The storm on the central plaza had long since faded, but the air inside the Lin Clan estate remained thick and restless.
It was the kind of silence that followed a thunderclap—heavy, waiting, as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath.
Ye Chen walked between two silent inner sect protectors, their grey robes fluttering in the evening breeze.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them dared to look at him directly.
They had both witnessed what happened in the valley.
They had seen the stretchers.
They had heard the Third Elder’s screams.
And yet, this sixteen-year-old boy walked as if he were strolling through a garden.
The Grand Ancestral Hall, Ye Chen thought, his eyes fixed on the towering pavilion ahead.
The First Elder wants to see me personally.
Interesting.
He had expected this.
In his previous life, the First Elder had always been the clan’s true power—a cold, calculating old man who treated the Lin Clan like a chessboard.
Every disciple was a piece.
Every elder was a move.
And every weakness was an opportunity.
He will try to use me, Ye Chen thought calmly.
He will probe my cultivation, test my loyalty, and then offer me a deal.
That is how he operates.
A faint, cold smile touched Ye Chen’s lips.
Let him try.
The doors of the Grand Ancestral Hall groaned open, and the scent of burning sandalwood washed over him like a wave.
The interior was vast and shadowy, lit only by a hundred thick tallow candles that flickered in the still air.
Their flames cast long, dancing shadows across the polished black stone floor, and for a moment, Ye Chen felt as if he had stepped into the belly of a sleeping beast.
At the far end of the hall, seated behind a massive desk of petrified ironwood, was the First Elder.
Lin Canghai.
He was a man in his seventies, with long white hair tied back in a simple knot and eyes that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone.
His cultivation base at the Ninth Layer of Qi Condensation radiated outward like a slow, crushing tide—not violent, but absolute.
The kind of pressure that made lesser cultivators forget how to breathe.
Ye Chen walked into the center of the room, his basic iron sword tapping softly against his thigh with each step.
He did not bow deeply.
He did not tremble.
He simply stopped ten paces away, his hands folded loosely inside his grey sleeves, his dark eyes meeting the elder’s gaze with absolute calmness.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The candles flickered.
The shadows danced.
And the silence between them grew heavier with every passing second.
He is testing me, Ye Chen realized.
He wants to see if I will crack under the pressure.
He didn’t.
“You have remarkable composure for a boy of sixteen, Ye Chen,” the First Elder said finally, his voice flat and echoing through the empty rafters.
He leaned forward, his sharp eyes raking over Ye Chen’s frame, trying to pierce through the faint silver mist vibrating around the boy’s skin.
“Three days ago, you were a servant with shattered roots, enduring the slaps of estate stewards. Today, you return from the valley having systematically dismantled two of the clan’s brightest inner disciples.”
He paused.
His eyes narrowed.
“Speak. What demonic art did you consume to forge this farce?”
The word demonic hung in the air like a drawn blade.
Ye Chen did not flinch.
He wants me to panic.
He wants me to slip.
Instead, Ye Chen smiled—a small, polite smile that did not reach his eyes.
“The clan’s ancestors always taught that the heavens never close all paths, First Elder,” he replied smoothly, his tone perfectly balanced, carrying neither fear nor arrogance.
“My spirit roots were never truly broken. They were merely congested by a dense layer of cold-attribute impurities from my birth.”
He paused, letting the words sink in.
“When I entered the northern sector of the valley, the Glacial Spirit Spring forced those impurities out, unlocking the latent potential my father left within my blood.”
The First Elder’s eyebrows twitched.
Tian Feng.
The name hung unspoken between them.
Ye Chen’s father had once been the clan’s greatest genius—a man who had reached the Peak of the Foundation Establishment Realm before his core was destroyed in a mysterious ambush.
The clan had erased his name from most records, but the First Elder remembered.
He remembered everything.
“Your father,” the First Elder murmured, his voice unreadable.
“Yes. I remember him.”
He extended his hand, and a sharp thread of blue Qi shot through the air, wrapping around Ye Chen’s wrist like a needle.
Ye Chen did not resist.
Let him look, he thought.
Let him see exactly what I want him to see.
