On the edge of the storm

Author's Note

Before anything else, I want to thank you for choosing to read my book. That means a lot to me, and I hope the story manages to touch you in some way. But I need to be honest: you might find some mistakes in the English translation. I sincerely apologize for that, in case something doesn't sound natural or causes any confusion.

Portuguese is my first language, and English... well, let's say it's not my strong suit. I'm not very proficient or fluent in it, and that limited me quite a bit. To bring this story to you, I used artificial intelligence to help with the translation. It was the best resource I had at hand, but I know it's not perfect and some slips might have gotten through.

Writing this book in Portuguese was something I did with a lot of care and dedication. I wanted to share this journey with readers in other languages, and the English translation was my attempt to make that happen. Even if the result has its flaws, my wish is that the spirit of the story still reaches you.

So, I ask for a bit of patience and understanding. If you can look past the possible mistakes, I hope you find something special in the pages I wrote. Thank you for being here and for giving my voice a chance!

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Yang absorbed the revelation, his thoughts a storm beneath his calm exterior. The road he'd chosen was treacherous, yet it was the only one forward. Power always demanded sacrifice, but now that price loomed larger than ever.

"Understood," he murmured, more to himself than the system. "I'll hasten my cultivation and claim those points swiftly. There's no retreat now."

With resolve igniting within him, Yang turned back to the hall, where hushed voices still wove through the air. The journey ahead promised peril, but he carried the strength—and the will—to meet it. For now, he'd walk alone, bearing his secrets and the burden of his fate.

As the hall gradually emptied, Yang lingered, plotting his next move. The path to the Dragon God tier stretched long and shadowed, yet he stood ready to face it. Challenges, no matter their scale, had always been his to conquer.

And so, with the weight of destiny pressing upon him, Yang Wei rose and stepped from the hall, his stride unwavering, his purpose clear. The tale was far from its end, and he would see it through—whatever that end might be.

"The level of danger defies measure. Yet, for the moment, the host remains untouched by harm. The intercepted destiny gleams pure and golden, a sign it harbors no ill will—though the shadow of risk lingers still."

For a brief heartbeat, Yang Wei shut his eyes, a flood of doubt surging through his mind. Each time the way forward seemed to unveil itself, a fresh twist arose to knot it once more. Amid this storm within, a faint yet persistent memory clawed its way to the surface.

"Hey, system," he whispered, wrestling to cage the unease that threatened to break free, "she wouldn't kill me, would she? I mean, I'm practically a son to her."

"Negative. Nael is her son. You're merely a half-brother to that so-called kin—next to nothing in her eyes."

A sharp grunt of frustration slipped from Yang's lips: "Damn it…"

That single word bore the weight of a man who, since stepping into this world, had watched his life unfurl with a deceptive simplicity. But now, the presence of that goddess—and the destiny weaving itself into his own—cast a strange, heavy mantle over him.

He folded his arms and fixed his gaze on the table, his face a quiet dance of acceptance and steel. His mind, awash with memories and cares, drifted to a past that felt far-off yet pulsed alive in the present.

It was the memory of Xia Xiang, the woman pledged to him in his youth. At fifteen, the patriarch had sealed him to that vow, while she—barely three—stood as a bond beyond breaking. All that shifted with the arrival of Yang Fei: the bastard son, the dark-skinned boy who carried whispers and suspicion in his wake.

At first, Yang Fei seemed dim-witted, his thoughts sluggish. But soon, oddities emerged—actions that defied simple reason. The system declared his soul sealed, yet there was more: a veiled secret cloaking the boy in an aura of enigma, hinting he might be far greater than he let on.

When the patriarch severed Yang's betrothal to Xia Xiang, binding her instead to Yang Fei, a gnawing sense of wrongness took root in Yang's chest. The patriarch's icy calm and overzealous care for the boy pointed to a deeper design, thick with unspoken schemes.

Every word from the system, every shard of the story, cemented Yang's certainty: his path was tangled in forces too vast to grasp, a collision of power, fate, and feeling no one could foretell.

At eight, when he first beheld Xia Xiang, something stirred deep within him. Her presence was inescapable—her slender frame and an air that seemed borrowed from distant realms, as if she bore the fragrance of lands uncharted. In that instant, a fierce longing seized him, a yearning to make her his alone. As years passed, she too began to turn her gaze toward him—subtle yet sure—while making plain her disdain for Yang Fei, the boy who trailed her with a child's guileless ways.

"Xia Xiang doesn't settle for the mundane. She hungers for something grander," Yang Wei mused, a silent rivalry simmering between them. Yet there was more—a thread unseen by others, a bond that turned their emotions into a duel of wills and fates entwined.

Then came Yang Ming. A new name, yet one that swiftly claimed the heart of Yang Wei's world. Yang Ming stole what Yang held dear—Xia Xiang's eyes, the master's esteem—kindling a fury that blazed deep in his core.

"I'll kill him… and reclaim what he's taken," Yang Wei vowed under his breath, a pledge too potent to dismiss.

He clenched his fists, dark eyes glinting with the resolve of a man who sensed the clash drawing near. Yang knew each step now bore a cost, one that might forever reshape the life he'd known.

