The night in Yunchuan was a shroud of darkness, the pale moon casting an eerie glow over the village as if bearing witness to the tragedy about to unfold. Ling Zhantian's footsteps echoed through the silent streets, each step a thunderous declaration of his fury, the old axe in his hand trembling with the weight of his resolve. His frail body, ravaged by years of illness and labor, moved with a strength born of desperation, his lungs burning with every ragged breath. The cold wind howled, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint tang of blood yet to be spilled, but Zhantian felt nothing but the fire in his chest—a fire fueled by the violation of his wife, the threat to his son, and the decades of humiliation he had endured at the hands of the Gray Stone Sect.
He reached the gates of Gu Shan's residence, a grand pavilion at the edge of the village, its dragon-carved pillars standing tall under the flickering light of jade lanterns. The structure was a stark contrast to the Ling family's crumbling shack, a symbol of the power that had crushed them for so long. Zhantian stopped, his breath coming in sharp gasps, his hands tightening around the axe's cracked handle. His voice, hoarse and raw, tore through the night as he shouted a challenge that reverberated through the stillness. "Gu Shan, you vile demon! Come out and face me, the mortal you've trampled on! I, Ling Zhantian, challenge you under the heavens of Tianxu!" His words were a roar of defiance, a cry from a man who had nothing left to lose, his eyes blazing with a vengeance that burned brighter than his failing body.
The pavilion's doors creaked open slowly, the sound a mocking whisper in the night, and Gu Shan stepped out, his presence as oppressive as a storm cloud. His wrinkled face twisted into a sneer, his yellowed teeth glinting under the moonlight, his tattered gray robe billowing faintly. As an Early Lianqi Stage cultivator, his aura pressed down on the surroundings, making the air feel heavy, the ground trembling faintly beneath his feet. Behind him, a group of sect disciples emerged, their swords and staffs in hand, their eyes filled with mockery. Among them was Huo Gang, his smirk as cruel as ever, his blunt sword resting on his shoulder. "What's this?" Gu Shan said, his voice dripping with contempt, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Zhantian. "An old dog dares to bark at my door? You think that rusty axe can touch me, you worthless filth?"
Zhantian didn't respond with words. With a roar that shook the night, he charged forward, his axe swinging with all the strength his broken body could muster, aimed at Gu Shan's head. His movements were clumsy, untrained, but fueled by a father's rage—a rage born of love and loss, of years spent bowing to a world that had shown him no mercy. Gu Shan laughed, a cold, hollow sound, and stepped aside with ease, his movements fluid as the wind. But Zhantian didn't stop. He spun, swinging the axe again, his desperation lending him strength, and this time the dull blade grazed Gu Shan's arm, leaving a thin line of blood that glistened red under the moonlight.
"You old fool!" Gu Shan snarled, his face contorting with rage, his fat cheeks trembling with humiliation. He raised his hand, and his Lianqi aura erupted, a wave of energy that sent Zhantian staggering back several steps, his body crashing to the ground with a heavy thud. Dust billowed around him, his breath coming in gasps, but he tried to rise, his trembling hands still gripping the axe. Before he could stand, the sect disciples moved like a pack of wolves, their weapons descending with brutal precision. A wooden staff slammed into his back, a blunt sword struck his legs, and Huo Gang's fist smashed into his face, shattering his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed onto the ground, forming a dark pool under the moonlight, but Zhantian kept fighting, crawling forward with the axe in hand, his eyes fixed on Gu Shan with a hatred that burned brighter than his pain. "You… will pay…" he hissed, his voice a broken whisper, blood dripping from his mouth, staining his chin red.
Gu Shan's sneer returned, his rage giving way to cold amusement. "Pay? You?" he said, his voice laced with mockery. He stepped forward, his hand glowing with a faint red light as he channeled his Qi, and with a single, brutal strike, he slammed his palm into Zhantian's head. The impact was a thunderous crack, the force sending Zhantian's body skidding across the ground, his axe clattering uselessly to the side. He lay still, his blood pooling beneath him, his lifeless eyes staring up at the moon—a father who had died for his honor, for his family, for a justice that Tianxu would never grant him.
