The prison was pitch black, similar to the void, not allowing a speck of light to reach. Sitting in this suffocating darkness was a thin, malnourished young boy with chains coiled around his arms and legs. He had short black hair and dark eyes, seemingly void of emotions.

  If you looked closely, you would notice many scars and wounds riddled throughout his body, giving him the appearance of someone who had gone to hell and back.

  "Child, have you finally come to your senses? Why prolong your suffering by withholding secrets?"

  A heartwarming voice sounded beside the young child. The voice was full of gentleness and comfort, as if a mother were talking to her favorite child.

  A slim woman wearing a red robe appeared from within the void and stood in front of the young boy, giving him a look full of pity. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, her striking features enough to have any mortal man submit. Her eyes burned a deep, unnatural red, contrasting well with the snow-white color of her hair.

  She crouched, tilting her head as one might at a wounded animal.

  "Poor thing. Look what they've done to you."

  The young child appeared not to have heard anything as he continued staring forward. His lips moved—not to her. Never to her.

  "Father... Mother... Forgive this useless son."

  Clink.

  A chain shifted as his nails pierced through his palms. Blood dripped onto the ground, each drop echoing in the room like a dying man's heartbeat.

  The child looked at the small pool of blood by his arm and unclenched his fists slowly. His gaze lifted to the woman, making direct contact with those deep red eyes, which seemed akin to that of a demonic beast.

  The woman was a powerful cultivator, yet the child's eyes made her hesitate.

  Dark. Empty.

  As if a monster stared back from behind them.

  The white-haired woman narrowed her eyes and asked once again,

  "Have you come to your senses?"

  The young child's lips curved upwards in an unnatural manner as he replied,

  "I'll kill you."

  The white-haired woman closed her eyes and let out a sigh.

  "Don't blame me for this," she whispered.

  Her arms reached into the darkness as she brought out a golden whip, its radiance enough to illuminate the void-like prison.

  The golden light blinded his eyes—and suddenly, he wasn't in the cell anymore.

  Six Years Earlier

  The air smelled of roasted meat and autumn leaves. Five-year-old Yang Bei clutched his father's sleeve, the fabric rough from years of training, as they pushed through the village's festival crowds.

  "Bei-er."

  His father's calloused hand ruffled his hair.

  "The greatest cultivators don't hide—they see." He pointed to a juggler tossing flaming daggers. "Notice how his left foot shifts? That's the Cloud-Stepping stance. Even play can teach you, if you pay attention."

  Yang Bei's dark eyes widened, tracing the juggler's movements with desperate focus. The man's feet barely grazed the ground, his body light as a feather despite the weight of the daggers. That's what Father means, he realized. True strength wasn't just in muscle—it was in control, in knowing where to step and when.

  "Father," he piped up, tugging at Yang Li's sleeve again. "When will I be able to start learning our family's cultivation techniques?"

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  A chuckle rumbled in his father's chest.

  "Patience, Bei-er," his father said, the pride in his voice unmistakable. "We'll start when you're ten. Your meridians need time to grow, and your mind must be ready to grasp our family's cultivation technique." He tapped Bei's forehead gently. "Cultivation isn't just about strength—it's about understanding the weight of each step you take."

  "Your father's right. Rushing leads to cracks in the foundation." Yang Bei's mother said as she made her way closer to the two. "But when the time comes... our Bei-er will shine brighter than any star in the sky."

  The memory burned brighter than the golden whip.

  The child remembered his father's hands—calloused from practicing the family cultivation technique, yet gentle when wiping away his tears after failed attempts.

  Remembered his mother's voice singing, "My Little Dragon will soar one day..." as she stitched his torn training robes.

  For a time, life had been warm.

  Then the night came.

  They arrived like a storm—five cultivators clad in gray robes, their foreheads branded with writhing sigils of demonic beasts.

  At their lead strode a mountain of a man, two meters tall, his arms etched with bone-white tattoos. The symbol in the middle of his brows pulsed like a living thing—a tortoise, its jaws gaping wide as if to swallow the world.

  The last thing Yang Bei remembered was his mother's laughter as she tied a red ribbon around his wrist for luck.

  Then the horrifying cries started.

