It was a long sword capped in dust, a blood-red inscription coiling along its blade. The silent shrine woke, bleeding red mist in drifting veils. The air reeked like a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, a graveyard spilled open. Even Lin Fengxian flinched; his chant broke mid-breath. The stench was no less than what they’d suffered back then—no, it cut deeper.

Instinct first, he reached to yank Su Qingquan out, but Su Qingquan had vanished, swallowed by the tide. Thick blood-mist draped the world like funeral shrouds, and it gnawed at the soul. If he didn’t pull back now, he’d be erased, dissolved in that scarlet fog.

Su Qingquan, I’m sorry—your uncle failed you. Guilt clogged his throat. Lin Fengxian turned to leave, to save his own spark before it guttered out.

At Tianchi, divine light surged on its own, falling like rain and wrapping Su Qingquan, halting the bleeding mist from his body. Fifteen minutes in, the blood-mist had begun to spread off him; every place it touched held no grass, no life. As Su Qinghe poised to seal it, Tianchi shone brighter and pressed the mist back, forcing a reverse flow between Su Qingquan’s body and the fog.

“Tianjiao, this isn’t right. Visions like this during awakening are a dire omen,” Su Qinghe whispered, worry first, voice thin as reed. Lin Mengqing hid behind them, fear pooling like shadow.

“Enough. Lin Fengxian’s coming out; we’ll know soon.” Murong Tianjiao signaled calm. He watched the field while shielding his wife and Lin Fengxian. Black flames licked off him like night-birds, ready if the divine light failed.

With a wet splurt, Lin Fengxian spat a mouthful of blood. “It’s changed—dire omen!”

Right then the divine light snapped out. The blood-mist lunged into Su Qingquan’s body; his face flushed like a storm-red sky.

Boom— A thunderclap roared inside him. A blood-red longsword burst out with the mist, spraying Tianchi red.

“Aah!” He screamed, pain ripping like scarlet talons. The mist ballooned and split his skin into gaping seams. As the blade tore free, it felt ready to cleave him in two.

Pain clawed him, but Su Qingquan refused to let go. He smirked, defiant through the haze. “Crimson Grim, I’m claiming you.”

He fell back and blacked out. The blood-mist thinned, ebbing like a retreating tide. Only the blood-red sword stood planted, quivering toward him, as if answering.

“I can’t sense Su Qingquan’s power anymore…”

“No—his strength is gone!”

Su Qinghe’s face darkened like a brewing storm. She prayed her son hadn’t drawn the worst lot.

Even seeing the blood-red blade emerge while his body leaked mist from a hundred wounds, Su Qingquan felt it was worth it. In the mindsea shrine, when his hand closed on that sword, he’d felt invincible, like mountains bowed and rivers parted.

As he fainted, the blood-red sword’s tremor stilled, a beast caged again.

“Quick! Save him first!” Su Qinghe snapped awake, unleashing a great healing art like spring rain. Murong Tianjiao swept in, scooped Su Qingquan up, and blurred away toward the Su estate, feet light as wind.

“Brat, don’t you dare die. Your old man forbids it, so you can’t.” Murong Tianjiao muttered, voice taut like a drawn bowstring.

Five days later, Su Clan—Family Council Hall.

Su Qingquan sat at the center of the hall. The elders ringed him in a circle, their seats raised a body higher, letting them look down, vultures on ledges.

He hated those eyes—hungry hyenas at the edge of the fire, ready to tear him apart.

He’d lost his strength for no reason. He still held a soulflame, but blood-mist ringed him like chains, blocking outside energy. He was almost a cripple. The rival faction seized the chance, scheming to strip Crimson Grim from him.

Su Qingquan was a shade more mature than his peers, yet after such a whiplash rise and fall, panic fluttered like moths. He had no plan.

“Ahem. Attention. The Su Clan’s three-hundred-and-first council is now in session.” A middle-aged man spoke from the tier above Su Qingquan. He was Su Qingquan’s uncle, Su Yun.

“This meeting will decide Su Qingquan’s posting and the fate of the blood-red greatsword of the ancestral legacy.” Su Yun glanced at the shackled youth below, a thin smile cutting his mouth.

