Eryndor could tell right away—Alan Stormshade was a fellow body cultivator, just like him. But there was a key difference: Alan was clearly older.

Eryndor had grown quickly thanks to his privileged upbringing. He ate well, trained daily, and soaked in medicinal baths to strengthen his body. Alan, on the other hand, didn’t have that luxury. His parents weren’t high-ranking figures, and for him to reach this level of physical strength at such a young age, he must have spent far longer training—Eryndor estimated Alan had to be at least a couple of years older.

And he was right. Alan was nearing four years old, having started training young under his parents' guidance. They knew he lacked talent for spiritual cultivation, so they pushed him toward body refinement instead. His parents also knew about his association with Wei Tun, but they had never intervened—only warning him not to upset the young master, as it could bring trouble to their family.

Unlike the other lackeys, Alan rarely fought. He wasn’t Wei Tun’s favorite because he didn’t flatter or scheme, but when it came time to settle things with fists, Alan was the one Wei Tun relied on.

Alan stepped forward, raising his fists in a basic defensive stance. His muscles tensed as he got ready to fight.

Eryndor narrowed his eyes. That stance… Alan hadn’t learned any real combat techniques. He was just relying on raw strength and endurance.

A small smirk crossed Eryndor’s lips. That meant he had the advantage. He had trained in Foundational Claw Techniques, giving him refined moves rather than just brute force. If Alan only knew how to take hits and throw basic punches, then this fight was his to win. Eryndor took a deep breath, spreading his fingers into a claw-like position, his body lowering into the Foundational Claw Stance.

Wei Tun glared at Eryndor, his eyes filled with fury, resentment, and malice.

"You dare refuse to be my underling? Not only that, you humiliated me in front of my men! Just wait—when Alan takes you down, I'll make you crawl between my legs like a dog!"

He clenched his fists, seething with hatred, but on the outside, he simply shouted:

"Alan, get him!"

"ROAR!"

Alan Stormshade let out a guttural shout and charged forward like a boulder rolling downhill. His right fist clenched, knuckles white, swinging forward with the force of a hammer aimed straight for Eryndor’s face. If the punch landed, Eryndor would surely end up with a broken nose, blood gushing everywhere, and an opening for Alan to finish him off.

Eryndor’s pupils shrank as he locked onto the incoming fist. He had fought before—both in this life and his past.

Strength matters. But guts matter more. And skill? That decides everything.

In his past life, he had been in fights before. It wasn’t always about brute force—it was about courage, skill, and reaction time. Most people instinctively flinch and close their eyes when a punch is thrown at them. It was not coward. It was a natural defense mechanism of the human body.

But in a fight, that moment of hesitation meant defeat.

Eryndor refused to let his body betray him. His mind was stronger. He forced his eyes wide open, fighting against the instinct to blink. The moment Alan’s fist got close, Eryndor twisted his head slightly to the left, barely dodging by a hair’s breadth.

Alan, having committed all his strength into the punch, had no way to stop his momentum. His body lurched forward, balance thrown off completely.

Eryndor immediately took advantage.

With lightning-fast reflexes, he grabbed Alan’s wrist with his right hand, while his left hand shoved forcefully against Alan’s elbow. At the same time, he pivoted smoothly, using Alan’s own force against him.

It was a textbook-perfect counter-grapple.

Alan’s own momentum sent him crashing face-first onto the ground.

Before he could react, Eryndor twisted Alan’s arm behind his back and....

!!!CRACK!!!

Alan let out a pained scream. His arm was dislocated!

Eryndor didn’t stop there. A fight wasn’t over until your opponent stayed down, you know.

Now that Alan was down, Eryndor unleashed a relentless flurry of punches and kicks, hammering into Alan’s back, ribs, and legs. Alan struggled at first, trying to resist, but after a few more strikes, his body went limp.

He had passed out.

The entire fight had lasted less than a minute.

The rest of Wei Tun’s gang stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief.

They had come here with five people. Five against one.

Now?

Alan, their strongest member, was unconscious on the ground, joining the other three who had been swiftly defeated.

That only left Wei Tun.

Eryndor turned his gaze toward him.

Wei Tun felt a chill run down his spine. Sweat poured down his face, soaking the back of his robes.

Silence.

Wei Tun stared, his plump face drained of color.

Five lackeys. Five bodies on the ground.

His strongest fighter—his so-called "ace"—beaten into the dirt.

Wei Tun’s mind reeled. He had never, ever been in a situation like this before.

