The exhilaration thrummed beneath Ren Zifeng’s skin, a vibrant melody where only discord had reigned moments before. Lord Buzhou, now shrinking back into the pendant with a contented sigh, had left behind a strange, potent vigor that begged to be unleashed. Xiaoxiao, still sleeping fitfully in their cramped shack, coughed again, a sound that tore at Zifeng’s revitalized core. He needed to be strong, to secure the resources for her medicine, to ensure she never again suffered the scorn of the powerful. He slipped out into the pre-dawn gloom of Mount Wuyin’s lower slopes, a dense tangle of ancient ironwood trees and moss-slicked boulders. The air was cool, biting, but Zifeng felt no chill. His every fiber hummed with a nascent power, a deep, primal strength that felt both alien and utterly his own. He found a secluded clearing, dominated by a towering, rough-hewn training monolith used by Outer Court initiates for weapon practice. It was scarred, pockmarked with gouges from failed strikes. Taking a deep breath, Zifeng focused. The force that Buzhou had woven into his meridians surged, hot and bright. He extended his hand, not striking, but merely *reaching*, willing the power outward. A faint shimmer appeared around his palm, and a low, resonant hum vibrated through the air. He pushed harder, visualizing the stone crumbling, dissolving. The monolith groaned, a deep, grinding sound, then fractured with an explosive *CRACK*. Dust and rock shards erupted outwards as the massive stone pillar disintegrated into a pile of fine gravel, scattering across the clearing like spilled grain. Zifeng stared, his mouth slightly agape. He hadn’t meant to *obliterate* it. He’d merely intended to test the subtle flow. The raw power within him was far greater than he’d ever imagined, a sovereign’s might disguised within broken flesh. “What in the blazes happened here?!” a guttural roar tore through the quiet. A burly figure emerged from the tree line, his heavy-set frame draped in the dark, single-star robes of an Outer Sect warden. It was Warden Jaren, a notoriously cruel overseer known for his iron fist and a habit of extorting resources from weaker pupils. His small, beady eyes darted from the pulverized rubble to Zifeng, then narrowed with malicious glee. “Ren Zifeng. The invalid. Destroying sect property, are we? This little stunt will cost you. Perhaps a forfeiture of your dwelling, and your sister’s cultivation stipend? A shame.” Jaren’s grin widened, revealing a missing tooth. He had long sought an excuse to evict Zifeng and his sickly sister, their presence a blight on the sect’s ‘strongest survive’ ethos. He lunged, a crude but powerful strike aimed directly at Zifeng’s chest. His palm glowed with a faint, amber aura, clearly intending to inflict internal injury. But Zifeng was no longer the broken youth he had been yesterday. Lord Buzhou’s words echoed: *“They are already hunting you.”* The danger was real, immediate. Xiaoxiao’s frail image flashed in his mind. There was no room for timidity. A strange, ethereal grace settled over Zifeng. He didn’t just move; he *dissipated*. His form blurred, a wisp of smoke caught in a sudden breeze. Jaren’s heavy palm strike passed through empty air, the force of it leaving a small crater in the ground where Zifeng had stood a heartbeat before. Zifeng reappeared two paces to Jaren’s left, a phantom-like shift that seemed to defy the very laws of motion. This was the ‘Revenant Sovereign’s Step’ – a technique Buzhou had imparted, its phantom-like speed a mere echo of its true power. “A new trick, invalid?” Jaren snarled, his face twisting in frustrated rage. He spun, launching a flurry of powerful, wide swings. Each strike carried enough force to shatter bone, but Zifeng danced around them, his movements so fluid they seemed to be a part of the wind itself. He wasn't dodging; he was *evading*, each motion precise, economic, almost mocking. Jaren, for all his brute strength, couldn’t even graze him. Just then, a slender figure emerged from a patch of shadowed jinkoa vines nearby. She wore simple, dark travel robes, her face partially obscured by the wide brim of a woven bamboo hat, but her posture held an undeniable elegance. In her hand, she clutched a small, flowering vine, its leaves glowing faintly. Lin Muyue, the Sect Saintess, often roamed the lower peaks in search of rare medicinal herbs, believing only direct contact yielded true understanding. She had been tracking the elusive ‘Silver Bloom’ when the crack of shattering stone had drawn her attention. Her sharp gaze tracked Zifeng’s impossible movements, registering quiet shock. Zifeng, noticing the newcomer, felt a rush of blood to his cheeks. He wasn’t used to an audience, especially not with such a peculiar, almost magical, display. His shyness, a deeply ingrained flaw, threatened to return, but the sight of Jaren’s sneering face quickly replaced it with cold resolve. *Xiaoxiao needs high-grade alcohol to truly heal. Buzhou demands it. Where would I get such a thing?