Qin Feng’s world ended not with a bang, but with the cold, final click of a lock. Once the celebrated prodigy of Wuji Kingdom, he now existed as a living ghost in a remote sect—a cautionary tale whispered in the training yards. His family was gone, his famed martial veins severed, leaving a hollow ache where power once thrummed. The title “once-in-a-millennium genius” had curdled into a bitter joke, and each day was a lesson in enduring the casual cruelty of those who once envied him.
Through the haze of pain, one kindness remained: his Second Senior Sister, Ling’er. She, too, was an outlier, a gentle soul navigating the same harsh currents. She shared her meager meals, offered silent solidarity with a glance, and sometimes, foolishly, placed herself between Qin Feng and his tormentors. She was the sole ember of warmth in his frozen life, and for her, he endured. He swallowed his pride and bore the taunts, all while hiding a terrifying secret.
In the dead of night, when the sect slept, Qin Feng was reborn in agony. While others cultivated qi, he trained his body—the one thing they couldn’t truly take from him. Every muscle fiber torn and repaired, every bone stressed to its limit, was a silent scream of defiance. His was not a path of elegant energy, but one of blood, sweat, and sheer, brutal will.
The announcement of the three Tiandao Academy spots was the spark that lit his fuse. To hear that the selections were made—a privilege handed to the favored sons like Yun Tianyu, the sect’s new shining prodigy—felt like his family’s memory was being spat on. The final insult came when Yun Tianyu, with a smirk, mocked his powerlessness in front of Ling’er.
Something in Qin Feng shattered. The carefully constructed mask of the broken disciple fell away.
He moved not with energy, but with the terrifying, visceral speed of honed flesh and bone. The air whistled around his fist as it connected with Yun Tianyu’s jaw—a wet, satisfying crack that echoed in the sudden silence. Gasps rippled through the crowd. This wasn’t the qi they understood; this was something raw, primal, and deeply personal.
“You think strength is only given?” Qin Feng’s voice, long unused to command, was rough but clear. “I will take it.”
He didn’t stop there. He challenged the entire corrupt system, personified by the Great Elder who protected Yun Tianyu. He didn’t ask for a spot; he vowed to seize one, because the Tiandao Academy was no longer just a path to power—it was his only path to becoming someone who could finally, finally, demand justice.
A seven-day duel was set. The winner would claim the academy spot. The sect saw it as a formality; a delayed humiliation for the fool who dared to hope.
Then, the unthinkable: Yun Tianyu broke through, anointed as a “Saint Son.” The sect’s euphoria was palpable. He was their future, their legend. Even Ling’er, her eyes brimming with tears, came to him. “Please, Qin Feng,” she begged, offering him her own spot. “I cannot watch him break you. Let me do this for you.”
Her offer was a dagger to his heart, more painful than any injury. He looked at her, the only person who had seen the boy behind the ruin, and gently refused. “If I take your sacrifice, Ling’er, then he has already broken me. My strength must be my own.”
As the world wrote him off, Qin Feng retreated. But fate, it seemed, had not entirely abandoned him. In his darkest hour, he found it—not just a technique, but a legacy. A Saint’s inheritance, burdened with a terrifying responsibility: the salvation of humanity. It was a cosmic weight placed upon the shoulders of a boy seeking simple vengeance.
Now, his hellish practice had a new, profound purpose. Each drop of sweat, each agonizing tear of muscle, was no longer just for his family’s ghosts or his own pride. It was for a future much larger than himself. In the quiet of the night, the once-selfish prodigy began his transformation, shouldering the hopes of mankind in absolute, determined silence.
