Chapter 6: Little brother
Chapter 6: Little Brother
My little brother, Yŭxuān, was always a quiet yet strangely enthusiastic person. He never made much noise, never sought attention, yet there was an energy within him that could not be ignored. He was like a shadow, moving unseen until our mother was near—only then would he step into the light.
Perhaps it was her presence that made him feel safe, or perhaps he simply had no desire to engage with the rest of us.
Regardless, I knew one thing: he carried the same venerable blood as our father and me. That blood demanded strength. And when the time came, I would see what he was truly capable of.
By July, he would turn ten. And in this clan, in this world, that meant only one thing—he would have to fight.
The moment a boy reached ten years of age, he was no longer a child. He was no longer protected. He was expected to take his first step onto the battlefield, to prove that he was worthy of existence in a world where only the strong had the right to live.
Would he be ready?
Would he fight?
Would he survive?
Only time would tell.
The Paths of the World
From what I had learned so far, this world was filled with countless paths, each leading to a different destiny. Some were known, some were feared, some were nothing more than myths whispered in the dark.
There was the Death Pathway, an uninspired name, but one that carried weight nonetheless. Those who walked this path embraced death, wielding it as both weapon and shield. To them, mortality was not a weakness but a tool, a power to be controlled rather than feared.
Then there was the Path of the Eternal Time Watcher, an existence I found utterly repulsive. To stand outside of time, to observe but never truly live, to be nothing more than a silent witness to the endless flow of history—I could not imagine a fate more suffocating.
But there was one path that called to me more than any other.
The Path of Immortality.
The Desire for Eternity
Immortality.
The highest peak of existence.
The ultimate defiance of fate.
Every living being, whether they admitted it or not, desired eternity. Even those who claimed to embrace death feared it in their final moments. No one wanted to disappear. No one wanted to be forgotten.
To reach immortality was to break free from the endless cycle of life and death. To become something greater than a mere mortal, something untouchable by time.
Life and death were constants. But so too was immortality.
And to become a part of that constant—to exist beyond the reach of time, to witness the rise and fall of empires, to stand above the gods themselves—was the greatest pleasure imaginable.
To be immortal was to be truly free.
That was my goal. That was my purpose.
The Weight of a Name
But before I could reach such heights, I had to live up to the weight of my name.
Jun.
A name passed down through generations. My father bore it. My grandfather bore it. My great-grandfather bore it.
Each one had left their mark on history. Each one had carved their name into the world with blood and steel.
And now, it was my turn.
For my father was not just any man. He was a Venerable—a title given only to those who had fought and bled for the right to stand above others. It was not a mere honorific. It was proof of power. Proof of survival.
And the venerable title was not limited to the living.
It could be obtained by all beings—living, dead, existing, and nonexistent.
It was something greater than mortality.
Something greater than divinity.
And I would claim it.
Because in this world, there was only one truth:
Strength above all.
A cruel and disgusting world.
That was what we lived in.
It was beautiful, yes, but beauty and horror often walked hand in hand. The mountains, the rivers, the sky—they all concealed the truth beneath their splendor. Monsters roamed freely, hiding in the shadows of cities, lurking within the depths of forests, and, worst of all, standing among us disguised as men.
It didn't matter if they were human or not.
A monster was a monster.
I had seen them with my own eyes—men who smiled as they crushed others beneath their heels, demons with human faces who spoke of honor while drowning the innocent in their cruelty. Their existence was disgusting. Their presence polluted the world.
And I hated them.
The Trial of Combat
July 28th.
My little brother's birthday had passed. He was ten now.
And that meant only one thing—his first battle.
I was eleven, just one year older, but in the eyes of the clan, that year made all the difference. I had already stepped into the world of battle. I had fought, I had bled, I had felt my bones shake under the weight of combat.
But for Yŭxuān, today would be his first taste of that reality.
He would fight before the entire clan.
His opponent? Lee-Gun.
A full-grown adult. A seasoned fighter.
Lee-Gun was not a particularly large man, but his body was built like tempered steel—lean and powerful. He was quiet, a man of few words, but his intelligence was evident in his every movement.
Intelligence.
The most dangerous weapon in the world.
Strength could bring victory, but intelligence could build empires. Intelligence could twist the world to a man's will, could raise him to the heavens or drag another into hell.
That was why this fight was terrifying.
Because brute strength could be overcome.
But intelligence?
That was a different kind of monster entirely.
The Battle Begins
The clan gathered in a wide, open clearing at the heart of the mountain. The earth beneath us was worn and scarred from the countless battles that had taken place here before. The air smelled of sweat, steel, and the faintest hint of blood from past fights.
Yŭxuān stepped into the arena, his small frame looking even smaller in comparison to Lee-Gun's.
The clan watched in silence.
My father stood at the edge of the battlefield, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
He would not intervene.
No one would.
This was a test.
A test of strength. A test of survival.
If Yŭxuān failed, he would be beaten. If he failed too badly…
No one spoke of what happened to the truly weak.
Lee-Gun's eyes were sharp as he studied my brother. Not mocking, not cruel—just assessing. Calculating.
Yŭxuān stood still.
He didn't tremble. He didn't falter.
Good.
Then, without warning—
Lee-Gun moved.
Faster than anyone had expected.
A blur of motion. A single step.
