The fragile peace of the Li Clan courtyard was shattered by the blaring of trumpets and the thunder of hooves. A contingent from the Humiliation Sect, garbed in ostentatious robes of crimson and gold, rode through the main gates as if they owned the very ground beneath them. At their head was Young Master Chen Feng, a youth whose arrogance was as boundless as his cultivation base was formidable. His eyes, sharp and disdainful, swept over the dilapidated Li Clan compound, lingering with particular malice on the gathered clan members.
Li Ming, who had been discreetly observing from the shadows of the ancestral hall, felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach. The Humiliation Sect had been encroaching on the Li Clan's territories for years, slowly but surely chipping away at their resources and dignity. Their visits were always a thinly veiled excuse for intimidation and further humiliation, and today promised to be no different.
Chen Feng dismounted with a flourish, his gaze immediately locking onto Li Ming. A cruel smile spread across his face. "Well, well, if it isn't the famed trash scion, Li Ming. Still clinging to this decaying husk of a clan, I see? One would think even a cripple like you would have the sense to abandon a sinking ship." His words, amplified by a touch of spiritual energy, echoed through the courtyard, drawing snickers from his entourage and grimaces from the Li Clan elders.
Elder Li, ever the opportunist, stepped forward, bowing obsequiously. "Young Master Chen, your presence honors our humble clan. Li Ming is but a minor figure, not worth your esteemed attention."
Chen Feng merely waved a dismissive hand. "On the contrary, Elder Li. The state of your clan is a direct reflection of its weakest links. And Li Ming, you are a gaping hole in your clan's already tattered reputation." He then turned his full attention back to Li Ming, his eyes glinting with malicious intent. "I hear you still cling to that broken sword, a relic of your pathetic father. Perhaps it's time you learned your place."
Before anyone could react, Chen Feng's spiritual pressure surged, a suffocating wave that pressed down on Li Ming. It wasn't meant to injure but to crush his spirit, to force him to his knees in public. The air grew heavy, and the other Li Clan members, even the elders, visibly flinched under the oppressive aura. Li Ming, however, stood his ground. His body trembled, his muscles screaming under the immense pressure, but his eyes, though downcast, held a flicker of defiance that went unnoticed by Chen Feng.
Internally, a storm raged. The humiliation was searing, a familiar burn that had plagued him for years. Yet, beneath the pain, a new sensation stirred—the quiet, resolute hum of the Sword Halo, dormant but ever-present within his broken blade. It was a silent promise of power, a testament to his awakened spirit. He would not break. He would not yield. This public degradation was merely another stone on the path of his revenge, another reason to cultivate with unwavering ferocity.
Chen Feng, seeing Li Ming still standing, albeit struggling, frowned slightly. He expected immediate collapse, tears, or desperate pleas. "Still stubborn, are we? Very well. Let's see how long that pathetic pride lasts." With a flick of his wrist, a gust of spiritual wind, imbued with a sharp, cutting intent, swept towards Li Ming, tearing at his clothes and sending dust swirling around him. It was a deliberate act to strip him of his last vestiges of dignity.
Li Ming closed his eyes, enduring the assault. He felt the phantom touch of the Sword Halo, a cool, steady presence against the raging storm. His unyielding spirit, once a fragile ember, now burned with a quiet, fierce intensity. He would remember this moment. He would remember every sneer, every insult, every act of contempt. The Humiliation Sect had sown the seeds of their own destruction, and he, Li Ming, the trash scion, would be the one to reap the bitter harvest. He would not break. He would not yield. He would simply endure, and then, he would rise.