HEAVEN'S FORSAKEN SON

Return & Tournament Omen

The wind howled across the barren ridge as two figures made their way along the frozen path.

Arin walked with steady strides now. He was no longer the broken youth who had left his clan’s gates in humiliation. His qi flowed smoother and his meridians no longer felt like chains of fire tearing through his flesh. Instead, his body pulsed with faint power, subtle and yet undeniable.

Beside him walked Lyra Frostwind. Her pale cloak fluttered like a shard. She said little, but every so often her icy gaze drifted toward him, as if measuring the changes in his stance and the growing strength in his aura.

The wilderness had carved him anew.

Days bled into nights. Their journey toward civilization became a crucible.

At dawn, Arin drilled Dragon Vein Fist until his knuckles split. The system chimed relentlessly, issuing quests that rebuilt him.

“Ding! Daily Training Quest: Perform 500 Dragon Vein Strikes.

Reward: Dragon Vein Fist Proficiency +5%.

Penalty: –2 years lifespan if failed.”

His arms ached until they felt hollow. When he faltered, Lyra’s cool voice cut through the mist. “Again. If you can’t withstand your own weight, how will you withstand theirs?”

At dusk, he fights against her, learning to weave frost counters into his movements. She tested him ruthlessly, pressing his limits until his system windows blinked red with warnings.

“Ding! Withstand Lyra Frostwind’s Assault for 10 minutes.

Host reward: Qi Circulation Efficiency +2%.

Failure Penalty: –5 years lifespan.”

Sometimes he barely scraped by. Sometimes he collapsed, only to rise again at the system’s cold urging.

By the time their path descended into fertile valleys, his qi channels were stabilizing. His crippled frame of old was gone. What remained was a sharpened edge.

On the twelfth night, as campfire sparks floated into the sky, the system’s tone shifted.

“Ding! Major Quest Generated.

Objective: Return to the Darkveil Clan during the Clan Martial Tournament. Make a statement of power before elders and rivals.

Reward: Advanced Meridian Repair (50%). Reputation Ascension.

Penalty: –20 years lifespan if failed.”

Arin froze. His gaze locked on the glowing text.

The Martial Tournament. The gathering where every youth of worth displayed their strength. The very stage where Kael and his rival would surely shine.

Lyra noticed his silence. “The qi again?” she asked and her tone was edged with curiosity.

He nodded slowly. “It wants me to return. To stand before them all.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s dangerous. They cast you out once. If you step back into their den, they will not welcome you with open arms.”

“I know,” Arin whispered as fire flickered in his eyes. “But I can’t keep running. If I’m to climb higher, the stage must be theirs, and mine.”

The Darkveil Clan’s mountain city was alive when they arrived. Banners streamed from rooftops, stalls filled the streets, and martial drums echoed across the stone yards.

The Clan Martial Tournament was more than a contest, it was a festival of strength and a declaration to outsiders that Darkveil blood still burned bright.

Arin pulled his cloth tighter, slipping into the crowd. The voices of the people sparked almost immediately.

“Wait, isn’t that Arin?”

“The exile? The cripple who was cast out?”

“He dares return during the tournament?”

All eyes turned to him with suspicion, curiosity and disdain. He felt the weight of a thousand stares, but for the first time in his life, he did not bow beneath them. His steps were steady and he kept his gaze as calm as possible.

Across the yard, Kael stood surrounded by admirers. His scarlet robes were bright like fire. His qi radiated heat that shimmered in the air. He laughed loudly, boasting of his inevitable victory in the tournament.

But when his eyes found Arin among the crowd, his laughter faltered for the briefest instant. His smile curled and he became very worried at that moment.

“Look who crawled back,” Kael sneered at his companions. “The trash thinks the festival is open to beggars.”

The crowd laughed. But Kael’s clenched fists betrayed his unease.

High on the viewing platform, the elders of the clan observed.

The Second Elder’s eyes narrowed dangerously the moment he spotted Arin. He leaned close to his peers in a low but sharp voice.

 “He should not have returned. His existence is a thorn and unpredictably dangerous. If he dares step into the tournament, we will strip him bare before all.”

The First Elder, who was older and more understanding, frowned faintly. “He saved an elder once. He felled a spirit beast. Are you certain he is a threat?”

The Second Elder’s lip curled. “A cripple who rises unnaturally is never a blessing. He is an omen. This tournament will expose him. Mark my words.”

Their cold gazes burned down upon Arin.

Arin moved through the crowd with quiet composure. Lyra followed closely from behind. Her presence drew curious stares too, but she ignored them. Her eyes fixed on him.

“You are calm,” she murmured.

He nodded. “The system wants me to make a statement and I will.”

“Even if they spit on you again?”

His jaw set. “Especially then.”

For the first time, a faint smile touched her lips. 

The drums thundered. The Martial Arena filled with youths lined up in bright robes. Their weapons gleamed with qi blazing. Families cheered, elders presided, and the festival reached its peak.

Arin stood at the edge of the crowd, his cloth fluttering.

“Ding! Quest Update.

Objective Progression: Step into the Martial Arena.

Timer: 12 hours.

Reward / Penalty unchanged.”

His hand tightened around his mother’s cloth. He would not fail.

The air trembled as the Master of Ceremonies declared the opening of the tournament. Kael stepped forward first. He basked in the adoration of the crowd. His fire qi erupted, dazzling flames into the sky.

The audience erupted in cheers. “Kael! Kael! Kael!” They changed his name. 

Arin’s eyes never left him. His rival’s back seemed broader, but the fire in Arin’s chest burned just as fiercely now.

He remembered the laughter when he failed his awakening. The scorn when Kael beat him bloody. The cold decree of the elders as they cast him out.

And yet, he was here stronger, sharper and no longer crawling in the mud, but standing with a calm resolve that no sneer could shake.

The system’s voice was merciless, but it had given him purpose. Lyra’s presence beside him was quiet but steady. 

This was no longer about proving them wrong.

It was about proving himself right.

The tournament gong boomed, shaking the arena. The crowd roared.

And then, the system pulsed. 

“Ding! Urgent Quest Generated.

The objective is to overthrow an Elder within the Darkveil Clan.

Timer: 30 days.

Host will unlock a Core Formation Path.

Penalty: Immediate –30 years lifespan.”

Arin froze, the words burning before his eyes.

‘An elder?’ He echoed silently, ‘It didn't ask me to defeat Kael or win glory but to topple one of the very pillars of the clan.’

His chest tightened and his breath shallow. The stakes had shifted beyond anything he had imagined.

He stared at the elders’ platform, at their calculating gazes and at the Second Elder’s cold smirk.

The system’s whisper echoed in his ears like a death knell.

“Overthrow an elder, or watch your life wither away.”

The drums thundered. The crowd cheered.