The sun climbed higher, casting its golden net over Wu Tan City.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni walked through the bustling streets, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. To his left and right, the city was alive. This was the commercial heart of the region, a sprawling marketplace where the three great clans—Xiao, Jia Lie, and Ao Ba—vied for dominance.
Merchants shouted their wares, their voices clashing in a cacophony of commerce.
"Fresh Healing Powder! Guaranteed to stop bleeding in ten breaths!"
"Rank 1 Magic Beast Cores! Fire attribute! Perfect for young cultivators!"
"Iron swords! Heavy steel! Discount for clan disciples!"
Yoriichi walked with a leisurely pace, observing everything. He stopped at a stall selling medicinal herbs, noting the exorbitant prices for simple ingredients like Blue Spirit Grass. He paused at a weapon stall, his eyes scanning the rows of swords.
"Poor quality," he noted, seeing the uneven grain in the steel. "Too much carbon. It would snap against a demon's neck."
He didn't buy anything. He couldn't. His pockets were lighter than air. But the exploration was not wasted; he was mapping the economy of this world. He realized that here, strength was the currency, but gold was the lubricant.
"To forge my sword, I will need money. To get money, I need resources. It is a circle."
He left the market, the noise fading behind him as he re-entered the Xiao Clan estate.
Instead of returning to his room, his path took him past the main training grounds.
Hah! Hah! Hah!
The sound of synchronized shouting echoed off the stone walls.
Yoriichi stopped. He leaned his shoulder against a wooden pillar at the edge of the training field, crossing his arms. His face was a mask of indifference, but his eyes were sharp, dissecting the scene before him.
In the center of the field, about fifty young disciples were going through drills. They were sweating, their faces flushed with exertion.
Leading them was a figure that commanded attention.
Xiao Yu.
She wore a tight-fitting red training outfit that accentuated her long, powerful legs. A leather whip was coiled at her waist. She moved between the rows of disciples like a drill sergeant, correcting postures with sharp taps of her scabbard.
"Lower your hips!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the air. "Your center of gravity is floating! If a gale hits you, you'll fly away like kites! Is this how the Xiao Clan fights?"
"No, Senior Sister!" the disciples yelled back, terrified and admiring in equal measure.
Yoriichi watched her.
"Her temperament is fiery," he analyzed. "But her foundation is solid. Her breathing is synchronized with her movements."
He shifted his gaze to the disciples.
"Them, however..."
He frowned slightly.
"Their breathing is shallow. They are using their muscles, not their cores. They strike with their arms, disconnecting the kinetic chain from the earth. They are wasting 40% of their energy on unnecessary tension."
He watched a young boy throw a punch. The form was technically correct according to the manual, but the intent was hollow.
"It is not just talent," Yoriichi whispered to himself. "It is the method. The Clan's techniques are rigid. They teach the 'shape' of the fight, not the 'flow'. That is why they stagnate."
He pondered this. If the clan was to survive the coming storms he sensed—the Jia Lie clan, the Misty Cloud Sect, the mysterious forces behind Xiao Xun'er—they needed to be stronger.
"Perhaps... I can do something? Adjust their breathing? Correct their stances?"
He remained lost in thought, his red eyes tracking the invisible lines of force on the field.
As he stood there, other disciples passing by noticed him.
"Look," a whisper floated over. "It's Xiao Ning."
"What is he doing here? Shouldn't he be crying in bed?"
"Shh, don't let him hear you. He's still the Grand Elder's grandson."
They giggled, casting side-eyes at him, but none dared to approach. The aura of a "Young Master" still held some weight, even if his reputation was in the mud.
However, not everyone was content with whispering.
Three figures detached themselves from a group near the entrance. They were older teenagers, roughly 7 or 8-Star Dou Disciples. In the past, they had been Xiao Ning's "devoted fans"—sycophants who followed him around, eating his food and laughing at his jokes to gain favor.
Now, seeing their fallen leader standing alone, a different kind of opportunism took hold.
They approached him, swaggering slightly.
"Well, well," the leader, a lanky boy named Xiao Ke, sneered. "If it isn't our Young Master Ning. We haven't seen you since... well, since you decided to nap on the arena floor."
Yoriichi didn't turn. He kept watching Xiao Yu.
"Ignored?" Xiao Ke chuckled, glancing at his friends. "Oh, poor Master Ning. Are you sulking here because you couldn't get the beauty? Watching Senior Sister Yu because Xun Er won't look at you?"
"We were such fools," the second boy sighed theatrically. "We followed this 'love bird' for years. We should have followed the genius Xiao Yan. Think of how good our prospects would be now."
"Indeed," the third added, stepping closer. "Xiao Yan is destined for greatness. And this one? Destined for... what? Watching from the sidelines?"
Yoriichi remained silent. To him, their words were like the buzzing of mosquitoes—annoying, but ultimately insignificant. He was busy calculating the lung capacity of the disciple in the third row.
This indifference infuriated Xiao Ke. It was one thing to be insulted; it was another to be treated like air.
"Hey!" Xiao Ke snapped. "I'm talking to you!"
He reached out and grabbed Yoriichi's shoulder, digging his fingers in to drag him around.
"Look at me when I—"
Yoriichi turned his head.
Slowly.
He didn't slap the hand away. He simply rotated his neck and locked eyes with Xiao Ke.
The air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
Yoriichi's eyes were hollow. Calm. Devoid of anger, devoid of fear, devoid of humanity. They were the eyes of a creature that sat at the top of the food chain, looking at a piece of meat that was making too much noise.
Xiao Ke froze. The insult died in his throat. A primal shiver shot down his spine, his instincts screaming at him to run.