Chapter One: Brother and Sister

The autumn wind had just swept away the lingering heat of summer. On the winding path, willows quietly hung their slender branches. There, a boy of five or six lay sleeping serenely. The sky above was a flawless blue, pure and crystalline; the gentle sunlight reflected on the boy’s face, causing his eyelids to tremble ever so slightly.

The boy’s features were delicate, his innocence reminiscent of God’s most exquisite creation. Yet when he opened his eyes, there was an indescribable loneliness within them. His body was frail and thin, and the dirty, multicolored rags he wore clashed harshly with his lovely appearance.

“What… are you going to do?” A flustered, fragile voice sounded not far away. A girl as lovely as a butterfly was surrounded by several boys of similar age.

“Don’t bully her!” The boy scrambled to his feet and rushed over, wrapping his arms protectively around the girl.

“Looking for a beating, you little wretch?” With those words, a flurry of fists and feet rained down upon him—one punch, another, one kick, then another. He did not resist, bearing the blows in silence, hoping only that the girl in his arms would remain unharmed…

…

Three years before, on a night of swirling snow, the night market was bustling with people. A three-year-old boy held his mother’s hand as they walked quietly together. Suddenly, the crowd surged and he lost his grip. In the chaos, he was pushed and jostled until his head spun, and when the throng finally dispersed…

“Mommy…” he whispered, but his mother was nowhere to be seen ahead.

The snow began to fall more heavily. Though only three, the boy knew cold. Instinctively, he curled up beneath the awning of a shop, where it was a little warmer. An hour passed; many people walked by, but none spared him a proper glance, at most pointing and muttering about how pitiful he looked. His lips turned purplish with cold, his small face growing pale.

He thought he must have done something to make his mother angry, and that was why she had left him. Muttering softly, he pleaded, “Mommy, where are you? Bingyan is a good boy, I won’t make you angry anymore. Please don’t leave me alone…”

Crystalline tears slid down his cheeks, falling onto the white snow. His consciousness faded, his mind swelling with pain, and his small body finally succumbed to the relentless cold, collapsing at the shop entrance.

In a faint haze, he felt himself being picked up, and a remorseful, beautiful face appeared before his eyes…

* * *

The Year of 2002. The height of summer, oppressive heat sweeping across the nation. Yet within a private villa district in SH City, the temperature contrasted sharply with the world outside—here, coolness and gentle warmth prevailed, as if through divine favor or some other marvel.

The Han Family Residence.

A blade whistled through the air with a sharp hiss. In a flash, a faint white sword energy shot from the blade’s tip, striking a slab of stone three meters away.

With a crisp crack, the stone shattered into powder. A girl withdrew her sword, lifting her chin proudly.

She was six or seven, doll-like and adorable, yet her bright eyes held a sharpness beyond her years.

Her gaze slid to the tall wall nearby. “Come out.” Her voice was gentle, yet carried an inexplicable disdain.

After a moment’s pause, a boy with tousled hair peeked out from the corner of the wall, his eyes darting about cautiously. Only after making sure no one else was around did he shuffle forward, step by hesitant step. His clothes were filthy and threadbare, barely covering his thin frame. Compared to the girl’s splendid attire, he looked like a beggar from the streets.

But he was no beggar. On closer inspection, his features were fine, and he bore a striking resemblance to the girl—seven parts alike.

“Brother, why are you dressed like this again?” the girl asked, her tone edged with cold irritation.

The girl was endlessly troubled by such a brother. Raised since birth in the bright halo of honor, she excelled in both manners and martial arts, beloved by all. Yet behind this glory lurked a shadow she could not dispel: her brother, a child born with congenital blockage in all his meridians.

Such a condition meant he could never cultivate martial arts—a rarity among martial families.

The untidy boy was Han Bingyan, and the girl was Han Bingran; both were descendants of the mysterious Han clan.

The Han family’s name resounded throughout the martial world. Every member was deeply accomplished in the arts of combat; even the most unremarkable among them would cause a stir if they entered the martial realm.

Yet the Han family had a strict rule: unless permitted by the head of the clan, no member was allowed to display their skills outside. Because of this, the Han family rarely appeared in the wider world.