"H-he beat all of them? Alone? What kind of monster is this kid?!"

A thousand thoughts raced through Wei Tun’s head. He needed a way out. There was no way he could fight and win. If he got beaten here, he would lose all face.

No. He had to retreat.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

He forced a stiff, awkward smile and quickly raised his hands in a surrendering gesture.

“Haha… Brother, let’s not take this too seriously! It was all just a misunderstanding. No hard feelings, right? Let’s just call it even, and we’ll go our separate ways. What do you say?”

His voice was shaky, and his fake smile looked more like he was about to cry.

Eryndor did not stop walking. Step by step, he advanced toward Wei Tun, his expression calm yet filled with an undeniable pressure.

"You wanted me to kneel and beg for mercy, didn’t you?"

Wei Tun’s face paled, his body stiffened. He frantically shook his head. "No, no, no! Even if you gave me ten extra lives, I wouldn’t dare accept such a thing!"

Eryndor took another step closer, his voice still steady.

"And didn’t you want me to be your little follower?"

Wei Tun’s throat dried up. He forced out a nervous laugh. "No, no, no! If anything, I should be your little follower!"

Eryndor smirked. His steps didn’t slow. "But I don’t want a lackey like you. You go around bullying people, picking fights, causing trouble… That’s far too much work for a big brother to clean up after, don’t you think?"

Wei Tun’s breath hitched. He felt the overwhelming presence pressing down on him and stammered, "I—I won’t do it anymore! I swear! You’re the boss now, I’ll listen to whatever you say! You tell me to go west, I wouldn’t dare go east! I swear I won’t cause trouble again!"

Eryndor finally stopped in front of Wei Tun.

For a moment, Wei Tun felt relief wash over him. Maybe I managed to talk my way out of this. Maybe I can still find a way to get revenge later. Just wait until I—

His thoughts were abruptly cut off.

Because the next moment, Eryndor grinned—a sharp, mischievous grin—and said:

"But I don’t want a follower like you. And since we’re already enemies, I might as well make it official. Before anything else… I should beat you up first!"

"What—?"

Wei Tun didn’t even have time to react before a fist slammed into his face.

BAM!

His body jerked backward, but before he could even stagger, another punch landed. And another. And another.

Eryndor didn’t hold back.

He wasn’t aiming for vital spots. He wasn’t trying to knock Wei Tun unconscious immediately.

No.

This was a lesson.

A punishment.

A warning.

Every punch landed squarely on Wei Tun’s already round face, turning it into something even more swollen and deformed. His nose bled. His eyes turned purple. His lips cracked.

Wei Tun, the arrogant bully of the outer sect, was now nothing more than a miserable lump on the ground, wheezing, barely able to make a sound.

Eryndor shook out his fists, exhaling in satisfaction. "Heh. That felt good."

Then, without looking back, he turned and walked away, leaving behind five bodies sprawled across the ground. Some unconscious, some groaning in pain.

He knew.

This wasn’t over.

Wei Tun wasn’t the type to let this humiliation go. He would try to take revenge. That was simply his nature.

But Eryndor wasn’t afraid.

As long as he stayed ahead, as long as his strength continued to grow

No amount of schemes or underhanded tricks could touch him.

Why?

Because absolute power crushed all tricks and conspiracies.

And Wei Tun?

He was too weak to even be consider as a matter.

Wei Tun and his defeated followers lay sprawled across the ground, groaning in pain. It wasn’t long before a few outer sect disciples arrived, their eyes widening as they recognized the beaten group.

Wei Tun’s gang was infamous within the outer sect. Their mischief and bullying were well-known, and while most avoided them, there were always a few who saw this as an opportunity.

As for helping them now could earn favor with Elder Wei—the man who controlled much of the outer sect’s affairs. Even a minor show of loyalty could bring benefits.

And so, without hesitation, a few of them stepped forward and carried the battered Wei Tun and his lackeys back to their master.

Despite the swelling and bruises distorting his face, Wei Tun never lost consciousness. His mind burned with humiliation and rage.

I’ll make that brat pay for this. I don’t care who he is.

He clenched his fists, despite the pain.

If ten men weren’t enough, he’d bring twenty. If twenty weren’t enough, he’d pay to hire a Qi Refining cultivator to crush him.

One way or another, I’ll grind that bastard into dust.

At the outer sect elders’ hall, Elder Wei Xing’s eyes darkened the moment he saw his son’s swollen, misshapen face.

The veins on his forehead bulged, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his eyes turned bloodshot with fury.

Who?

