Inheritance Of The Forgetten Bloodline.

The six heavenly swords tore through the air, gleaming with ancient runes, each blade carrying the force of a late Nascent Soul cultivator. They weren't just weapons, they were calamities, howling with divine energy as they fell.

The hall shook. Pillars cracked. Wood splintered. The chamber quaked.

Feng's eyes narrowed. He didn't move and his robes rippled.

"Trying to bully me with numbers now, Lu?" he said, voice even, though his qi flared like a rising storm.

In a breath, jade-green fire surged from his dantian, wrapping him in a dragon-shaped blaze. Behind him, his Soul Avatar emerged—cloaked in flame and wind, eyes shut like a sage in meditation.

He stepped forward.

And the swords struck.

BOOM!!

Dust roared outward. Clansmen at the edges were knocked back, their defensive barriers trembling under the shock.

When the haze cleared, Feng stood upright.

Three swords were dust.

Three hovered, cracked and unstable.

Blood trickled down Feng's arm. He wiped it on his robe without a glance.

"You've improved," he muttered, smiling faintly. "But not more than I expected."

Lu's qi grew colder. His gaze sharpened. A silver rune appeared behind him, bearing the mark of the Northern Lotus Sect.

"You always did mistake pride for strength."

With a swift hand seal, Lu vanished.

Feng turned instinctively—just in time. Lu reappeared behind him, palm glowing with condensed sword qi.

The attack sliced his side, breaking through his defenses. Blood splattered.

Feng growled, spinning with a backward elbow.

Lu caught the strike, though the force pushed him back three steps.

"Still too slow," Lu said, steadying himself.

Feng didn't reply. He made a quick seal. "Wind Break—Triple Fang Step!"

He flickered—three images of him charged at Lu, each one burning with raw Nascent Soul force.

Lu's fingers blurred. "Sky Wall Formation!"

Golden hexagonal shields bloomed like lotus petals.

The first strike fizzled. The second cracked one of the shields. The third shattered through, roaring like a storm.

Lu staggered.

Feng was already in the air.

His palm descended, swirling with soul fire. "Crimson Spirit Palm!"

It hit.

Lu crashed through a table. Splinters flew everywhere. Gasps rang out.

But Feng didn't advance.

He knew it wasn't over.

From the broken wood, Lu rose. Blood dripped from his lip. His eyes? Calm—unnaturally calm.

"Now you've done it."

He inhaled.

A bell-like hum filled the air.

Then, silence.

Golden light spiraled beneath Lu's feet, forming an intricate array of Buddhist script. Wind rushed through the chamber despite no openings.

Feng's brows furrowed.

"What technique is this...?"

Lu raised his palm.

The air cracked.

A vertical slit opened above—space itself ripping into golden mist. Spiritual pressure poured into the hall.

Cultivators nearby collapsed to their knees.

Feng wavered, struggling to stand.

Lu's voice echoed like a distant chant. "You talk strength, but you've never glimpsed divinity."

Something descended from the rift.

A thumb.

Massive. Radiant. Carved with ancient symbols.

A Buddha's Thumb.

The hall creaked. Tiles broke. Beams twisted.

Feng's soul shuddered.

"NO—!" He poured all his qi outward, layer after layer—wind barriers, flames, soul shields. They glowed like a private world.

But the thumb came down.

Heavier.

Faster.

Relentless.

Feng roared, releasing everything. His Avatar blazed one final time.

Then—the thumb landed.

A thunderous blast rocked the sect. Sound vanished in its wake. Dust swirled like a storm.

And then—stillness.

Feng lay shattered in the floor, blood seeping beneath him. His Avatar gone.

Lu stood over him, robes torn, chest heaving—but still upright.

The portal behind faded.

"I told you," Lu said, calm and cold. "That's the gap between us."

Grand elders stared, speechless. Sect masters exchanged stunned glances.

Feng's disciples rushed forward. One helped him up, trembling.

"Master Lu has... mastered forbidden techniques."

Lu stepped down to the Chen stands and calmly took his seat. Wei and Xueyin rushed to him.

"Father... are you alright?" Wei asked gently.

Lu nodded, already looking back toward the council.

Voices erupted.

"We refuse to work with the Chen clan! A man like that doesn't deserve alliance!"

"Agreed. Count us out!"

"Same here!"

The clans began isolating the Chens. Mr. Bai, silently watching, smirked.

Everything had gone according to plan.

---

Back at the Chen estate, Mu reached the house, slipping past the guards without drawing any attention. Quietly, he made his way into his room. The moment the door shut behind him, he dropped onto the bed and closed his eyes.

