The Quiet Storm

As Jiang Yeming stood in his room, quietly tying his sword beneath his long coat, the steel had not tasted blood in years. But today, it would move—not to kill, but to remind the world that some lines should never be crossed.

The roar of his car shattered the night air as he stormed down the highway, heading toward District 9. His hands gripped the wheel tightly, his mind replaying the threats hurled at his family. His gaze was sharp, determined. He was done watching from the shadows.

When he pulled into the heart of Shadow Talons territory, he didn't slow down. The moment he slammed the brakes, his car screeched violently to a halt, drawing the attention of every gang member lounging about. The engine roared once more, as if the car itself were challenging them.

Men flooded out of the warehouse and makeshift buildings. Some carried metal pipes, others had blades, and all were glaring with anticipation.

Jiang Yeming stepped out calmly, locking the car door behind him. He stood straight, eyes emotionless but piercing.

Mo Heng emerged from the crowd, flanked by lieutenants.

"You've got some nerve showing up here again," Mo Heng spat. "Just because you humiliated me once doesn't mean you get to act like you own the place."

Yeming didn't flinch. "I warned you once. You brought this on yourself."

A dry chuckle came from behind Mo Heng. A taller, stockier man stepped out. His presence sucked the noise out of the air. The air seemed to pulse around him—this was no ordinary thug.

"Fang Lie," one of the Shadow Talons members whispered. "The leader of the Shadow Talons."

Fang Lie cracked his knuckles and smiled slightly. "I heard you were strong. Strong enough to make me curious."

Mo Heng laughed, though his voice trembled slightly. "He's the reason I called Fang Lie here. You walked into your own grave, kid. Made it easier for us."

The moment the words left Mo Heng's mouth, the gang charged. At least twenty rushed toward Yeming with clubs and machetes raised.

Yeming didn't reach for his sword. Instead, he slid into them with precision and force, like water crashing against brittle rocks. A punch sent one man into a wall; another received a knee to the chest that left him unconscious. He fought with restraint, using only enough force to incapacitate. There was no killing intent—only raw dominance.

The sound of metal clattering against concrete and groans of pain filled the air. He moved like a shadow with weight—a storm in human form.

Fang Lie's eyes narrowed. There was a flicker in his pupils—his spiritual sense activated without his control. And then he felt it.

A vast presence, hidden just beneath the skin of the man fighting before him.

This wasn't just a skilled fighter. Jiang Yeming was a cultivator.

Not only that—he was stronger than Fang Lie himself.

Fang Lie's heart skipped. He clenched his fists, trying to calm the shock that rippled through him.

Jiang Yeming's gaze cut through the chaos and locked onto him. Calm. Certain. Unfazed.

He slowly walked toward Fang Lie, the space between them shrinking with each step. The fighting behind him had quieted. Most of the Shadow Talons members were groaning on the ground. No one dared interfere.

"I didn't know gangs had cultivators now," Yeming said flatly.

Fang Lie swallowed. He hesitated, then—without warning—dropped to his knees.

"I had no idea you were this strong," Fang Lie said, bowing his head. "Please forgive me. I was short-sighted. I was only curious, not looking to provoke you. I'll serve you. As your servant."

The silence that followed was deafening. Shadow Talons members alike stared, jaws slack.

Mo Heng staggered forward, disbelief etched on his face. "What the hell are you doing?! He's just a kid! He humiliated me—"

SMACK!

Fang Lie's slap sent Mo Heng flying several meters, crashing through a stack of crates.

"Shut up! Do you even understand what kind of strength he holds?" he barked. "You dragged me into this, and now I realize it was a mistake. We're lucky he didn't kill us all."

Still kneeling, Fang Lie looked up at Yeming again. "Please. Let me be of use to you. I won't betray you. I won't let anyone know who you are."

Yeming stared at him for a long moment. His face remained unreadable.

"Fine," he said at last, voice as cold as steel. "But no tricks. If I sense anything off, I'll end you before you blink."

"Yes, sir."

"Give me your contact."

Fang Lie handed him his details with trembling hands. Jiang Yeming turned and walked back toward his car, his coat fluttering as he moved.

Behind him, Fang Lie stood up, stunned by how someone so young could be at late Profound Stage Five. He was embarrassed—but honored.

Facing his gang, he declared, "From this moment on, Jiang Yeming is not to be trifled with. He's not our boss, but he's someone you bow to. If anyone leaks today's meeting or his identity, you're dead."

The gang nodded, some still helping each other up from the beating they'd received.

—

Yeming drove in silence, the lights of Rainmere City flickering across his face. He dialed a secure number.

"It's done," he said. "Disband the fighters. There's no need for backup anymore."

On the other end, the voice acknowledged and disconnected.

Yeming parked the car two blocks from the house, scanning the street. He didn't want any attention drawn to it. For now, it would stay hidden.

When he stepped inside the house, it was evening. He hoped Lan Yueran was awake.

She was.

She stood in the hallway, looking groggy but awake. Her expression softened slightly when she saw him.

"Where were you?" she asked, voice still tinged with sleep.

"I had an interview," Yeming replied, slipping off his shoes. "Didn't get it."

There was a pause.

"Are you going out again?"

"No. But… if you're going to work tomorrow, I can drive you."

She looked at him for a moment, then shook her head. "Don't worry about it."

He stepped closer. "Let me. Please."

Lan Yueran hesitated.

"Fine. Starting tomorrow, then. I'm not going in today anyway. Surprised I slept that long."

"You needed it," Yeming said simply.

She nodded once, then went back into her room.

After his brief conversation with Lan Yueran, Jiang Yeming gave a small nod and walked past her without another word. He climbed the stairs steadily, each step echoing with quiet resolve. Once inside his room, he locked the door behind him, then reached beneath his coat and retrieved the sword. Its weight felt heavier now—not from fatigue but from the responsibility it carried.

Without hesitation, he slid it under his bed and pulled the cover over it, making sure it was well hidden from sight.

Satisfied, he unlocked the door and made his way down to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he prepared to cook dinner—trying, for a moment, to return to the quiet life he no longer truly had.