* An idea sparked in Zifeng’s mind, daring and unconventional. He momentarily broke from Jaren’s assault, stepping back with a swift pivot. “Warden Jaren, perhaps we could settle this without further... property damage?” Zifeng’s voice, though quiet, carried a new, steely edge. “Settle it?” Jaren bellowed, closing the distance. “You’ll be settling for a lifetime in the punitive mines, you insolent worm!” Zifeng turned to Lin Muyue, a blush still staining his cheeks despite the tense situation. “You… you seem to know your way around these mountains. And… herbs. Do you also know anything about brewing?” Muyue paused, her gaze piercing, assessing. She had never seen such footwork, not even from the Inner Sect Elders. This boy… there was more to him than met the eye. And his sudden, awkward question amidst a brawl was certainly disarming. “I… I have studied ancient brewing techniques, yes. For medicinal elixirs. Why?” “I require a vintage of exceptional quality,” Zifeng explained, his gaze darting between Muyue and the enraged Jaren, who was now charging again. “High-grade spirit wine. The kind that can soothe the very soul. If you could… assist me in acquiring or brewing such a thing, I could offer… protection. Against elements like him.” He gestured subtly toward Jaren, who was now a mere meter away, a fist raised high. Muyue considered him. His eyes, though shy, held an unusual intensity, a desperate plea hidden beneath a fragile resolve. And the way he moved… he possessed unnatural grace. This could be an opportunity for her own research, a chance to refine the legendary ‘Azure Serpent Nectar’ she sought to replicate. She had always valued independence, but a pragmatic alliance, especially one offering such unexpected protection, was not to be dismissed. “Very well,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm for one so outwardly demure. “I will assist you. If you can prove your worth and your promise of ‘protection’ isn’t hollow.” “Excellent.” A dangerous glint entered Zifeng’s eyes. He faced Jaren as the warden’s fist descended, sudden focus hardening his stance. No longer dodging, Zifeng *moved through* Jaren’s attack, appearing on the warden’s blind side in an instant. Before Jaren could even register the shift, Zifeng’s palm connected with the warden’s cheek in a sharp, resounding *SLAP*. The blow wasn’t just physical; it carried the subtle spiritual force Buzhou had awakened, a concussive shock that reverberated through Jaren’s skull. The warden’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling white. He spun like a top, momentum carrying him backward with uncontrolled force. He slammed into a jagged stone wall that formed part of the clearing’s perimeter, a dull *THUD* echoing through the quiet. Jaren crumpled to the ground, unconscious, his face already swelling to an alarming size, a clear red handprint stark against his cheek. He twitched once, then lay still, utterly humiliated. Lin Muyue, even with her composed demeanor, could not hide the slight gasp that escaped her lips. The speed, the precision, the sheer audacity of the blow… it was a masterpiece of defiance. Other sect youths, drawn by the commotion and the shattered stone, began to gather, their murmurs growing into excited whispers as they recognized the unconscious Warden Jaren and Ren Zifeng standing over him. Suddenly, a cold, authoritative voice cut through the burgeoning crowd. “What is the meaning of this blatant disregard for sect authority?” From the path leading to the Inner Court emerged a tall, gaunt man in pristine, three-star robes, his expression a mask of stern disapproval. It was Elder Song Kian, the Inner Sect Elder who sponsored Song Liena, and Jaren was one of his most loyal, if thuggish, lapdogs. He took in Jaren’s prone form, the pulverized rock, and Zifeng’s defiant stance, his gaze narrowing to slits of fury. “You dare assault a sect officer, Zifeng? You, a mere Outer Court cripple? This cannot stand. Such an act demands satisfaction.” Elder Song’s voice boomed, chilling the air. He raised a hand, pointing a trembling finger at Zifeng. “I, Elder Song Kian, challenge Ren Zifeng to a Blood-Duel! In the Grand Arena, during the Monthly Tournament! May the heavens bear witness!” The declaration hung heavy in the air, a death sentence for any ordinary Outer Court disciple. A Blood-Duel in the Grand Arena was no mere sparring match; it was a fight to the death, no quarter given, no mercy expected. The monthly tournament was just three weeks away.

The Vintage of Vengeance