Blood of the War Dragon

Chapter 1: Ten Years of Perseverance

 

In Emberfall Town, the Draven family’s estate stretched wide and proud. Huge halls, walled gardens, Courtyards upon courtyards—every space carefully divided according to rank. Status decided where you slept, where you trained, even where you breathed.

And then there was the southwest corner.

A forgotten Courtyard. Cracked tiles. Rotting wood. A place where no one bothered to look twice.

Bang!

The silence was shattered as the gate—already hanging on its last hinge—was kicked open and blown apart.

Four shadows barged in, three boys and a girl. Their eyes gleamed with cruelty, their mouths twisted into sneers. Even before they set foot inside, their voices came first—sharp, furious, meant to cut.

“Kael Draven, you bastard!" Are you trying to get us killed?”

Inside, a young man was practicing alone. His figure was tall and straight, his features sharp, his brows like blades drawn over eyes bright as stars. Every strike he threw cracked through the air with the weight of a hammer, as if he could shatter stone.

The moment he heard their voices, his fists froze. He exhaled, Darius Draven slow, shoulders tight with disgust. Then, deliberately, he pulled it all back. His anger. His breath. His pride.

“Well, would you look at that. Our useless Seventh Brother is actually working hard. Touching, isn’t it?”

“Bah, Ninth Brother, stop trying to make me gag. Trash is still trash. Sweat all you want; he’ll always be worthless. Honestly—have you ever seen an eighteen-year-old who still can’t condense a scrap of inner strength?”

“Never.”

“Exactly. He’s the shame of the Draven Family. If not for Uncle’s face, this piece of garbage would’ve been kicked out years ago.”

Their laughter rang sharply, like glass breaking. They stood above him with smug grins, the kind that only bullies wear when they’re sure you won’t fight back.

These weren’t strangers. They were family—Darius Draven, Garrick Draven, Ronan Draven, and Selene Draven. Their fathers were Dorian Draven and Valric Draven, younger brothers of Kaelen Draven, Kael Draven’s own father. Blood ties made the hatred cut deeper.

Kael Draven kept silent. But his eyes burned with fury. He knew the truth: no matter what he said, no matter how angry he became, if he lifted a hand against them, he’d just be beaten worse. Endure. That was the only choice.

“Ohh, look at this! Seventh Brother’s angry. I’m terrified!” Ronan Draven thumped his chest dramatically, mocking him with fake fear.

“Listen up, Kael Draven. From now on, you are not allowed to practice the Overlord Technique of my Draven family.”

“What?” His voice was tight, but it broke through their jeers. “Grandfather said any member of the Draven family can train in the Overlord Technique.”

It was his last lifeline, his only hope. Without it, he had nothing.

Darius Draven’s sneer deepened. “Grandfather said it, sure. But that doesn’t mean it applies to you. A waste who can’t even condense inner strength—if you train in the Overlord Technique, you’ll only humiliate us more. Tell me, what else could you possibly do?”

The words stuck like daggers. Kael Draven couldn’t argue, and he knew it. Ten years had gone by. Ten years ago, and he was still trapped at the third stage of the Acquired Realm.

“What’s wrong? Speechless? Hah. Even wasting breath on you insults me. Enough talk—we came to settle accounts.”

“What accounts?”

“Still pretending?” Ronan Draven’s grin twisted cruelly. “I told you to clean the Elderstone hall yesterday". Look at the mess you left. Because of you, Second Uncle punished us harshly. So—how should we settle that?”

“You were supposed to clean it yourselves! Why shove it on me? I helped, and now you complain? If it wasn’t good enough, why didn’t you do it yourselves?”

His anger boiled over. Years of restraint snapped loose, words spilling out hot and sharp.

The four blinked, surprised he dared speak back. But then their faces hardened, their rage surging.

“Well, well. Looks like Seventh Brother’s grown a sharp tongue,” Darius Draven said coldly. “Maybe he’s asking for another beating.”

They closed in, step by step.

“You—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish. They leaped at him as one, fists and feet flying. Blows rained down in a storm, relentless, merciless. For an entire minute, they beat him until their breath got heavy and their arms ached.

And when they finally stopped—he was still standing. Bloodied. Clothes torn. But standing.

For a moment, even they faltered. Then the sneers returned.

“Seventh Brother, consider this a warning. Tomorrow morning, if the Elderstone hall isn’t spotless, you’ll get more than a beating. Forget the Overlord  Technique—don’t even think about touching any martial technique again.”

With one last contemptuous glance, they swaggered off, laughter trailing behind them like knives in the wind.

Kael Draven stayed where he was. Alone. His body was a ruin, his clothes in shreds, blood streaking down his skin.

But pain wasn’t what cut the deepest. It was the fury. The humiliation. The refusal burned in his chest.

His fists clenched until his nails pierced flesh. He didn’t even notice. In his mind, the same question screamed again and again. Why?

He knew the answer. He bore the insults. He endured the beatings. Because he had no strength. None. If he had condensed inner strength, if he had reached the cycle of perpetual flow—would they dare?

Strength. That was all that mattered. Without it, he was nothing. With it, he could be everything.

On the Eryndor Continent, strength ruled all.

Ten years ago, Kael Draven was the brightest prodigy of the Kaelen Draven Family. At only eight years old, he’d broken into the Sixth Layer of Inner Strength.

An eight-year-old martial artist that strong? Unheard of. Not just in the family, but in all of Emberfall Town. His talent stunned the crowd, and his speed in cultivation crushed his peers. People had described him with four words: brilliant beyond compare.

And then fate struck.

When he attempted the Seventh Layer, his inner strength collapsed. The circulation broke. His body failed him. Instead of rising higher, he fell—tumbling all the way back to the third stage of the Acquired Realm.

No one knew why. Not even Kael Draven himself. The Draven Family tried everything to repair him, but every attempt ended the same way: disappointment.

The others gave up. He didn’t. He trained harder than anyone—ten times the effort, a hundred times the effort. Days blurred into nights, nights into years. And still… nothing.

Should he give up?

Again and again, he asked. And the answer never changed. No. Persist.

Because the peak of martial cultivation was his dream. Because in this world, only the strong can survive.

Ten years. Ten years of humiliation, ten years of obsession, ten years of sweat—and still, not a shred of progress. Fate mocked him cruelly, turning the family’s greatest genius into its greatest disgrace.

Trash.

The word stuck like a brand, burned into his skin. Out of jealousy, or spite, or maybe both, the others never stopped tormenting him. Mockery. Insults. Kicks and fists. Every single day.

Ten years of work. Ten years of pain. And in the end, all the world saw was one word. Waste.

Not only had he lost his pride, but he had dragged his father’s name down with him.