The next morning dawned clear and sharp, dust motes glittering in the sunlight on the rooftops of the clan hall.
The great chamber was quiet, save for the faint creak of the doors as Li Qiong was ushered inside.
The Patriarch sat at the head of the long dais, clad in layered robes, his white beard immaculate.
The elders lined the walls, their expressions carved from stone.
And just behind the Patriarch, Li Qiong's mother stood silently, her gaze as cold as ever.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then the Patriarch finally broke the silence.
"Li Qiong... you have slept on it. Tell me — have you changed your mind?"
Li Qiong stepped forward and bowed respectfully.
"This morning is no different from yesterday."
A faint ripple of disapproval passed through the elders.
The Patriarch's sharp eyes narrowed slightly.
"You would still refuse the offers of the three branches?"
Li Qiong straightened.
"A hawk must leave the nest if it wishes to become king of the skies.
If it clings too long to its perch... it will only be mistaken for a flightless chicken."
The hall was utterly still.
One of the elders scoffed quietly.
Even his mother's hand twitched faintly at her side.
But the Patriarch only... smiled. It was thin and strange, but a smile nonetheless.
"Very well."
With a faint motion of his hand, an attendant brought forward a long, narrow wooden box.
The Patriarch opened it himself, revealing a sword sheathed in faded black lacquer.
Its hilt was plain, worn by decades of use, yet still emanating a quiet dignity.
He held the sword out in both hands.
"This accompanied me in my younger days.
It is tradition in our household that the firstborn son receives the blade of his predecessor.
If you find yourself struggling someday... pawn it.
It fetches enough silver for even a mortal to live out his old years in comfort."
Li Qiong stepped forward and took it with both hands, bowing deeply once more.
"Thank you, Patriarch."
As he turned to leave, he paused at the great door.
Slowly, he reached into his robes and withdrew something small, bound in silk.
The hall fell into silence as he walked back to the dais.
And with quiet, deliberate motion... he placed the wrapped scripture before the old man.
The Patriarch's gaze flicked down at the silk, then back up at Li Qiong.
His fingers trembled faintly as he unwrapped it.
The characters inscribed on the yellowed parchment made his eyes widen.
The Jade Body Scripture.
A long-lost clan treasure, thought vanished decades ago.
"Where..." the Patriarch began, his voice low and tight, "where did you find this...?"
But Li Qiong was already walking toward the door again, his white robes fluttering softly.
"Where it was left to rot," he said without turning.
And with that, he left the chamber, the doors closing quietly behind him.
The Patriarch sat frozen, his fingers gripping the edge of the dais, the scripture lying before him like a silent accusation.
For the first time in many years... his composure cracked.
Li Qiong never looked back.
The leaves crunched under his feet as he descended the long steps of the clan hall, the sheathed sword resting in his hand.
Above him, the sun broke through the clouds — pale and warm, but bright enough to sting the eyes.
As the doors closed behind him, he added in his mind — but did not say aloud
There is more hidden in that scripture than you know.
The founder's insignia was carved into its final page, and the techniques it contained — if used wisely — could turn the tide of another beast tide.
A gift... and a severance.
So they could never again say he owed them anything.
The first snow of the season fell as Li Qiong stepped through the gates of the clan grounds.
The sky above was flat and endless gray, and the flakes descended in silence — soft and steady, blanketing the courtyards and training fields where so many had sneered and spat at him.
He did not look back.
Each step left a print in the snow, quickly covered again by the falling flakes. His breath misted faintly in the chill as he tightened his grip on the worn sword at his hip.
Somewhere behind him, a faint bell tolled from the ancestral hall — thin and hollow, like a farewell.
But his heart was still.
He walked on.
And in the quiet of the falling snow, memory came unbidden.
When his grandfather finally emerged from seclusion, his hair had gone white, but his back was still straight, his presence sharp enough to silence the hall.
At first he asked after the clan's fields, business, disciples.
Even smiled faintly at his daughter, standing proud near the dais.
But then he asked after his eldest grandson.
Silence.
Then, haltingly, one of the elders spoke.
And with every word — every revelation of how Li Qiong had been treated — the faint smile withered.
His hand rose once, trembling with fury, toward his daughter.
"You dare," he hissed, "to carry my name and treat your own son as less than a dog? You dare shame this family so?"
But she did not flinch.
Her two younger sons stepped before her, the elders flanking them, a wall of quiet defiance.
"He was not worthy of the clan."
"He brought only shame."
"The will of the family comes before sentiment."
For the first time, the old man realized, he was alone.He lowered his hand, his rage cooling to contempt.
He left the hall in silence, knowing they had already chosen their ruin.
And ruin came.
Without his presence to restrain them, his daughter and her sons ran rampant.
For years they indulged themselves unchecked, the elder shielding them.
Until the mountain struck back.
The seals failed.
The beasts lunged down in a tide of claws and fangs.
The clan halls burned through the night. The training fields became mud and blood and ash.
His two brothers fought before their mother like shields, cutting down wave after wave — but it was hopeless.
At the heart of the storm, the king beast descended.
The old man finally emerged from seclusion.
White-haired, gaunt, but unbroken, he took up his sword one last time and waded into the fray.
They said he alone stood against the king beast.
And at last, his blade pierced its heart.
The hall collapsed, burying them both.
By dawn the tide was broken.
But the proud clan had become a third-rate sect, diminished and humbled.
A decade later.
Li Qiong met his brother again in a regional competition.
He expected nothing but the same arrogance.
But what he saw instead was a man who fought cleanly, carried himself quietly — no longer proud, no longer hateful.
Even his brother had been changed.
It was from him, quietly, after the match, that Li Qiong learned where the Jade Body Scripture had been buried.
His mother still sat in the crumbling manor, her eyes blank, her mind frayed.
Her ambition shattered, her sons dead, her father gone.
But she still hated.
Somewhere in that broken mind, she clung to her hatred of Li Qiong — because it was easier than facing herself.
And so she sat, clutching a cracked jade comb, whispering his name like a curse and a prayer.
Li Qiong's boots crunched softly in the snow as he left the clan grounds behind.
The sword his grandfather left him hung at his side.
He walked on without regret — and without hate.
A hawk cannot soar if it clings to the branch.
He had learned the truth long ago, through his brother after the match.
It was their family's last true inheritance, forgotten, abandoned by their own arrogance.
Now, it was returned.
Not out of loyalty. Not out of love.
But so they could never say he owed them anything.
So he cut the last of his ties, and stepped into the open sky.
And above him, cutting through the pale heavens, a hawk circled — dark wings outstretched, its cry sharp and clear as it rose higher and higher.