Tianxu Continent, in the outskirts of Jin Province was home to a prestigious family of martial artists—the Yan clan. A first-class family with a long history in Liam Village, the Yan clan was renowned for its swift swordsmanship and righteous bearing, earning respect far and wide.
Yan Li, however, was not one for the sword. While the rest of his family honed their martial prowess, he dedicated himself to the quieter art of scholarship. He taught both the elders and the young of Liam Village the basics of reading and writing, a service driven by a deep sense of duty to his mother's health. Though his teaching brought him little more than modest pay, it was enough to cover the growing medical costs.
Liam Village, nestled at the foot of the mountains, was a quiet settlement that thrived on agriculture and craftsmanship. Its dirt roads were lined with modest wooden houses, their smoke rising lazily into the crisp morning air. The village was small, but its people were tight-knit, bound by generations of shared history and mutual respect. The Yan clan, with its rich heritage, was a cornerstone of the village, and their presence gave the people a sense of pride. Though the clan's martial strength was a source of awe, it was Yan Li's gentle and caring nature that earned him the affection of the villagers.
Despite the beauty of the village, life here was not without struggle. The harvests were often meager, and many families lived with the constant worry of scarce resources. In times of hardship, the villagers would gather in the small square by the market, exchanging news and offering support. Yan Li's humble role as a teacher had brought him close to many of the villagers. They admired his quiet determination and often spoke of him with warmth. For Yan Li, however, the village's charm lay not in its outward appearance, but in its sense of community, where every face was familiar and every gesture carried meaning.
The Yan clan, while respected within Liam Village, lived a life apart in the vast, rugged mountains that loomed over the settlement. Their estate, perched high on the mountain's edge, was a place of isolation and solemnity, where the air was thinner, and the sounds of the village below were mere whispers. The clan's ancestral home was a grand yet austere structure, built with the strength of stone and timber, reflecting the martial prowess and discipline that the Yan family was known for. The estate was surrounded by towering cliffs and dense forests, making it both a fortress and a retreat, ideal for training and meditation.
Within the estate, the clan followed a strict regimen. Days began before dawn with rigorous training, where each member focused on honing their swordsmanship and physical strength. The sound of clashing blades echoed through the mountains as the elders led their disciples in perfecting their techniques. At night, the clan would gather in the great hall for shared meals, discussing matters of strategy and discipline, and sometimes, ancient tales of their lineage. It was a life of discipline and honor, where every action was steeped in tradition. Yet, for Yan Li, the distant mountain home of his family felt both a source of pride and a reminder of his mothers sickness
As the sun began its slow descent behind the jagged peaks, painting the sky in hues of gold and amber, Yan Li tightened the sash around his waist and began the quiet ascent toward the mountain estate. He followed a winding trail, well-worn beneath his feet, the path scattered with fallen leaves and the occasional whisper of a forest bird. This climb was one he made daily—each step a labor of love, not toward the grand halls of his clan, but to a small, secluded home nestled in a grove of pine trees just below the main estate.
The humble cottage stood quiet under the shadow of the cliffs, its wooden frame weathered but sturdy. Smoke curled from the chimney, faint and fading, a sign that the fire within had long grown weak.
He entered softly.
There, on a cot near the hearth, lay his mother. Her form was frail beneath the blanket, her once-raven hair now silver strands scattered across the pillow. Yet when she turned toward him, her eyes still held the warm spark he remembered from childhood.
Yan Li knelt beside her and placed a kettle over the fire. Soon, the water began to boil, steam rising gently into the dim room.
She turned her head, a tired smile playing on her lips.
"How are your studies ?"
Yan Li poured the water into a clay cup and steeped a handful of dry leaves.
"They're going well," he replied softly. "And how is your health ?"
Her smile faltered as a rough cough racked her chest. Before she could answer, he was already at her side, supporting her with one arm and raising the tea to her lips with the other.
"Drink this," he urged. "I bought it from the village instructor yesterday—he told me it helps clear the lungs."
She sipped it slowly, her hands trembling. Silence settled between them. Then, in a quieter voice, she asked:
"And your internal energy cultivation?"
Yan Li paused. He looked down at the teacup in his hands, then turned away.
"Don't worry about that," he said gently. "I made rabbit stew. You need to eat."
