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Dawn brought with it a palpable tension to the Lei Mansion. The gentle breezes that swayed the clan's banners weren't enough to dispel the fog of discontent that lingered in the air. Inside the main hall, beneath a ceiling adorned with the family's crests, the nobles of the main bloodline were already gathered. Their gazes were stern, their postures rigid. All of them had received the news: Lei Wuchen, the forsaken bastard, had survived his first hunt and obtained a spirit ring under the direct guidance of Duke Lei Tianlong.
"This is an insult to tradition," growled one of the elders, Lei Yanshou, whose silver hair did little to mask the bitterness in his voice. "Allowing a bastard to be personally trained by the Duke... and even receive help to gain a spirit ring? What does this say about the blood of our main lineage?"
"It wasn't just help," replied another, Lei Minghao, frowning. "It was a privilege. How many of our children had to earn their spirit rings through their own effort, without any interference? And now he shows up, a stranger, and is welcomed as an equal?"
"An equal?" scoffed Lei Zhentian, crossing his arms with disdain. "He will never be equal. He is the result of a mistake, of an impulsive choice. No matter how much the Duke tries to elevate him, his origin won't change."
"Then what do you propose?" asked one of the oldest, his voice heavy with experience. "Expel him? That would only further stain our honor."
"No," said Minghao with a half-smile. "But we can ensure his path won't be easy. We can surround him with demands, pit him against our best pupils. Let him fall on his own."
Murmurs of approval echoed through the hall. The decision wasn't formal, but the atmosphere made it clear: the elite of the main bloodline stood united against Lei Wuchen. Not because of something he had done, but because of what he represented.
Meanwhile, in a side courtyard, far from the clan's prying eyes and ears, Lei Wuchen was training.
Duke Lei Tianlong stood with his arms crossed, observing. His gaze was stern, but not merciless. He studied his grandson like a craftsman examining raw metal, seeking the cracks to be refined.
"Again," he ordered.
Wuchen was panting, his body drenched in sweat, muscles pulsing with fatigue. He took his stance, assuming a low guard. The Duke moved in with a swift motion, his fists, though restrained, came like thunder. Wuchen dodged, spun, counterattacked with his shoulder. The blow was easily blocked.
"You rely too much on brute strength. You're letting your Armor dictate your style. That's foolish."
"But it amplifies my body!"
"Yes, it amplifies. But what if your opponent is stronger? What if your armor isn't enough? You must be like water—adapt, change. There's no ideal style. Only the one that fits the moment."
"Not to mention that the armor itself won't manifest until later rings. For now, it's mostly physical enhancement and damage absorption."
Tianlong stepped back and gestured.
"We'll start with the Chain-Breaking Fist style. It's straightforward, focused on impact and dispersing force. Useful against enemies with high defense, like the one you faced."
For hours, they practiced. The Duke demonstrated, and Wuchen repeated. He adjusted his stance, his body weight, the exact timing of his hip twists. When he made a mistake, the Duke didn't yell—he simply made him do it again.
"Now, the Silent Thunder Style. Speed. Precision. Short, sharp strikes. Useful when you need to be as fast as lightning, not as strong as a mountain."
They changed techniques, changed rhythm. With each new style, a new part of Wuchen was forged. The Iron Tyrant Armor responded to it, subtly adapting. His body gained fluidity without losing firmness. His resolve deepened.
When the sun began to set, and the ground was marked by countless footprints and sweat, the Duke finally spoke:
"Tomorrow, we'll train combat on uneven terrain. Then, against multiple opponents. And after that... you'll learn to kill with a single blow."
Wuchen only nodded, his eyes burning—not from pain, but from determination. He could feel his body changing. His spirit solidifying.
Later, after bathing, he met with his father. Lei Qingshan waited under the pergola of one of the inner wings, watching the sky tinged red.
"Sit," he said.
Wuchen obeyed. The two remained silent for a while.
"He's hard on you, isn't he?"
"Yes,"
Wuchen replied.
"But not unfair."
Qingshan smiled bitterly.
"He's betting everything. He knows not everyone will accept you. But he also knows that if you aren't stronger than everyone else, they'll never respect you."
— 'They don't need to respect me. They just need to fear me,' — Wuchen thought.
Qingshan let out a short laugh, his son's expression betraying his thoughts. As much as he saw truth in it, in the noble world, strength wasn't everything—but it was certainly the most important in a world of battles.
"Don't be too sure of that. Fear is a double-edged sword. But I understand."
Wuchen was slightly startled by his father's apparent mind-reading, but let it go.
"Father... what comes next?"
Qingshan remained silent for a few seconds before answering:
"Now... now comes the time of resistance. They'll try to bring you down. Not with weapons, but with words, comparisons, denied privileges. And it's up to us to prove that the blood of my choice is worth as much as that of the main lineage."
Wuchen looked at his father. For the first time, he saw how much that man had endured. And he decided, right then:
'I'll honor your choice. And become stronger than all of them.'
Qingshan stood and placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"Prepare yourself. Because the real battlefield is yet to come."
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