Chapter 4 I WILL TAKE MY REVENGE

The days blurred into a haze of fragile recovery and simmering resentment.

Seokga spent his waking hours in the family’s ancestral hall, a grand chamber deep within the Crimson Fang Clan estate. Towering pillars carved with coiling crimson serpents supported a vaulted ceiling painted with ancient murals depicting the clan’s founders — legendary cultivators who had tamed demonic beasts and carved their territory from the wild Spirit Wilds centuries ago. Incense burned perpetually before rows of spirit tablets, each one glowing faintly with preserved ancestral qi. Here, the weight of bloodline tradition pressed down like an invisible mountain.

The Crimson Fang Clan ruled one of the stronger mortal-domain powers in the Eastern Azure Continent. Their cultivation techniques emphasized bloodline enhancement and brutal, serpent-like strikes that could shatter bones and poison meridians. The clan’s strength lay in its ruthless hierarchy: only those who awakened strong qi veins and climbed the stages of Body Tempering earned true respect. Beyond this mortal realm lay the Spirit Realm — where true power began — followed by the distant, almost mythical Divine and Underworld Realms that few mortals ever glimpsed.

Elara had once been a promising Spirit Realm cultivator from a allied minor clan, her gentle yet formidable ice-based arts earning her the title “Frost Lotus.” But after giving birth to Seokga, complications had shattered her foundation. The healers whispered of a curse. She could never bear another child, leaving Varak bitter and hungry for stronger heirs. That weakness had opened the door for Seraphine — the ambitious concubine whose own cultivation hovered at the late stages of Body Tempering, strong enough to dominate most servants but carefully restrained in public.

On the third day after his awakening, Varak summoned the family to the ancestral hall for the monthly introduction rite — a tradition meant to reaffirm bloodline bonds before the ancestors.

Seokga stood unsteadily beside his mother’s wheelchair, his body still frail, veins burning with the familiar blockage. Deep inside, he could feel the faint, sealed remnants of the Eclipse Sigil — a sleeping black sun pulsing weakly, its divine and demonic essence locked behind mortal limitations. He was too weak to force it open yet. Any attempt sent agonizing feedback through his clogged meridians.

Varak stood at the head of the hall, radiating arrogant disdain. “Behold the future of the Crimson Fang,” he declared, gesturing grandly. “My true sons.”

First stepped forward Kael, the eldest at seventeen. Tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp features and eyes like polished obsidian, he moved with the lethal grace of a predator. His gift was raw combat talent — an instinctive mastery of the clan’s Crimson Serpent Fist, capable of shattering stone at the peak of Body Tempering. Yet something unnatural clung to him: a dark, sadistic aura that made the air feel heavier, as if his qi fed on pain itself. He glanced at Seokga with a slow, cruel smile that promised future suffering.

Behind him came the twins, fifteen years old and eerily identical — pale skin, silver-streaked black hair, and the same sharp jawline. Draven stood composed and calculating, his gaze analytical, as though measuring everyone’s worth. His gift lay in strategic qi manipulation and formation arrays, allowing him to predict and counter attacks with cold precision. Thorne, by contrast, exuded flamboyant arrogance, his movements theatrical, his laughter sharp and mocking. He favored flashy, overwhelming techniques that dazzled and crushed. Their qi resonated in unnatural harmony — almost as if they shared a single shadowed core — a detail that prickled at Seokga’s instincts, though he could not yet name the wrongness.

Elara watched them with quiet sadness, her hand resting protectively on Seokga’s arm. “You will surpass them one day, my son,” she whispered. “Your spirit is stronger than any blocked vein.”

Varak’s gaze slid to Seokga like a blade. “The month draws to its end, cripple. You still cannot sense qi properly, let alone pass basic training. Tomorrow, I will send you to the outer sect barracks… or the spirit mines. The clan has no use for dead weight.”

Seraphine stood gracefully behind Varak, her blood-red lips curved in a subtle, satisfied smile.

That evening, restless and refusing to accept his fate, Seokga slipped into the clan’s lesser library — a dusty wing filled with jade slips and ancient tomes. His mother’s worry had driven her to contact her distant family for aid, but he would not rely on others. He needed power. Now.

