The skies above Green River Town had darkened with more than clouds. Though no thunder rolled and no rain fell, a storm had already begun. It was a storm of fear, of power, of quiet schemes and gathering soldiers. And in its eye stood three great clans—Meng, Lin, and Li—each pulling at the seams of the fragile town, threatening to tear it apart.
At first, it was whispers. Then it was skirmishes. Now, it was blood.
The Meng clan had sealed off their estate entirely. Even commoners with distant ties to the family were pulled inside and hidden behind layers of protective formations. No longer scholars and thinkers, they moved like a family preparing for siege.
The Lin clan had turned their courtyards into training grounds, where shouts of martial drills echoed day and night. Armed men patrolled their section of the town walls. Their traders stopped offering goods. Their stores stocked barrels, sacks, and crates behind barred doors. Every sign said the same thing: they were preparing for war.
And the Li clan, emboldened by Patriarch Li Chongba's undisguised might, made the first move.
One morning, as the fog still clung to the stone roads, a merchant caravan bound for the Lin territory was attacked. Three of the six guards were killed. The merchant was dragged from his cart and forced to kneel before a Li enforcer. His offense? Doing business with Lin family connections. The message was clear: no one did trade without the Li clan's blessing.
By noon, two Lin cultivators retaliated. A Li-run warehouse was set ablaze. The council, toothless and divided, could only watch from behind bolted doors. The town was a forest on the brink of wildfire. All it needed was a spark.
And then, just when it seemed Green River Town would devour itself, the Town Lord arrived.
He came not with fanfare, but with silence. No trumpet announced him. No procession of banners and nobles preceded him. Just a single black carriage with steel-trimmed wheels, drawn by spirit beasts that glowed faintly with restrained aura. It rolled into town as though it owned the roads, as though the very town itself had called him.
He bore no name when he arrived, only a title—Town Lord Qin Xu.
From the moment he stepped out of the carriage, the air shifted. He was tall, dressed in plain grey robes lined with the dark blue thread of the provincial capital. No one knew his cultivation realm, and no one dared ask. But his eyes, cold and sharp like blades hidden in the snow, silenced every voice that met them. He walked like a man who had seen many wars—and ended them.
He went first to the council hall. In one afternoon, he dissolved the current town council.
"Those who watched a fire and did not lift a hand to stop it," he said, "are not fit to call themselves leaders."
No one argued.
Next, he issued orders: a ceasefire between all three clans. Any violence after this day would be seen as rebellion against the provincial capital. Clan leaders were summoned individually, not together. He met them one by one in a sealed chamber. No one knew what was said inside.
When Patriarch Li Chongba emerged from his audience, the pride in his step had vanished. The next day, his enforcers withdrew from the streets.
Elder Lin of the Lin clan was said to have tried to argue. He didn't argue again. The town's garrison now had Lin clan members posted to the outer walls—under provincial oversight.
As for the Meng clan, their eldest scholar came out bowing, his hands trembling. That evening, the clan opened their library once more, and their formation defenses were lowered.
No force had been used. No blades had been drawn. But power had spoken—and the clans had listened.
Rumors swirled, of course. That the Town Lord was a Nascent Soul cultivator in disguise. That his position was not merely administrative, but military. Some even whispered he had the authority to execute clan leaders without trial. Whether true or not, none dared test it.
In the days that followed, peace—tense and bitter—returned to Green River Town. Markets reopened, though the prices remained high. Merchants returned, their wagons rolling cautiously past corners that had recently reeked of blood. The garrison doubled in size under the Town Lord's command, filled with trained troops from the provincial capital. And for the first time in years, the town's residents saw banners that did not belong to a clan—but to the kingdom itself.
Within this fragile new order, Xi Chen remained in the shadows, silent and watchful. In his modest forge, the sound of hammer on metal echoed steadily, unchanged by the chaos outside. He heard the murmurs. He watched the shift in power from behind the safety of his role as a blacksmith. But he did not act. Not yet.
He saw the way the Li clan now moved more carefully. The fire in their eyes hadn't been extinguished—merely banked. He saw the Lin clan soldiers practicing in silence, resentment burning behind their discipline. And he saw the Meng family scribes walking the streets again, speaking of balance and tradition, trying to regain the public trust.
But most of all, Xi Chen kept an eye on Town Lord Qin Xu.
He was not a man of many words. He gave few public addresses. But every word he did speak was law. He took residence in the former mayor's hall, though he rarely stayed inside. Some nights, he could be seen walking the quiet alleys, alone and unguarded, as though daring anyone to try something.
Xi Chen respected that kind of strength. Quiet. Steady. Unyielding.
But he also knew that kind of man was dangerous.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the roofs in firelight, Xi Chen stood behind his forge and watched a small group of provincial guards pass by. Their armor was uniform, but their steps were precise—not the laziness of local thugs, but the discipline of true soldiers. They were not here to play at order. They were here to enforce it.
A part of him relaxed. With the Town Lord here, the town would not fall—not yet. But another part of him tensed. This was a new balance of power, and balances never lasted long.
That night, Xi Chen lit the forge earlier than usual. He set a new iron bar on the anvil and began shaping it into a blade—not a farming tool, not a kitchen knife, but a short sword with a thick spine. Not for sale. Not for trade.
Just in case.
As the metal glowed orange, he closed his eyes for a moment. The Scarlet Bone Blooming Method stirred within him, its heat merging with the fire of the forge. He was nearly ready. Not for politics. Not for fame. But for survival.
Above him, the sky remained clouded. And though the storm had passed, the thunder had only paused.