Chapter 5 Fire In The Flesh

Chapter 5

The early morning sky was pale, the color of cold ash. Mist clung low to the tiles of the Eastern Wing like it, too, refused to lift its head. Lin Feng's breath left his body in slow, steady clouds as he lowered into a deep horse stance-bare feet rooted in stone, muscles trembling beneath the weight of silence.

In the shadow of Cloudveil Peak, where the Lin Clan's banners fluttered like whispers of forgotten glory, Lin Feng trained alone. The Eastern Wing, once alive with laughter and lessons, now stood as a tomb for his past hopes. Yet here, in this cold solitude, he carved a new path.

The Iron Body Forging Technique was no longer just a scroll to him-it was his tormentor, his companion, and the only thing that hadn't abandoned him. His skin was cracked from cold exposure, his muscles torn and reshaped through repetition, and deep within his marrow, something was hardening.

Each motion was deliberate. A punch. A stance shift. A full-body rotation. His knuckles bled, but he did not stop.

"Stage One: Skin Toughening... Stage Two: Muscle Tempering... Stage Three..." he winced, "Bone Cracking..."

No pills to dull the pain. No elder to guide his posture. No brother to shout encouragement. But still, he trained. Because he had nothing else.

The scroll, wrapped in old red silk, lay on a stone bench nearby, its edges frayed but its words etched into his soul. He remembered his father's voice-steady, distant-when he handed it over: "Your body will become the sword your soul has denied you."

Each strike against the wooden stake was a vow.

From the corner of the training field, two passing disciples glanced over.

"Still pounding that wooden stake like a mad dog."

"Maybe he thinks if he breaks every bone in his body, a Martial Soul will pity him."

They laughed and walked on. Lin Feng said nothing. He exhaled, adjusted his stance, and began again.

The Iron Body Forging Technique demanded pain, but it also promised strength. His fists moved faster now. Not graceful-but deliberate. Brutal. Each twist and strike sent tremors through his bones like they were being reforged in some unseen furnace.

By midday, ceremonial drums thundered across the Lin Clan square.

All four branches of the Lin Clan had gathered. Elders stood in formation beneath the main pavilion, while disciples lined the courtyard-white robes, sharp eyes, tension in the air.

The square, carved from the heart of Cloudveil Peak, stood tall with jade dragon pillars and banners bearing the coiling crest of the Lin Clan. Martial Souls flickered across the crowd-white tigers, flaming wolves, serpents, cranes.

Then Elder Jian stepped forward. His presence rolled through the square like a winter wind, his mist-grey robes trailing behind him.

"This year's Tri-Clan Martial Exchange will take place in the Wei Domain," he said. "One month from today."

"The Lin Clan shall send five disciples to represent our legacy."

A ripple of anticipation ran through the crowd.

"But names," Elder Jian continued, voice cutting through murmurs, "will not be chosen by favor or birth. They will be decided by combat. Seven days from now, we hold an internal tournament. The strongest five will be chosen."

Excitement surged. Some clenched fists. Others whispered. Even outer-branch disciples-once ignored-felt hope stir.

Lin Feng stood at the fringe, arms crossed over bruised ribs, robe damp with sweat, but spine straight.

No one looked at him.

And that was fine.

Among the gathered were faces of renown: Lin Xuan of the Heaven Division, said to wield a Martial Soul that had only appeared once in three centuries-the Black Gale Roc, a beast of speed and storm.

He stood alone. Eyes closed. His aura calm, but vast-like a lake with unfathomable depths.

Nearby, Lin Kun smirked, his Scarlet Flame Wolf Martial Soul pulsing with heat beneath his skin.

Lin Mei, the Wind Division's serene prodigy, stood still as reeds in moonlight. And Lin Yu, the Earth Division's silent snake, was nowhere to be seen-likely meditating in the shadow caverns.

The tournament was more than glory.

For Lin Feng, it was reckoning

The Tri-Clan Martial Exchange was not merely a competition-it was a test of supremacy, influence, and balance. The three clans-Lin, Wei, and Zhao-formed the backbone of martial power in the Eastern Dawn Prefecture. But there was no peace between them.

Their powers remained in equilibrium-fragile, tense. Should a genius rise within one, the others would conspire, pressure, or act swiftly to maintain the balance.

Beyond them lurked other clans, ambitious and watching. Not far behind in strength, these secondary houses hungered for a misstep. One shift, one prodigy, and the scales could tip.

Thus, the Tri-Clan Exchange bore deeper stakes.

Though it was framed as a gathering of youth-a chance to display honor and strength-its true purpose was political.

The clan that dominated this year's event would secure not just face, but deeper control over resources, territory, and training grounds in the contested borderlands known as the Whispering Vale.

---

Inside the elders' council chamber, incense drifted like phantom threads between beams of light.

Lin Tianhai sat with arms crossed, his brow tight. Across from him sat Elder Jian and two other council members. They spoke in hushed voices.

"If Lin Kun advances far, we secure at least two spots with the Heaven Division," said Elder Mo, long fingers steepled.

"But there's another matter," Jian said. "The Wei Clan's next heir... he's rumored to have awakened a True Rank Martial Soul. We must be careful."

"The Zhao are worse," Tianhai said coldly. "Their silence this year reeks of plotting. We cannot afford weakness."

"And Lin Feng?" Elder Mo asked.

Tianhai paused.

"He has no Martial Soul. But he endures."

"He won't survive the internal tournament."

"Perhaps," Jian said, narrowing his gaze. "But sometimes... iron without sheen still cuts deepest."

Back at the Eastern Wing, Lin Feng limped past servants who barely acknowledged him. One bumped him and spilled water across his boots.

"No need to apologize," Lin Feng said coldly. "Even ants must feel pride."

The servant flinched but said nothing. Lin Feng moved on, body aching.

That night, while disciples dined and meditated with tutors, Lin Feng lit a single candle and resumed training.

He stripped to the waist, gritted down on a cloth, and began tendon-grinding, rib-wrenching motions. Pain lanced through him-but he welcomed it.

"Stage Three... I'm close."

Blood traced down his sides. He didn't stop.

The candle flickered. Shadows danced. He saw memories in them:

-Sparring with his father as a child.

-The Ancestral Hall. The Soul Stone's silence. The laughter that followed.

-The red scroll.

Each strike now stirred something deep-elusive, ancient. A presence within his bones.

The next morning, the outer fields echoed with battle cries. Lin Feng trained beneath a dead tree.

His punches no longer screamed pain. They struck with quiet force. His footwork flowed-silent, precise.

A group passed by.

"That's Lin Feng," one spat. "Still wasting his time."

"He should stay in the shadows. Suits him."

Lin Feng heard it. Chose silence.

"The tiger does not roar when it is weak," he whispered. "It sharpens its claws beneath the leaves."

He struck the stake again. It cracked-a hairline fracture.

A small victory.

That night, he knelt beneath the moonlight. His breath steady despite the fire in his joints.

He traced the crack in the wooden stake.

Stage Three was near. The scroll warned of its cost: to crack the bones was to invite agony; to forge them was to court collapse.

But collapse was not an option.

He rose. Faced the stars.

The Wei Domain loomed-jagged cliffs, qi-rich springs, and ruthless foes.

Lin Feng had no soul. No allies. No name.

But he had his fists.

And his fire.

"The body is the furnace," he murmured. "The will is the flame."

He struck again.

The crack widened.

Three days.

One tournament.

Five names.

He would be one of them.