He deliberately suppressed the Nine Heavens Monarch Scripture, allowing the elder’s Qi to scan only the outer layers of his meridians.
He let him feel the residual traces of the glacial frost he had deliberately left behind for this exact interrogation.
The First Elder’s Qi probed deeper.
It was cold, invasive, and precise—the touch of a man who had spent decades learning how to read the secrets hidden inside a cultivator’s body.
Ye Chen felt the elder’s Qi brush against the edges of his dantian.
For a brief, dangerous moment, he considered letting the elder see the truth—the silver lightning, the Heavenly Demon Body, the ancient power coiled inside his core.
No, he decided.
Not yet.
He pushed a single strand of glacial frost to the surface of his meridians, letting it mingle with his silver Qi.
The result was exactly what he wanted: a pure, righteous energy with traces of cold-attribute awakening.
After a long, silent minute, the First Elder pulled his Qi back.
His face was a mixture of profound shock and calculated wariness.
The energy is pure silver, the elder thought, his mind racing.
Cold as frost, but entirely righteous.
There is no trace of chaotic demonic blood or forbidden pills.
No signs of possession.
No signs of a stolen core.
It truly is a natural awakening.
For the first time in years, Lin Canghai felt something he rarely experienced: uncertainty.
“A latent potential…” he murmured, tapping his fingers against the ironwood desk.
The sound echoed through the hall like a slow, steady heartbeat.
“Your father, Tian Feng, was indeed a monstrous talent before his core was ruined. It seems he left you with more than just a broken name.”
He paused.
His eyes locked onto Ye Chen’s.
“However, your actions today have earned you the eternal hatred of the Third Elder’s faction. In three months, the Great City Tournament begins. If you cannot prove your worth to the main branch before then, I will not be able to protect you from his blades.”
Ye Chen met his gaze without flinching.
There it is, he thought.
The offer.
The leash.
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“I do not require protection, First Elder,” he said softly.
A dark, brilliant spark slowly lit up in his eyes.
“I merely require my father’s old allocation of cultivation resources—the ones the inner sect has been embezzling for the past five years.”
The First Elder blinked.
Then he laughed—a low, gravelly chuckle that echoed through the empty hall.
“You have your father’s sharp tongue, boy,” he said, shaking his head.
“Very well. As the champion of the valley harvest, you are officially promoted to an Elite Inner Disciple.”
He raised a finger.
“Your monthly allocation will be restored. You will have full access to the second floor of the Martial Pavilion. But remember this, Ye Chen—”
His voice dropped, and the pressure in the room intensified.
“The Lin Clan does not feed useless wolves. If you fail to break into the Fourth Layer before the tournament, your name will be stripped, and your life will belong to the Third Elder.”
The threat hung in the air like a blade.
Ye Chen did not blink.
“Three months is more than enough,” he murmured.
He turned on his heel and walked toward the door, his steps steady, his posture relaxed.
He did not wait for a formal dismissal.
He did not bow.
He simply left.
As the heavy wooden doors groaned shut behind him, the cool night air brushed against his face.
The moon was high, pale, and cold, casting silver light across the courtyard.
Ye Chen stopped in the middle of the path.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring up at the stars.
The First Elder thinks he is using me, he thought.
He thinks I am a piece on his board.
A tool to balance the Third Elder’s power.
A convenient weapon.
A cold, ruthless smile formed on his lips.
He is blind.
He resumed walking, his shadow stretching long and dark across the stone path.
The board itself is about to be flipped.
The second floor of the Martial Pavilion held the true intermediate techniques of the clan.
Ancient scrolls.
Forgotten arts.
Techniques that had been locked away for decades because no one in the younger generation was deemed worthy.
But Ye Chen was no longer part of the younger generation.
He was a Sovereign in a sixteen-year-old body.
And he had three months.
Three months to reach the Fourth Layer.
He clenched his fist.
Silver lightning crackled faintly around his knuckles, and deep within his chest, the blood-red sigil pulsed once, like a second heartbeat.
Three months to become the nightmare of anyone who dares stand in my path.
He looked toward the eastern horizon, where the first hints of dawn were beginning to paint the sky.
Su Meng’er.
Gu Tian.
Bai Wuji.
Wait for me.
I am coming.