He helped her sit up and spooned the warm stew into a bowl, feeding her with slow, careful hands. Only when she was full and drifting toward sleep did he quietly gather the dishes and step outside.
The night air was cool and sharp. The moon rose behind the cliffs, bathing the clearing in silver light. He stood alone beneath the towering pines, breathing in the mountain wind, and walked to the open training space where the earth was beaten flat from years of footsteps.
He reached for the sword resting against the wall.
Drawing it with a soft hiss, he whispered, [Sea-Engulfing Sword Art]
The first style—Tide's Rise. A sweeping motion, fluid yet heavy, mimicking the momentum of surging waves.
The second—Moon Reflection. A sharp, precise arc, like moonlight flashing over rippling water.
Then the third, and the fourth. Each movement more demanding, more exacting, until his muscles burned and the hilt slipped in his grip.
His palm split open, blood running down the blade.
But he did not stop—
Not until the pain was louder than the silence.
At last, he dropped to his knees, breath shallow, sword plunged into the dirt beside him.
The wind carried the scent of pine and cold stone. He looked up at the stars—distant, silent, eternal—and felt a stillness within, like the sea after a storm.
Without a word, he sheathed his blade, returned to the little house, and lay beside the dying embers of the fire.
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Morning broke over the mountains with a slow spill of gold across the jagged horizon. The crisp scent of dew mingled with pine, and the calls of early birds echoed faintly through the cliffs. As the first light touched the Yan estate, its courtyards and training fields stirred to life. Servants lit torches in shadowed corridors, disciples tightened their sashes and gathered in ranks, and the clang of metal rang once more through the cold air.
Yan Li was already awake. He had slept lightly, as always, by the fire in his mother's cottage. The embers had long gone out, and he had wrapped another blanket around her before stepping outside, his breath misting in the chill.
He tightened his robe, adjusted the jade token hanging from his waist—a symbol of his status as a recognized cultivator of the Yan clan—and made his way up the narrow path to the main courtyard.
The training ground was already crowded when he arrived. Over a hundred disciples of varying ages stood in neat rows, the rising sun casting long shadows across the worn flagstones. In the center, surrounded by the clan elders and instructors, was the large stone platform where the cultivation session would begin.
The morning gathering was mandatory, a tradition as old as the Yan clan itself. At this hour, all disciples were to sit and cultivate the [Giant Wave Scripture], a foundational internal technique that served as the core of their sword arts. It was not flashy, but it was deep—steady, powerful, and reliable. Like the tide.
Yan Li found his usual spot, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the crowd. As a mid third-grade cultivator at the age of eleven, his progress was respectable—enough to stand with the middle ranks of the clan. Yet few looked to him for martial leadership. He was known more for his calmness and his discipline.
As the session began, dozens of disciples entered a synchronized breathing rhythm, their bodies glowing faintly with internal flow. Elder Yan Chong, the overseer of the morning drills, paced slowly with his hands clasped behind his back.
Yan Li closed his eyes.
He inhaled deeply, drawing in the essence of the mountain air. He pictured a vast ocean within his dantian, calm and wide, and began guiding his qi through the meridians, tracing the familiar, powerful current of the [Giant Wave Scripture]. It was not passion or hunger for strength that drove him, but his duty. He was quiet, persistent, unwavering.
When the hour-long session came to an end, most disciples rose quickly to prepare for sword drills or sparring.
But Yan Li turned toward the library, nestled on the eastern side of the estate like a quiet shrine. It was a tiered and elegant building of dark wood and white stone, draped in climbing ivy and silence. The first floor, open to all members of the clan, contained scrolls of basic history, ethics, and foundational martial philosophy—little in the way of cultivation techniques, but a trove of knowledge nonetheless.
Yan Li walked its rows like a monk in meditation. Here, among the scent of ink and aged parchment, was where he felt most alive.
The second floor, however, was another matter.
Guarded by an old steward with eyes like flint, it required permission or contribution points to access. With it were stored techniques, ancient maps, and relics of their ancestors—some so old they were written in tongues forgotten by most. And it was these lost words, these fragments of the past, that fascinated Yan Li.
He paused at the base of the staircase, gazing up at the locked gate of the second floor.
Someday, he hoped to read all the books in the library.