Chapter 9: Punishment

Crime

"Hey, big brother, do you think we will be punished for drinking alcohol?"

Yŭxuān's voice was quiet, but there was a tinge of worry in it. He sat beside me, legs crossed, his back leaning against the wooden pillar of the courtyard. His dark eyes reflected the dull morning light, hazy from lack of sleep.

I exhaled slowly. I had thought about it all last night.

"It was a crime," I said, my voice steady. "Underage possession of alcohol."

Yŭxuān shifted beside me. "It doesn't feel like a crime."

I glanced at him. "And what does crime feel like?"

He frowned, thinking. "I don't know. Maybe… heavier? More dangerous? This just felt like a mistake."

I leaned my head back against the pillar, staring up at the wooden beams of the courtyard roof. "A mistake is just a softer word for a crime when you're caught," I murmured. "When a crime is small, people call it a mistake. When a mistake is too big, they call it a crime."

Yŭxuān scoffed. "That sounds stupid."

"Maybe it is. But it's how the world works."

Silence settled between us. The clan grounds were still waking up, the distant sounds of training beginning in the outer halls. Somewhere in the distance, the clang of wooden swords echoed.

"Will Father punish us?" Yŭxuān asked after a while.

I closed my eyes. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether he cares."

Another pause. Yŭxuān tilted his head. "Do you think he does?"

I stayed silent.

Our father was a powerful man, respected and feared in equal measure. He had little patience for weakness, even less patience for failure. And drinking at our age, whether we liked it or not, was failure.

Finally, I answered, "If he does care, we'll know soon enough."

Yŭxuān sighed, rubbing his face. "This is stupid. People drink all the time. Why is it illegal for us?"

"Because rules exist for control, not for reason."

He gave me a look. "That's even stupider."

I smirked. "That's how the world is, little brother."

He grumbled under his breath, arms crossing over his chest. "So, what now? We just wait?"

I glanced at him. "No."

"Then what?"

"We prepare."

"For what?"

"For punishment."

His face darkened. "You think it'll be bad?"

I considered it. Our father wasn't the type to waste time on lectures. He was a man of action, of discipline through demonstration. If he decided to punish us, it wouldn't be words.

"It won't be pleasant," I admitted.

Yŭxuān sighed again, running a hand through his hair. "Great. First, I drink something disgusting, then I feel like an idiot, and now I'm probably gonna get beaten for it. Fantastic choices all around."

I chuckled. "Welcome to life."

He shot me a glare. "You're the worst older brother."

"Maybe. But at least I didn't get drunk first."

"You drank right after me!"

"And I regret it slightly less."

His groan of frustration was satisfying.

But underneath our joking, we both knew the truth—this wasn't just about drinking.

It was about what came after.

—

A Few Hours Later

As expected, word spread quickly. The moment one elder had caught sight of our dazed expressions from the night before, whispers had begun circulating through the clan halls. By midday, the rumors had reached the wrong ears.

We were summoned.

The air inside the great hall was heavy. Father stood at the far end, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. His presence alone carried weight—he did not need to raise his voice to command attention.

Yŭxuān and I knelt in the center of the room, silent.

"Underage drinking," our father finally said, his voice like stone scraping against steel. "How bold."

Neither of us answered.

He took a step forward. Then another. His boots clicked against the polished wood floor.

"It is easy to mistake indulgence for strength," he continued. "Many fools before you have made the same mistake. And where are they now?"

Silence.

"Buried."

Yŭxuān shifted slightly beside me, but he didn't speak.

Father stopped a few paces away. He looked down at us, his eyes cold. "What excuse do you have?"

Yŭxuān, surprisingly, was the one who answered first.

"No excuse, Father."

A flicker of something crossed Father's face—approval? It was gone too quickly to tell.

"And you?" His gaze landed on me.

"No excuse," I repeated.

He studied us for a long moment. Then, he sighed. "Stand."

We obeyed.

Then, without warning—his hand struck.

Crack.

Yŭxuān staggered as the back of our father's palm collided with his face. He caught himself before he could fall, his expression blank, his body rigid.

Father turned to me.

Crack.

Pain exploded across my cheek, but I did not move.

Father's voice was quiet, but absolute. "Next time, you will think before you act."