His fingers brushed across a forgotten shelf, and a plain, black-bound book caught his eye. No title. No dust. As he opened it, faint characters shimmered into view — not clan techniques, but something older, deeper. Words on unlocking sealed essence and awakening dormant cores through focused intent and forbidden resonance. His pulse quickened. This… this could crack the seal on the Eclipse Sigil’s remnants.

He began reading hungrily, feeling the first stirrings of his former power tremble in response.

The door creaked open.

Seraphine glided in, her presence filling the room with cloying perfume. “Young master,” she purred, voice dripping false concern. “What are you doing here in your weakened state? You should be resting.”

Seokga snapped the book shut, but not before she glimpsed the pages.

Before he could respond, her expression shifted to practiced alarm. “Oh no… your mother has taken a drastic turn for the worse. The healers say her condition is failing rapidly. You must go to her at once!”

Seokga’s heart clenched. He rushed to Elara’s chambers.

She was pale and weary, but stable — merely exhausted from worry and her desperate letters to her kin. “I’m alright, my sweet boy,” she assured him, squeezing his hand with what little strength she had. “Do not fear.”

When he returned to the library, heart pounding, the black book was gone. The shelf looked untouched. No trace remained.

Seokga’s eyes narrowed, cold realization settling in his chest. No coincidence. Someone wanted him gone — fast. Seraphine, or whoever she served, was moving pieces behind the scenes.

The next few days passed in tense quiet. Elara grew wearier, her frail body strained by constant anxiety as she pleaded with her family for intervention. Seokga remained restless, pacing like a caged beast. He would not abandon this new mother to the wolves. Not after Faeyn’s sacrifice. Never again.

Then came the compulsory family breakfast in the grand dining hall, a lavish affair of spirit fruits and qi-infused dishes meant to strengthen the heirs.

Seraphine presided with smug grace, her voice honeyed. “The Crimson Fang Grand Selection Tournament is nearly upon us. Our clan has the honor of hosting this year. Eligible sons will compete in brutal combat trials and tests of ancient knowledge to earn spots at the prestigious Azure Peak Academy — one of the mightiest institutions in the Eastern Continent, where Spirit Realm experts walk the halls and connections to higher powers are forged.”

She cast a proud glance at her sons. “My boys will surely dominate. Kael’s combat prowess is unmatched, and the twins’ synchronized techniques will overwhelm any rival.”

Then her gaze turned mockingly sweet toward Elara. “And how is Lady Elara faring these days? So fragile… I promise to take excellent care of her once dear Seokga is sent away to the outer sect. A mother should not be left alone in her condition.”

Seokga set down his chopsticks calmly. “There will be no need for that, Stepmother. I will be participating in the tournament myself.”

Silence fell. Then laughter erupted — loud and derisive. Varak’s booming guffaw led the chorus. Even the twins smirked. Kael’s smile was darker, laced with sadistic anticipation.

“Participate?” Varak sneered, arrogant contempt dripping from every word. “You? A blocked-vein cripple who can’t even complete basic qi circulation? Embarrassing the clan in front of allied families and academy scouts would be a waste of time. I refuse.”

Seokga met his father’s gaze without flinching, letting a trace of his old divine arrogance shine through. “By clan tradition and ancestral law — which you still claim to respect, Father — every blood son of the main line has the right to compete, regardless of current strength. It is not your decision alone.”

Varak’s face darkened, but the weight of centuries-old tradition stayed his tongue. The ancestors watched from their tablets; defying the rite openly would invite backlash from the elders.

Seraphine opened her mouth to intervene, her eyes flashing with displeasure.

Seokga cut her off smoothly. “I accept the risks. Give me fair chance alongside my brothers. Or are you afraid a ‘cripple’ might embarrass more than just himself?”

Varak’s jaw tightened. After a long, heavy pause, he grunted. “Very well. You will compete. But when you fail spectacularly, do not expect mercy. The outer sect awaits.”

Seraphine’s smile remained, but her fingers clenched white around her cup.

Seokga leaned back, a slow, dangerous smile touching his lips as the wheels of fate began to turn.

The tournament was coming.

And with it… his first true step toward unlocking the Eclipse Sigil and burning this rotten bloodline to ash.

---