It was said the Han family were guardians, though what they safeguarded was a mystery known only to the family head.

Han Bingyan and Han Bingran were siblings, sharing a mother but not a father.

Eight years ago, their mother, Han Qianyu, defied the family to elope with a man, nearly severing ties with her mother, the clan leader, Han Liang. A year later, she returned, carrying a baby boy—Han Bingyan.

As the clan leader’s daughter, Han Qianyu received special treatment despite her previous rebellion, and was ultimately accepted back. But the “outsider” Han Bingyan never knew such fortune.

Because of his father’s heartless abandonment, Han Qianyu grew indifferent to Bingyan’s cries.

The following year, Han Qianyu, at her family’s arrangement, married a man surnamed Song, said to come from a powerful mundane family. From this union came Han Bingran. Tragically, the Song patriarch died in a car accident, and Han Bingran remained with the Han family.

The family’s rejection—and even open hostility—toward Han Bingyan only grew stronger over time. Most who despised him had long forgotten the reason; their disdain had become second nature, a habit.

His birth was one cause, but the other was his congenital blockage—he would never excel in martial arts. In any ordinary family, this would not matter, but in the Han clan, where status was determined by martial skill, and as a direct descendant no less, it was a grievous flaw.

Childhood for Han Bingyan was cold and loveless. At eight, he had never known the warmth of familial care. His mother’s gaze was cold, sometimes hateful; his grandmother’s, icy and indifferent; the looks of his uncles and aunts, mocking. He had no friends; those his age scattered at his approach—no one would play with him. “Good-for-nothing,” “useless”—those words had all but replaced his name.

He grew up under the hostile eyes of his kin. Never had they made or bought him a proper set of clothes. All he wore were hand-me-downs discarded by his older cousins. Only when they outgrew or tired of their garments could he put them on. As a child, every year when the others received new clothes, he would hide in a corner, letting the cold wind dry his tears.

After so many bouts of weeping, he learned it made no difference. No one would ever turn a caring eye his way…

The only one remotely kind to him was his half-sister, Han Bingran. Even so, he knew she did not truly like him. Still, she spoke to him, sometimes offering him leftover sweets—and that was enough. Han Bingyan was already content.

Compared to his talented sister, Han Bingyan knew he was nothing at all.

His sister was a prodigy, able to release sword energy at a tender age. He, on the other hand, was a good-for-nothing, without a shred of martial ability.

Sometimes Han Bingyan wondered: was he not truly their family? Otherwise, why did they hold him in such contempt? Merely because of his birth? Because he could not cultivate martial arts?

…

Shaking himself from his reverie, Han Bingyan looked at his pretty, adorable sister—just six years old and already showing the promise of a beauty. With seven parts resemblance, perhaps he too would grow into a handsome man, he thought foolishly, forgetting to answer her earlier question.

“I asked you, why are you dressed so sloppily?” Han Bingran scolded. She felt his appearance brought shame to her, for in her heart, at least, he was still her brother.

“I…” Facing her childish but fierce glare, Han Bingyan felt a pang of helplessness. “I have no clean clothes,” he replied, his voice small and aggrieved.

“What? No clean clothes?” Her eyes widened in disbelief.

Han Bingyan could only nod. “I have only a few, and it’s been raining these past days—”

He was interrupted. “Don’t you have any to change into?”

“Mother didn’t buy me any.”

With that, he fell silent, and even Han Bingran was at a loss, unsure what to say.

That one simple sentence laid bare the difference in their treatment. Glancing at her own fine, beautiful clothes, Han Bingran’s innocent eyes turned strange. Truly, her brother was pitiable. Why did Mother and everyone else dislike him? She, too, used to dislike him, thinking him incompetent and a disgrace.

But now, why couldn’t she harden her heart against him? Instead, she felt a stirring of care deep within—a feeling she couldn’t explain.

“Mother is just… just…”

“I understand!” Han Bingyan grinned foolishly at his sister. “It’s all because of my heartless father—he shouldn’t have treated Mother that way. She resents him, so she can’t treat me well, I know that. I’ll do my best, and one day I’ll prove to Mother, and to everyone, that I’m not a good-for-nothing!”

Han Bingran stared blankly at him, her heart suddenly moved.