“During activation of the legacy, an accident occurred. After investigation, Su Qingquan has no strength left and can’t cultivate. By clan rules, he should be demoted to servant.”

Su Qingquan jerked against his bonds, rage flaring like sparks. He wanted to glare back at that uncle. When Su had power, Su Yun bowed and slithered; now he dared shove him into servitude.

“Ahem. Yet, as he is the current clan leader’s son, pure of blood, we can alter it. He will be sent to the Luoshui Frontier to guard against beast attacks. The ancestral legacy will be stripped. Duration: three years. If he recovers, he may return to the clan’s outer ranks. This is the first joint statement by the Elders and the Arbiter Council. Does anyone plead for Su Qingquan?”

Su Yun’s smile trembled with excitement, a jackal scenting meat. He’d waited to humiliate his sister’s line, to press them down and curry favor with old patrons.

“First, ancestral legacies are not to be stripped. Stripping often means death. How many survived it in our history? Second, Luoshui Frontier sits at the far south of the Eastern Continent, east to the Blood-Sin Abyss, west to the lawless lands. Sending a youth who’s lost his strength there is almost a death sentence. Elders and Arbiters, think twice.”

Su Qinghe wore battle armor today, a killing edge woven into her aura. Azure light-swords circled her like hawks; one wrong word and she’d strike. Clan? Less than her son. With her peak power, even the elders might not hold her.

“That’s not how to put it. Su Qingquan is our clan’s genius. A genius must—”

Whoosh—the light-swords at Su Qinghe’s side flung cold gleams and stabbed toward Su Yun. Her eyes held no feeling; this strike aimed to erase him.

This useless cousin did nothing but fawn. A mangy dog dared mount the tiger; how brazen.

Clang—a dark longblade barred Su Yun’s front, stopping the light-sword. The blades didn’t yield; force ripples shuddered through the hall.

“Su Qinghe, don’t think being current clan leader lets you rampage and kill in the council hall!” A middle-aged man drifted down from the elders’ seats. His eyes on Su Qinghe gleamed with hungry desire.

“Oh? What if you count me, old dog Su Tai?”

A plain-looking fist drove at Su Tai’s face, yet it tugged heaven and earth like a tide. Su Tai’s pupils shrank. He knew he couldn’t take it with flesh; that punch meant death.

The man who threw it was Su Qingquan’s father, Murong Tianjiao. As vice leader of the Murong Clan, he should only be an observer. But he caught the naked lust in Su Tai’s eyes for his wife. Already seething, Murong snapped and opened with the first strike of his kill fist.

“Cease your insolence, Murong—”

A figure leaped from the arbiter’s bench, throwing a fist to meet Murong Tianjiao’s blow. He swallowed his shout mid-word as his defense failed. Murong’s heaven-tilting punch smashed his arm clean off.

“Ah!” The would-be stopper crashed down, screaming. Murong Tianjiao kept surging forward, unstoppable, driving his fist at Su Tai.

A long sigh rose like wind through pines. A gentle, formless force stopped Murong Tianjiao, dissolving that god-slaying, buddha-breaking momentum. Su Tai thought he’d be dust; cold sweat streamed.

“Senior!” “Patriarch!” Everyone sprang up and bowed toward the doors.

At the doorway, an old man hefted a wine gourd, drinking in great gulps. He mumbled, “Sit.”

“I closed a death seclusion for ten years. The moment I stepped out I felt a fist this strong. I wondered who—turns out it’s the Murong boy.” The old man lowered the gourd and wiped his mouth.

“Senior Su Qingtian, please judge for us.”

Murong Tianjiao turned and bowed. Su Qinghe bowed as well, like pines bending to wind.

“Enough. I know the tale. The decision’s rash, yet the Luoshui Frontier is a harsh ground that tempers men. It may let Su Qingquan recover. The ancestral legacy will not be stripped.”

Murong Tianjiao and Su Qinghe traded a look. They knew this was the best they could win now. Both agreed at once.

“The junior’s matter is settled. Now it’s your elders’ turn. Su Qinghe, though you lead the clan, you mustn’t strike to kill your kin. For this, you’ll be punished. I’ll enforce it: you will seclude at Forget-Hate Cliff for five years. No one may meddle in clan-leader affairs; I will act in your stead.”