A test. That's what this was. A warning, a reminder. He could have done far worse, but he didn't. Because we had already accepted our mistake.

Punishment was not just about pain—it was about control.

And our father was a man of control.

He turned away. "Leave."

Yŭxuān and I bowed, then stepped out of the hall without another word.

—

Outside

We walked in silence.

The wind was soft against my bruised face, the sky a dull gray overhead.

"Well," Yŭxuān finally muttered, "that could've been worse."

I hummed in agreement. "It could've been better, too."

He rubbed his cheek, sighing. "Guess we should actually follow the rules from now on."

I gave him a side glance. "Are you actually saying that, or just saying it because we got caught?"

He smirked slightly. "A little of both."

I chuckled. "Good. Then you learned something."

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever, wise old man."

I shook my head. "Come on. We still have training to do."

Yŭxuān groaned. "Training? Right now? We just got hit in the face!"

I smirked. "Then consider it endurance training."

He muttered something under his breath, but he followed anyway.

Because punishment was temporary. But strength—strength was forever.

Endurance Training

We made our way to the training grounds, where the afternoon sun cast long shadows over the courtyard. The scent of damp earth and aged wood filled the air, mingling with the distant clang of metal and the rhythmic grunts of disciples practicing their forms.

Yŭxuān trudged behind me, still rubbing his cheek. "You know, big brother, I think you're enjoying this too much."

I glanced at him, smirking. "Endurance training builds character."

"It builds suffering," he muttered.

I ignored his complaints and stepped onto the wooden training platform. "We'll start simple. Five hundred strikes."

Yŭxuān gaped. "Five hundred?! You're joking, right?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Did I sound like I was joking?"

He groaned. "You're actually insane."

"Insanity and discipline are the same thing when viewed from different angles."

He muttered something under his breath but grabbed a training sword from the rack. "Fine, but if I pass out, you're carrying me back."

I spun my own blade in my hand, feeling the familiar weight. "Then don't pass out."

—

Strike After Strike

The training hall was empty except for us.

Yŭxuān started strong, his first strikes filled with frustration and youthful energy. Each swing of his wooden sword cut through the air with force, but his breath was uneven. His stance, unrefined.

I corrected him when needed, pointing out the weaknesses in his form. "Lower your stance. Keep your feet firm. You're wasting movement."

He scowled. "I know how to swing a sword, big brother."

"Then show me."

He grit his teeth and kept going.

Fifty strikes. One hundred. Two hundred.

By the time we reached three hundred, sweat dripped from his brow, his arms trembling with exertion. His movements had lost their initial force, but now they were controlled. Calculated. The reckless energy from before had faded, replaced by something better.

Determination.

"Four hundred," I counted.

Yŭxuān's breathing was ragged, but he didn't stop. His knuckles were white against the wooden hilt, but he kept swinging. Strike after strike. Blow after blow. His arms must have been screaming, but he endured.

I watched him carefully, noting the shift in his mindset. Pain was no longer an obstacle—it was merely part of the process.

"Four hundred eighty. Four hundred ninety."

He sucked in a sharp breath, his final swings carrying the last of his strength.

"Five hundred."

With a final grunt, he let the sword fall from his grip, collapsing onto the floor. He lay there, gasping, staring up at the wooden ceiling.

"I hate you," he wheezed.

I chuckled, sitting beside him. "No, you don't."

Silence stretched between us, filled only by the sound of our breathing.

Then, Yŭxuān spoke, his voice quieter. "I get it now."

I glanced at him. "Get what?"

"Endurance training. It's not just about pain."

I smiled slightly. "No. It's about overcoming yourself."

He closed his eyes, exhaling. "Still hate it, though."

I smirked. "Good. Then you're doing it right."

—

Sunset

By the time we left the training grounds, the sky had turned a deep shade of orange, the horizon painted with streaks of gold and crimson.

Yŭxuān walked beside me, still sore but standing taller. Stronger.

"Tomorrow, we'll do six hundred," I said casually.

He nearly tripped. "Are you trying to kill me?!"

I laughed, patting his shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll thank me one day."

He muttered something under his breath, but there was a small smile on his lips.

And as the sun set over the Xuan continent, I knew—this was only the beginning.