Who dared to do this to my son?!

He was a powerful figure within the outer sect, and while his authority wasn’t absolute, few would dare to provoke him directly.

His fingers twitched, itching to grab a sword and carve out the culprit’s heart.

But despite the rage boiling in his veins, Wei Xing forced himself to take a deep breath, suppressing his emotions. Acting recklessly would do him no good. He needed details first.

He turned to the disciple who had carried Wei Tun back and, without hesitation, tossed him a low-grade spirit stone.

“Thank you for bringing my son back,” he said in a forced, calm voice.

The disciple barely caught the stone, his expression flickering between gratitude and disappointment. Just one measly stone?

Still, he bowed respectfully. “It was nothing, Elder. Just a small matter.”

As soon as he left the hall, his polite mask dropped.

Stingy old bastard. Your son got what he deserved.

Elder Wei Xing immediately rushed to his son’s side, pulling out a healing pill and carefully feeding it to him.

Then, he retrieved a bottle of medicinal wine, gently applying it to the bruises and swelling.

Finally, he channeled a steady stream of spiritual energy into Wei Tun’s body, accelerating his recovery.

Luckily, it was just external injuries—nothing too serious.

But that wasn’t the real issue.

The issue was who dared to do this.

Elder Wei Xing completed the final touches of his healing techniques before his expression darkened. His voice was deep and filled with barely restrained anger.

“Who did this to you?” he asked. “Tell me everything.”

At his father’s prompting, Wei Tun immediately burst into tears—loud, dramatic, and completely over-the-top.

Between wails, he began his story, adding exaggerations at every turn. He described how the unknown boy had ambushed him, ruthlessly attacked without provocation, and showed no mercy even after he had begged for peace.

By the time he finished, his face was red from crying, his voice hoarse.

“Father!” he sobbed. “You have to make it right! That bastard humiliated me in front of everyone! If we let this slide, where is our dignity? Where is your dignity?”

Elder Wei Xing’s hands clenched into fists. He wasn’t just angry—he was furious.

But despite his rage, he remained cautious. He needed to know who his son’s attacker was before acting recklessly.

Placing a firm hand on Wei Tun’s shoulder, he spoke in a low, reassuring voice.

“Don’t worry. I will personally handle this. But first, I need to know who this brat is.”

Turning to one of the disciples outside, he barked an order.

“Find out everything about the child who attacked my son.”

The disciple bowed immediately.

“Yes, Elder!”

He dashed out of the hall like a shadow in the wind.

It didn’t take long.

Within minutes, the disciple returned, his expression hesitant.

“Elder, I have news.”

Wei Xing narrowed his eyes. “Speak.”

“A few people saw the boy coming down from the Qi Refining Peak earlier today,” the disciple reported. “It seems he’s from the upper sect. But… no one knows exactly who he is.”

Wei Xing’s brows furrowed as he muttered to himself.

“Qi Refining Peak… a child? Around two years old?” His mind worked quickly. Could it be…?

He suddenly recalled someone.

A name long forgotten because its owner had vanished nearly two years ago.

Jin Valen.

A powerful inner sect elder, a terrifying figure in the sect—one who had been absent for nearly two years.

And Jin Valen’s child?

Jin Eryndor.

Wei Xing’s expression stiffened. If it really was that child, then this matter wasn’t simple at all.

If it had been anyone else, Wei Xing wouldn’t hesitate to crush them. But if it was Jin Valen’s son…

This was dangerous territory.

But Wei Tun, however, wasn’t thinking about politics or consequences.

He only knew one thing—he had been beaten, and he wanted revenge.

Hearing his father hesitate, his temper flared.

“Father! How can you just stand there? Look at me!”

He pointed at his bruised, swollen face.

“That bastard humiliated me! In front of so many people! And you’re hesitating?! What does it matter who he is? The Skyshade Sanctum is a righteous sect! We stand for justice! We are in the right!”

Wei Xing flinched.

It was true. They weren’t wrong.

No matter whose child the attacker was, his son had been assaulted.

And yet, the name Jin Valen lingered in his mind like a ghostly whisper of caution.

But one look at his son’s pitiful face, and his fatherly instincts overwhelmed his logic.

Wei Xing's rage reignited.

“No one dares to touch my son and walk away unpunished!” Wei Xing growled.

Without another word, he pulled Wei Tun onto his sword, took a step forward, and soared into the sky—heading straight toward Skyshade Sanctum’s Main Peak.

"I would demand justice from the Sect Master myself!" . He roared.