Blood of the War Dragon

Chapter 3: The Heavenly Slap

What in the world just happened?

Kael Draven stood there, completely blank. His mind spun, trying to catch up. Inner strength had suddenly condensed inside his body—out of nowhere.

And not just that. His core wasn’t simply holding the energy. It was flowing, circling endlessly, locked into the perpetual cycle.

That could only mean one thing.

He had broken through. He was standing in the Seventh Layer of Inner Strength.

For martial artists, the Fourth and Seventh Layers were like towering cliffs. People trained their entire lives, clawing at those barriers, and most never crossed. To break through the Seventh was a dream for some and a lifelong regret for others.

Ten years. He had pushed and pushed, and every time he failed. Yet now? It felt as natural as breathing.

His head spun. Joy slammed into him so hard it almost felt wrong—like some cruel joke from the heavens. A feast falling from the sky straight into his lap. If his heart had been weak, he might’ve dropped dead from the shock.

Then it exploded out of him.

“Hahahaha! I did it! The Seventh Layer—I finally broke through! Hahaha!”

The laughter echoed through the Ancestral Hall, mad and wild, bouncing off the walls. Nobody could hear him out here in the depths of the estate, and maybe that was for the best. Ten years of humiliation, ten years of grinding persistence—and now, finally, he had something to show for it. Who else could possibly understand this kind of joy?

He laughed until his stomach hurt, until his eyes stung with tears.

At last, he stopped. Breath still shaky, he threw himself into practice. His fists swung through the air, the Overlord Fist bursting from him like a storm. For the first time in ten long years, every punch cracked with raw, unstoppable force. The difference was night and day.

The seal? The dragon’s shadow? Gone from his thoughts. Right now, his fists trembled with excitement, his eyes burned with fire.

“Darius Draven. Garrick Draven. Ronan Draven. Tomorrow, you’ll see. I’m not trash. I’m stronger than all of you.”

Then, all at once, his body went still. His expression shifted.

Nine Revolutions Reincarnation Technique… First Revolution… Nine Transformations of the Profound Heaven…

Words flashed in his mind, burning bright. A cultivation technique, vast and terrible, etched itself into his soul—the Nine Revolutions Reincarnation Technique. Nine full revolutions, and the first is called Nine Transformations of the Profound Heaven.

He had no clue where it came from, but the sheer weight of it was undeniable. His instincts screamed of its power.

He didn’t waste a second. Dropping cross-legged to the ground, he closed his eyes and began to cultivate the technique pulsing inside him.

By dawn, before even the roosters stirred, four figures were already awake. Darius Draven. Garrick Draven. Ronan Draven. Selene Draven. They marched toward the Ancestral Hall, faces sharp, eyes glittering.

Maybe it was anticipation. Maybe cruelty.

Once, Kael Draven had been a prodigy. Now, he was nothing but dirt. The jealousy they once hid had twisted into mockery and hate. Tormenting him had become their favorite pastime.

“Ninth Brother,” Ronan Draven sneered, “if Seventh Brother hasn’t cleaned the hall properly, we’ll beat him senseless. I came up with a new trick last night. You’ve never heard of it, I promise.”

The grin on his face made the others lean in.

“What trick, Twelfth Brother?” Selene Draven’s voice was sharp with eagerness. “Tell us. Just thinking about tormenting that waste makes me feel alive.”

Ronan Draven chuckled darkly. “Simple. I call it the Heavenly Slap.”

“Heavenly Slap?” They frowned in unison.

Drawing it out, he explained, “Every single day, we find Seventh Brother. Every single day, we slap him across the face. Day in, day out. Slap after slap. That’s Heavenly Slap.”

Selene Draven snorted. Then burst into laughter, clutching her stomach. The others followed, shaking with cruel amusement. Ridiculous, yes—but perfect.

Still laughing, they reached the Ancestral Hall.

They didn’t dare kick the doors. If Second Uncle heard, the punishment would be brutal. So Selene Draven gently pushed them open, and the four slipped inside.

Then their smiles died.

The hall was a disaster. Leaves are scattered everywhere. Mud tracked across the floor in heavy prints. Worst of all, the spirit tablets on the altar leaned crooked, some close to falling. If Second Uncle saw this, they would be finished.

“Seventh Brother! Get out of here! I’ll kill you!”

Fury twisted their faces. If they had known, they’d never have trusted him with this. He’d ruined everything.

“Who’s calling me? Waaaahhh…”

A yawn broke the silence. Kael Draven strolled out from behind the altar, stretching like he’d just had the best nap of his life. He glanced around at the chaos, eyes widening in fake shock.

“Who could’ve done this? No shame at all.”

Who… did this?

They almost choked on their rage.

“Seventh Brother,” Darius Draven growled, “was this your doing? Answer honestly.”

Kael Draven tilted his head, tapping his chin. “Hmm… wait, let me think… oh right, I almost forgot.”

He lowered his gaze, pretending to mull it over, ignoring the murderous glares burning into him.

“You bastard! Want me to help you remember? How about a Heavenly Slap!”

“Heavenly Slap?” Kael Draven blinked, eyes full of fake confusion.

The four of them grinned like wolves. Ronan Draven leaned forward, saying every word. “That’s right. Last night I invented the perfect game. Heavenly Slap.”

“Twelfth Brother, let me.” Selene Draven’s tone dripped venom. Her eyes glittered with cruel delight. “Seventh Brother, listen well. Heavenly Slap means every day, we’ll slap you. If you behave, maybe we’ll go easy. But if you don’t…”

“And if I don’t?” Kael Draven asked softly.

Darius Draven smirked, shaking his head as though in pity. “Then you’ll be walking around with a pig’s head every single day.”

Kael Draven’s brows lifted like something had finally clicked. “Ah… so that’s Heavenly Slap.”

Then—crack, crack, crack!

The slaps came fast, sharp as whips. The sound echoed through the hall.

A scream split the air.

Ronan Draven stumbled back, clutching his face, howling in pain.

The other three just stood there. Eyes wide. Mouths open.

The Seventh Brother they’d mocked, beaten, humiliated for ten long years—the one who had never lifted a hand in return—had just struck back.

And slapped the Twelfth Brother clean across the face.