But just beneath the clan's sacred grounds, something stirred. An unseen flow of blood crept silently through ancient carvings, tracing the outline of a forgotten image—as if something was preparing to awaken. Mu, unaware, was already drifting into sleep, but what followed wasn't rest.

In his mind, a vision came like a flood.

He saw a battlefield soaked in blood. Bodies collapsed across the land, cries of pain echoing in the air as people screamed for help, for mercy, for life. The sky was a dark red hue, thick with smoke and ash. Swords clashed. Lives ended. Blood sprayed in every direction. It was chaos—raw and endless.

Then, through a mirror that shimmered like still water, something began to move. A figure emerged, slow but sure, forming within the depths of the glass. And just as Mu tried to look closer, the entire vision snapped into a wave of blood that drowned the image.

His eyes flew open. His chest rose and fell rapidly, heart thundering like a war drum.

He sat up, tense. Then came the sound—soft, deliberate footsteps echoing outside his room. They moved once, then again, this time to the side, like they were circling.

Mu didn't hesitate. He stood and walked to the door, opening it without a word.

The hallway stretched ahead, empty. Still, the sound of footsteps remained—but he couldn't see anything. They suddenly shifted direction—fast, sharp, coming straight at him.

Mu didn't flinch. He stood firm, facing the invisible presence.

The steps stopped just inches from him.

He reached out.

His palm struck something—soft, warm. A cheek.

Before he could process it, a sharp slap landed back on him.

And then… something began to form.

From the ground up, a figure took shape. Ink-like, shadowy. Its body swirled like liquid, yet every part slowly solidified. What stood before Mu wasn't just a creature.

It looked exactly like him.

His eyes widened. He tilted his head.

So did the thing.

He slowly raised his hand.

The figure mirrored him.

Mu couldn't move, couldn't speak.

"Manhuman," he whispered.

Then, without warning, the figure dissolved into fluid and surged straight into him.

His knees gave in as something unfamiliar took root inside. Not pain—just a heavy, unfamiliar presence.

Mu rushed straight into his room and slammed the door behind him.

"Hua... what the hell was that thing? How is that even possible—a manhuman? I thought that art was nothing more than a myth... then how is it real?"

He paced around, breathing fast. "No, I need to go back. Back to that tunnel."

---

Back at school — Jìnghǎi Academy

"Mr. Qiao," Principal Zhang's voice was sharp, and his eyes were burning with fury. "I'm calling your father. You've gone too far."

"But Principal—"

"Shut it!" Zhang cut him off. "I'm calling him now."

Zhang grabbed his phone, found the number, and dialed. It rang only once before a voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Uh... is this Mr. Bai?"

"Yes, who's this? What's going on?"

"It's about your son. There's... a situation." Zhang paused, choosing his words carefully. "He seriously injured a student. If I hadn't stepped in when I did, that boy might've died."

"Hahaha... and that's the problem?" Mr. Bai chuckled like he was hearing about a joke.

"But Mr. Bai—"

"Shhh." The voice suddenly went cold. "You'd better keep your mouth shut. Not a word of this should leak out. If anyone hears about it, I'll kill you myself."

Zhang froze. His throat went dry. He swallowed hard.

"O-okay, sir. I won't say a thing."

The call ended. Zhang stared at his screen in disbelief, then looked up—Qiao was already smirking. Without saying a word, Qiao turned and walked out of the office.

---

Beijing —

In a vast underground chamber beneath the capital, the Mana Lord—Wū Xún—sat cross-legged within a perfect circle of glowing runes. Around him, incense spiraled into the air like dancing spirits. A bowl of black lotus ash burned slowly beside him, releasing thick, sacred smoke. In his left hand, he held an ancient jade talisman; in his right, a blood-dipped quill traced symbols onto a scroll soaked in spiritual dew.

Chants echoed softly, not from his lips, but from the very walls of the chamber—an ancient ritual passed down only through the Wū bloodline.

The doors creaked open. Six robed cultivators stepped in, their presence both respectful and urgent.

"My Lord," the one in front bowed. "The council has set a date. There will be a gathering next week at Qiánshì Pavilion."

Wū Xún opened his eyes slowly. They glowed faintly under the candlelight.

"I see..." His voice was low, yet it carried weight. "Then cancel the rest of my sessions. I have a separate matter to handle."

The six looked at one another, puzzled.

"A presence has returned. One long erased from the records... The bloodline of the Ancients. It now flows in the veins of a boy."

He stood, the talisman still glowing in his palm.

"Find him."