And then his fist was already flying toward Yŭxuān's ribs.
Would he dodge? Would he block?
Would he survive?
Yŭxuān reacted—his body twisting instinctively, his feet shifting on the worn ground.
Too slow.
Lee-Gun's fist crashed into his ribs like a hammer against glass. A dull, sickening crack echoed in the air. Yŭxuān's small frame buckled, his body folding inward as the force of the blow sent him skidding backward.
The clan remained silent.
There was no gasping, no murmurs of concern.
This was a test. And in this test, pain was the teacher.
I clenched my fists.
Yŭxuān hit the ground hard, dust and loose dirt rising around him. His breath came out in a sharp, ragged gasp.
Would he stand?
Or would he stay down?
Lee-Gun didn't wait for an answer.
He strode forward, his steps steady and controlled. There was no hesitation, no arrogance—only efficiency. This was not a battle of equals. This was a lesson.
Yŭxuān groaned, his small hands pushing against the ground. His body trembled, but he stood.
Good.
But Lee-Gun was already upon him.
A second strike.
A palm strike aimed at the chest, a blow meant to wind him, to cripple his breath. Yŭxuān raised his arms in a weak attempt to block, but his inexperience showed. The force of the strike sent him stumbling. His knees buckled.
Not enough.
Lee-Gun's foot snapped forward—a kick to the stomach.
Yŭxuān barely twisted in time, the impact grazing his side instead of landing cleanly. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
My father let out a quiet hum.
He was watching closely now.
The Will to Fight
The battle should have been over.
A child against a trained fighter—there was no real competition here. The outcome was clear from the start.
But Yŭxuān…
He refused to fall.
Bruised, gasping, and trembling, he still stood.
His hands clenched into fists. His eyes burned with something sharp, something fierce.
Lee-Gun paused for the first time.
Not out of pity.
But out of acknowledgment.
"You still want to fight?" Lee-Gun asked, his voice calm, almost curious.
Yŭxuān wiped the blood from his lip.
And then, with a defiant glare—
He lunged.
The First Step Toward Strength
It was reckless.
Sloppy.
He barely had any form, no strategy, no refined technique. But he moved.
He attacked.
His fist swung forward, wild and desperate. Lee-Gun caught it with ease, stopping the blow like it was nothing.
But Yŭxuān didn't stop there.
His other fist lashed out—a second, clumsy strike aimed for Lee-Gun's ribs. It was blocked just as easily.
Still, he did not stop.
A kick, another punch, an elbow—every movement was unrefined, every strike a futile attempt, but—
He was fighting.
He was trying.
The clan members, once silent, now whispered among themselves.
"He has spirit."
"Foolish, but not weak."
"He will learn."
My father remained silent.
Watching.
Judging.
And then, as Yŭxuān threw another desperate punch, Lee-Gun ended it.
A single, sharp blow to the temple.
Yŭxuān's body collapsed.
Dust rose around him.
Silence.
Then—
"He will live," my father said at last.
A verdict.
A judgment.
A statement.
Yŭxuān was dragged off the battlefield, his body bruised, his pride likely shattered. But he was alive. And in this clan, to survive was enough.
For now.
A New Beginning
I stood there, watching as my little brother was carried away.
And I knew.
This was only the beginning.
He had taken his first step into our world. The world of battle, of blood, of pain and suffering.
The world where the weak were crushed and the strong stood above all.
Yŭxuān had survived his first fight.
But survival was not enough.
One day, he would have to win.
Our mother watched.
She stood among the clan members, her expression unreadable. Not cold, not panicked—just still.
But I knew her.
I knew that behind those calm eyes, behind her poised silence, something boiled.
She had known this day would come. She had known that Yŭxuān would be thrown into this world of blood and battle, just as I had been. Just as all of us had been.
But knowing did not mean accepting.
She stood there, watching her youngest son battered and beaten, her hands clasped together so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She did not flinch when he was struck. She did not cry out when he fell.
Because showing weakness would do nothing.
Because love, in this world, meant nothing if it could not protect.
When Yŭxuān hit the ground for the final time, when my father spoke his judgment— "He will live."—I saw her exhale.
A slow, controlled breath.
Her fingers twitched, just barely.
I wondered what she would do if she could. If she had the power. If she had the strength to defy the clan, to pull Yŭxuān away from this fate, to keep him safe.
But she didn't.
So she stood there.
Watched.
Accepted.
And when they carried Yŭxuān away, she turned.
She walked toward him, toward her broken, bruised son, not as a mother rushing to console her child, but as a woman who understood the world she lived in.
She did not coddle.
She did not weep.
She simply kneeled beside him, touched his cheek, and whispered something only he could hear.
Then she looked up at me.
And for a single, fleeting moment—
I saw it.
The quiet fury. The rage.
Not at my father.
Not at the clan.
Not even at Lee-Gun.
But at the world itself.
And then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.
She stood, nodded at me once, and followed as they carried Yŭxuān away.
I stayed behind.
My father was already leaving, uninterested now that the fight was over. The clan members were dispersing, returning to their lives, their duties.
The world moved on.
But I remained.
Because I had seen it.
That brief, unspoken moment where my mother's mask had cracked.
And I knew, then, that she was not as accepting as she seemed.
She was simply waiting.