The courtyard of the Lin Clan echoed with the sharp crack of a whip, followed by a dull thud as Lin Feng's body hit the dirt. Dust swirled around him, clinging to the sweat and blood streaking his bruised face. Above him, Lin Hao—his wife's younger brother—sneered, his silk robes pristine against the gray squalor of the outer compound. The whip dangled lazily in his hand, its leather tip stained crimson from the morning's "lesson."
"Trash," Lin Hao spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "You can't even fetch water without spilling half of it. What use are you, huh? A dog would've been a better son-in-law." A ripple of laughter spread through the gathered servants and junior clansmen, their jeers a familiar chorus to Lin Feng's ears.
Inside the battered shell of Lin Feng, Zhan Tian—once the Martial God of Ten Thousand Realms—kept his silence. His golden eyes, dulled to a muddy brown in this mortal guise, stared at the ground. Not out of shame, but calculation. The whip's sting was nothing compared to the chains of divine ruin that had once bound him. These fools, with their petty cruelties, were ants gnawing at a mountain they couldn't comprehend. He let them laugh. Let them think him broken. Every lash, every insult, was fuel for the fire smoldering in his sealed soul.
"Get up," Lin Hao barked, cracking the whip again for emphasis. "Or do I need to drag you to the well myself?"
Lin Feng pushed himself to his knees, his thin frame trembling—not from pain, but from the effort of suppressing the qi that pulsed faintly within him. The seal Tian Xu had forged was a masterpiece of treachery, locking away ninety-nine percent of his divine power. What remained was a trickle, a whisper of the god he'd been. Enough to survive, but not enough to shatter this farce. Not yet.
He staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his split lip with a ragged sleeve. The bucket lay overturned beside him, its contents soaking into the cracked earth. Lin Hao smirked, tossing the whip to a servant before turning away. "Clean it up, worm. And don't show your face until it's done."
As the crowd dispersed, Zhan Tian's mind churned. Three years. Three miserable years he'd endured this prison of flesh, this clan of vipers. The Lin Clan had been a middling power once, but greed and infighting had reduced it to a shadow of its former self. They'd taken him in as a groom for Lin Mei, their eldest daughter, thinking a poor wanderer with no name would be easy to control. Instead, they'd shackled a god—and they didn't even know it.
Lin Mei. His so-called wife. Cold as frost, beautiful as a jade statue, and twice as heartless. She hadn't spoken to him in months, leaving him to the mercy of her family's scorn. He'd fetched their water, swept their floors, and taken their beatings—all while probing the seal within him, testing its edges for a crack. It was there, he knew it. A hairline fracture, born of his will to endure. Soon, it would splinter. Soon, he'd be free.
But not here. Not among these fools.
The decision crystallized as he limped toward the well, bucket in hand. He'd wasted enough time playing their game. The Lin Clan offered nothing—no resources, no loyalty, no potential. They were a rotting husk, unworthy of his shadow. He needed a new foundation, a spark he could fan into a blaze. And he needed to leave—now.
That night, the Lin Clan's main hall glowed with lantern light, the air thick with the scent of incense and roasted meat. A minor feast, celebrating Lin Hao's promotion to inner disciple of the local Iron Fang Sect. Lin Feng stood in the corner, relegated to serving duties, his presence barely acknowledged. Lin Mei sat at the high table, her elegant robes a stark contrast to his patched tunic. Her eyes flicked over him once, then away, as if he were a stain on the floor.
Zhan Tian watched it all, his expression blank but his mind a storm. The chatter of the clan elders, the clinking of cups, the smug pride on Lin Hao's face—it grated against him like a blade on stone. He'd fought gods, sundered realms, and bent fate itself. And here he was, pouring wine for children playing at power.
Enough.
He set the jug down with deliberate calm, the faint clink drawing no notice. Then he turned and walked toward the hall's center, his steps slow but steady. Whispers followed him, a ripple of confusion spreading through the room.
"What's the fool doing?" a servant muttered.
Lin Hao noticed first, his brow furrowing. "Oi, trash! Who told you to move?"
Lin Feng stopped before the high table, his gaze lifting to meet Lin Mei's. For the first time in months, she held it, her delicate features tightening with unease. He spoke, his voice low but clear, cutting through the murmurs like a blade.
"I want a divorce."
The hall fell silent. A cup slipped from an elder's hand, shattering on the floor. Lin Mei's eyes widened, a flicker of shock breaking her icy mask. Lin Hao shot to his feet, his face twisting with rage.
"What did you say, you filthy dog?" he snarled, slamming a fist on the table. "You dare speak to my sister like that?"
Zhan Tian ignored him, his focus on Lin Mei. "You heard me. I'm done. Release me from this bond, and I'll walk away. No dowry, no fight. Just freedom."
The room erupted. Elders shouted in outrage, servants gasped, and Lin Hao lunged forward, grabbing Lin Feng by the collar. "You ungrateful wretch! We fed you, clothed you, and this is how you repay us? I'll beat you until you beg to stay!"
Zhan Tian didn't flinch. He could've snapped Lin Hao's neck with a thought, even with his power sealed. But he let the boy rant, let the clan's fury boil over. It was their last chance to feel superior. He'd give them that much.
Lin Mei stood, her voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. "Enough." She stepped forward, her gaze piercing. "You want to leave? After all we've given you? You're nothing without us."
Zhan Tian's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "Nothing? We'll see." He turned to the elders, his tone flat. "Write the papers. I'm gone by dawn."
The clan exploded into arguments, but Lin Mei's silence spoke louder than words. She nodded once, sharp and final. "Do it," she said to the scribe. "Let the fool go. He'll die in the wilds, and we'll be rid of him."
By sunrise, the papers were signed, the ink still wet as Lin Feng walked out of the Lin Clan's gates. The guards jeered, tossing stones at his back, but he didn't look back. The weight of their scorn slid off him like water off a blade. Freedom tasted sharp, bitter, and sweet all at once.
He wandered for hours, the dirt road stretching into the hills beyond the Lin Clan's reach. His body ached, his qi pulsed faintly, but his mind was clear. He needed a new start—somewhere raw, somewhere malleable. The Lin Clan had been a dead end, but the world was vast, and he'd find his spark.
Fate answered near dusk. A groan drew his attention to a ditch beside the road. An old man lay there, his merchant's cart overturned, blood seeping from a gash on his head. Bandits, by the look of the scattered goods. Zhan Tian knelt beside him, pressing a hand to the wound. A flicker of qi—barely enough to notice—staunched the bleeding. The man's eyes fluttered open, wide with gratitude.
"You… saved me," he rasped, clutching Zhan Tian's sleeve. "I'm Ye Qing, of the Ye Clan. We're… nothing now, just scraps… but please, come with me. We need help."
Zhan Tian studied him. The Ye Clan. He'd heard whispers—a family fallen from grace, clinging to a crumbling estate on the edge of the wilderness. Weak, desperate, overlooked. Perfect.
"I'll come," he said, helping Ye Qing to his feet. "But I'm no savior. Just a wanderer."
Ye Qing nodded, tears in his eyes. "That's enough. More than enough."
As they limped toward the Ye Clan's lands, Zhan Tian felt the seal within him stir, its fracture widening ever so slightly. The ants of the Lin Clan had no idea what they'd unleashed. The Ye Clan was a seedling, fragile but alive. He'd water it with cunning, temper it with strength, and forge it into a blade to carve his destiny.
The Shadow Patriarch had taken his first step.