The room grew thick, as if whispering of dark omens, until the silence shattered with the slow groan of the door. The air tightened, time itself pausing to herald the newcomer—someone both anticipated and dreaded.

Xia Xiang stepped in, each stride a proclamation no one could ignore. Her presence drew every gaze; men traded looks of wonder or envy, while women pressed their lips tight, swallowing their unease. Something in her made men falter, if only for a moment, questioning the strength they thought they owned.

"She's different," someone murmured, awe slipping through their voice.

Xia Xiang's raven hair, woven into a braid that flowed like silk down her back, shimmered against her pale skin in the faint light. Her eyes, deep and frigid as an uncharted sea, ensnared and unsettled all at once. The blue silk dress, traced with golden threads, framed her beauty and rank, commanding reverence without a word.

In that moment, as all eyes fixed on her, Yang Wei's heart thudded hard. Xia Xiang didn't just challenge what he claimed as his—she seemed poised to shift the very path he fought to hold. Beneath his anger simmered a fear of losing something beyond price, a battle looming not just with others but within his own soul.

With a steady smile, she approached the table, heedless of the men's stares. Some bowed, but to Xia Xiang, it meant little. She paused between the chief seats, lifting her chin with the certainty of one unbowed.

"Good evening, Patriarch Yang," she said, her voice cool yet laced with a respect that cut, almost mocking.

"Good evening, Ancestor Yang," she greeted an older, grave man, then added, "And good evening, Aunt Yue."

Duchess Yue, beside the patriarch, betrayed unease at her arrival. Despite the courteous tone, her tension hung plain.

"Sit, dear. How was your journey? And matters at the Dao Holy Land?" the Duchess asked, her welcome strained, rushed.

Xia Xiang arched her brows, eyes glinting with a quiet elegance, as if she foresaw a dull exchange.

"It was well enough. Much stirs with the Secret Realm's opening. Ten thousand flowers… it's been alive with motion," she replied, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

"It's a realm that unveils every ten thousand years, as the old patriarch often said," she noted, glancing at Yang Wei's father, the current patriarch.

Patriarch Yang nodded, a subtle pride in his bearing. "Indeed, another ten-thousand-year cycle nears, and it will awaken again."

But Xia Xiang hadn't come for idle words. She leaned forward, her gaze pinning the patriarch with a force that made him pause.

"Today, I'll do all in my power to end this absurd betrothal," she declared, her voice slicing like frost.

"The only one worthy of my side is Brother Yang. From the start, I never wanted this forced tie to a dark-skinned boy plagued by a feeble mind. I, Xia Xiang, will not wed an idiot who shames our lineage!"

Whispers rippled across the table. Some men clasped their hands, waiting for the patriarch's move, while women rolled their eyes, muttering among themselves.

Patriarch Yang met her stare, his face stern, sensing the strength she wielded. He answered with resolve, yet caution: "Xia Xiang, clan bonds aren't so easily sundered. Yang Fei is my true son. This union was forged with the ancestors' blessing and our full accord."

Xia Xiang's laugh rang out, cold and bold, striking at the patriarch's pride. "True son? An illegitimate whelp without the ancient clans' blood. A dark boy with a broken mind doesn't deserve the Yang name. I won't abide this sham! The real heir, the Yang who matters, is Yang Wei. Since childhood, he was meant for me."

Her eyes settled on a young man who'd watched in silence until now, now drawn into her daring challenge. Each word, each motion, was a summons none could overlook.

In that instant, the room became a forge where fates clashed with heat and might, where bravery and honor locked horns, promising an end no one could predict.

Yang Wei held still, studying her as one who knew this was no mere chance. His dark eyes, sharp and icy, tracked her cadence. His steady face proclaimed, "This doesn't sway me."

Without pause, Xia Xiang turned back to Patriarch Yang. In a clear, chilled tone, she said, "I won't marry a worthless fool. Not anymore. Today, I'll make the patriarch see I'm no trophy for a man without true blood. Yang Fei is a stain on my clan, a disgrace to the Yangs."

Patriarch Yang's face hardened as the air grew taut. He spoke firmly, yet with a thread of worry: "This isn't how matters are settled, Xia Xiang. The clans' fate isn't undone without cost."

Xia Xiang laughed again, her voice brushing aside convention. Her eyes shone with piercing certainty: "Fate? That's for the timid. I won't waste breath. I'll end this betrothal… or…"

She cast a look around, as if beckoning witnesses, before fixing the patriarch once more, unwavering: "Or he'll bear its weight."

The silence that fell was thick, palpable. All present, torn between dread and intrigue, knew this was but the dawn of something vast. Xia Xiang's words had struck a nerve too deep to dismiss.

As she took her seat with her usual poise, Yang Wei's eyes flared with a coldness born of calculated loathing. He rose slowly, smoothing his robes as if poised for the signal to strike. His dark gaze met hers in a wordless pact that vowed reprisal.

Patriarch Yang, sensing the storm's edge, wore a somber mask. But before any could quell the rising tempest, Xia Xiang crossed her arms, her voice dripping with defiance: "Let the game begin."

In a flash, the hall plunged into a hush so deep it seemed all held their breath. The fate within those walls sealed itself, unyielding and irreversible.