  Yang Bei's father burst through their door to check on the situation—but to his horror, a towering figure of a black tortoise was the only thing in sight. Not even the bodies of the villagers remained.

  The village seemed to have been swallowed whole by the thousand-li tortoise behind the two-meter-tall man.

  Before Yang Li or his wife could utter a word—their heads rolled in front of Yang Bei.

  Silence.

  After killing them, the leader's tortoise sigil dimmed as the massive beast dissipated.

  But Yang Bei wasn't screaming. Wasn't crying.

  He crouched between his parents' bodies, their blood seeping into his festival clothes, and stared at the man with eyes already dead.

  "It should've been here," the leader muttered.

  "Take the boy back we can use him."

  The subordinate cupped his fist and replied,

  "As you wish, Elder Cai."

  Present Day

  The white-haired woman's whip froze mid-air, her crimson eyes flickering toward the ceiling. A tremor ran through the prison. Her expression turned unsightly.

  "You're lucky, boy. It seems we have... unexpected guests."

  With that, she vanished, and the prison returned to its usual quiet, void-like atmosphere—but not for long.

  BOOM.

  Sounds of fighting echoed in the distance. The prison shook, showing signs of crumbling.

  "Sword Master Cho Ye! It seems they've escaped!" a voice called from within the prison.

  Before Yang Bei stood a man who looked more like a beggar than a sword master—his robes patched with mismatched fabric, his belly round beneath frayed sashes. His hair was a wild mix of gray and brown, his beard unkempt.

  "Hoho!" The man's laugh shook the chamber. He squatted before Bei, reeking of liquor. "What do we have here? A little toad in a golden cage?"

  Yang Bei's mind raced as he looked at the homeless-looking man. Countless thoughts ran through his head.

  "Is he one of them? Is this another trick? If he's not with them, should I beg for help?"

  Cho Ye's grin widened.

  "Wondering if I'm one of them?" He jerked a thumb at the Cai insignia carved into Bei's cell wall. "Those tortoise-fucking dung beetles couldn't polish my sword if they tried."

  His laughter dislodged more stones. Then, with a tap, Bei's chains shattered.

  Before Yang Bei could move, the environment changed.

  He was outside.

  "Aiya, I like the look in your eyes, little rat." Cho Ye took a sip from his bottle, liquor dribbling into his beard. "So I'll offer you a bit of help." His stained sleeve flapped toward the horizon where jagged peaks tore at the clouds. "Over there should be the Sword Creed Sect. A rank 3 sect." A meaningful pause. "If I were you, I'd go try for the entrance exam."

  A manual and golden badge came spinning through the air. Yang Bei caught them instinctively, the badge's edges biting into his palm.

  "Take this with you." Cho Ye was already turning away, his silhouette beginning to blur at the edges. "If you manage to reach the 7th level..." His voice grew distant, though his lips still moved clearly. "Come find me at Sword Mountain." The last words reached Bei as if whispered directly into his ear: "I'll accept you as a direct disciple."

  Yang Bei sat in a daze for hours, trying to comprehend what had happened. He, who should have been rotting in prison for life, now found himself free by the grace of that liquor-soaked old man.

  His fingers dug into the grass as memories surged. The prison. The torture. His parents' severed heads.

  "Mother, father..." His voice cracked like dry earth. "Heaven has given me another chance to live." The vow tore from his throat like a blade being drawn: "I promise you, your child Yang Bei will become strong enough to take revenge on those bastards. I'll make their home a burial place!"

  "Thank you, old man." The words tasted of blood and hope. "I'll find you at Sword Mountain. This kindness..." He raised his head, eyes burning, "...I'll repay it 100-fold."

  The words hung in the air like an oath carved in blood. Yang Bei's fingers trembled—not from weakness, but the terrible energy coiling in his gut. The manual's cover felt unnaturally warm against his palm, as if sensing the hatred boiling beneath his skin.

  He opened it. The first page bore a single word that burned itself into his vision: Kill.

  A gust of wind scattered dead leaves around him. The forest seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed—once, twice—before falling silent. Even nature recognized this moment: the birth of vengeance.

  Yang Bei exhaled slowly. His first cultivation lesson began now.

  Power came from hunger. And he would feast on the Cai family's bones.