The news of Zhantian's death spread through Yunchuan like a chilling wind, carrying the scent of blood and despair to every corner of the village. In the Ling family's shack, Tianhao sat beside his mother, his small hand clutching hers as they waited for Zhantian's return, clinging to a fragile hope that he might come back alive. Xueyin's tears had dried, her face pale and hollow, her eyes fixed on the door with a desperate intensity. The silence was shattered when the door burst open, and a village boy, Xiao Wei, stumbled inside, his face ashen, his eyes wide with terror. "Tianhao… your father… he's dead!" he gasped, his voice trembling. "They killed him in front of Gu Shan's pavilion! They… they beat him to death, like a dog in the street!"
The words hit Tianhao like a physical blow, his breath catching in his throat, his heart stopping for a moment that felt like an eternity. His eyes widened, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks, his small body trembling as the reality sank in. "No… no, that can't be true…" he whispered, his voice barely audible, but Xiao Wei's tear-streaked face told him everything he needed to know. Xueyin let out a wail, a sound so raw and broken that it tore at Tianhao's soul, her body collapsing to the floor as she clutched her chest, her sobs echoing through the shack. "Zhantian… no… not you too…" she cried, her voice a haunting lament, her hands clawing at the dirt as if she could pull her husband back from the grave.
Tianhao's world shattered in that moment, the fragile hope he had clung to crumbling into dust. His father—the man who had told him tales of the Jade Emperor, who had taught him to endure, who had fought for their family despite his broken body—was gone. The image of Zhantian's gentle smile, his warm voice, flashed through Tianhao's mind, only to be replaced by the horrifying thought of his father lying in a pool of blood, beaten to death like an animal. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his chest heaving, his hands clenching into fists so tightly that his nails drew blood. He looked at his mother, her broken form a mirror of his own pain, and something inside him snapped.
His eyes, once filled with the innocence of a child, darkened, a shadow passing over them as if the light of his soul had been extinguished. "They… they'll pay…" he muttered, his voice low and guttural, more like the growl of a wounded beast than the voice of a thirteen-year-old boy. Xueyin looked up, her tear-streaked face paling further as she saw the change in her son. "Tianhao?" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear, but he didn't respond. His body shook, his fists trembling, his eyes burning with a hatred so intense it seemed to consume him. "They'll all pay… Gu Shan… Huo Gang… the Gray Stone Sect… I'll make them suffer…" he said, his words a chilling vow, each syllable dripping with a venom that made the air feel colder.
Xueyin reached for him, her hands shaking as she tried to pull him into her arms, but she froze, her breath catching in her throat. The boy before her was no longer the son she had raised—the son she had taught to be kind, to hold onto hope even in the darkest times. His eyes were those of a demon, a creature born of pain and rage, a creature that Tianxu had forged in its crucible of cruelty. "Tianhao… please… don't let this break you," she whispered, her voice pleading, but her words fell on deaf ears. The small light of kindness she had nurtured in him was gone, snuffed out by the blood of his father, the tears of his mother, and the cries of his friend. In its place was a black flame, a fire of vengeance that would burn until it consumed everything in its path—or until it consumed him.
Tianhao stood, his small frame trembling with the weight of his rage, his eyes fixed on the door as if he could see Gu Shan's pavilion in the distance. He didn't know how, and he didn't know when, but he knew one thing for certain: he would make them pay. He would find a way to grow strong, to change his fate, just as Huo Wuchang had mocked. And as the moon bore witness to his father's death, it also bore witness to the birth of something new—a shadow of death, a boy forged in blood and pain, a boy who would one day become a terror even the demons of Tianxu would fear.