear sign of fourth-level Body Tempering.
Gasps and cheers followed.
The elders nodded approvingly.
Others followed, results ranging from second to third level. One girl, Lin Yue, surprised many by hitting the fifth level. Her father cried tears of pride.
Then it was Lin Xian's turn.
He approached the stone with the grace of a sleepwalker, his face impassive. As he touched it, he narrowed his energy channels, dampening his spiritual output. It was a technique he'd developed from watching wounded beasts suppress their scent.
The stone flickered.
Then dimmed.
First level, barely.
Murmurs spread.
"Still stuck on the first?"
"Even younger kids did better!"
"What a shame… those eyes, yet no talent."
Lin Xian bowed and stepped back, expression unreadable.
But inside, he noted every whisper, every dismissive glance.
He filed them away like daggers in a sheath.
That night, while others celebrated or sulked, Lin Xian sat alone atop a hill overlooking the village. In his hand was a single stone—smooth, flat, and laced with dormant qi.
He closed his eyes.
Drawing a breath, he traced a formation onto its surface with a single finger, his qi flowing in precise, thin threads. A basic gathering array—normally etched with tools, he inscribed it purely by energy.
When he opened his eyes, the stone glowed faintly, drawing in surrounding qi.
He smiled.
Tomorrow, he'd bury it near the elders' meeting hall.
A week later, he'd bury another behind the herbal storehouse.
Soon, these minor fluctuations would add up—distorting the readings, affecting ambient energy levels, subtly influencing cultivation conditions.
And no one would suspect a thing.
His first true test came when Elder Yun called for an auxiliary formation team to repair the village's protective array, damaged after a rare spirit beast incident.
Lin Xian volunteered.
The elder hesitated, then waved him in. "Just carry stones. Don't touch anything important."
Lin Xian obeyed—at first.
He watched the formation masters work, noted their redundancies, their sloppy execution, the slight misalignments they dismissed as irrelevant.
On the third day, when one formation failed to activate, panic spread.
"We must delay until another master can arrive from the sect!" one shouted.
Lin Xian stepped forward.
"Try adjusting the anchor lines by three degrees clockwise," he said quietly.
The masters stared.
Elder Yun frowned. "You think you know better than us, boy?"
"No," Lin Xian replied calmly. "But this stone was engraved with a northern-pattern glyph. Your array uses southern-calibration techniques. They're incompatible."
Silence.
One of the junior scribes tested his suggestion.
The array flickered to life.
They stared at Lin Xian as though he'd grown wings.
He smiled slightly, bowed, and returned to carrying stones.
He never offered advice again.
From that day, some elders began watching him more closely.
Too closely.
So Lin Xian shifted tactics.
He deliberately made a few mistakes. Misread a scroll. Mispronounced a glyph. Nodded slowly at incorrect answers as if trying to understand.
The interest waned.
He sighed in relief.
There was danger in being noticed.
But there was greater danger in being underestimated for too long.
On the twelfth anniversary of his birth, Lin Xian made a choice.
He would leave.
The village had served its purpose—a safe nest, a place to grow, learn, and prepare. But it was also a cage. No one here could challenge him, inspire him, or threaten him.
He needed friction.
He needed the world.
That night, he packed a modest bundle: a few qi-gathering stones, three minor talismans, a hand-copied cultivation manual he had secretly modified, and a single blade—one he had forged himself in the village smithy.
As he passed by his mother's room, he paused.
She was asleep, a candle burning low beside her.
He placed a folded letter on her table. No goodbyes, just a promise:
"I will return when the world knows my name."
Then he stepped into the night.
Beyond the hills, the world awaited: sects of unimaginable power, rogue cultivators, ancient ruins filled with secrets, and empires held together by fragile pacts.
Lin Xian smiled.
It was time to shed the mask.
Just a little.
Enough to bait the first hooks.
Let them think him a lucky prodigy, a clever youth with a touch of talent.
He would climb their ranks.
Learn their secrets.
And when the moment came, he would reshape their world.
Not with brute force.
But with something far more dangerous:
Understanding.