Chapter Ninety-Six: The Mystery of Origins

As Liu Zhengqing and Sun Zhixin departed, Yang Yan lay on his back, hands cradling his head, gazing up at the ceiling. A faint sense of bewilderment rose within him. Who could have foreseen that the once-maligned Yang Yan, scorned by most as a good-for-nothing, would, with the steady growth of his strength, not only transform the derision and mockery of others into admiration and fervor, but also win himself true friends?

“It seems that no matter the time or place, if one desires the recognition and respect of others, the prerequisite is always possessing a strength worthy of being taken seriously,” he sighed inwardly, gathering and calming his spirit. Rising from the bed, he strode toward the door. The battle with Leng Yuetian in the Hundred Hunts had indeed brought him pressure, making him realize that while he might count among the elites of Jinhuan City’s younger generation, when measured against the entirety of Jinzou, perhaps his strength would not even qualify as top-tier.

After all, on the surface, his cultivation had only reached the peak of the third level of the Spirit-Sensing Realm. He couldn't believe that Leng Yuetian’s strength was enough to stand unrivaled among Jinzou’s youth. The depths of the cultivation sects in Jinzou were far from as simple as they appeared.

“Yan’er, are your injuries any better?” Just as Yang Yan was about to step out, a concerned voice—belonging to a middle-aged man—sounded. Soon, the somewhat gaunt figure of Zhang Tai appeared before him.

“Father, I’m fine,” Yang Yan replied softly.

“It’s good that you’re well…” A smile flickered across Zhang Tai’s face, yet his gaze was tinged with complexity as he studied Yang Yan, silent for a long time.

Zhang Tai’s unusual demeanor did not escape Yang Yan’s notice. Could it be, he wondered, that his father feared the Xu family’s revenge after he had killed Xu Shaoguang?

After the Hundred Hunts assessment yesterday, Yang Yan had recounted everything to his father, including Xu Shaoguang’s death.

Perhaps sensing the confusion on Yang Yan’s face, Zhang Tai fell silent for a moment, as if making a momentous decision. The indecision and hesitation in his eyes were swept away, replaced by resolve and determination.

“It’s time for you to know the truth. In the end, the path ahead is yours to choose. Come with me,” Zhang Tai said, clapping Yang Yan firmly on the shoulder. Without another word, he led the way outside.

Though filled with questions, Yang Yan refrained from asking further. The solemnity on his father’s face told him this was no trivial matter.

Once outside, Yang Yan quietly followed Zhang Tai. His father’s heavy, measured steps betrayed his inner turmoil and struggle.

What could possibly warrant such gravity from his father? Surely, the Xu family alone did not possess such power…

Countless speculations flashed through Yang Yan’s mind, but each was dismissed in turn. At last, Zhang Tai halted before a stone door.

“Clan leader, Third Young Master!” Two armored middle-aged men stood sentinel on either side of the stone door, their voices ringing out in unison. In their hands, spearheads gleamed with a daunting aura—clearly high-grade spirit weapons. The faint energy radiating from their bodies made Yang Yan’s heart stir.

“Eighth level of the Spirit-Sensing Realm!” Such strength placed them among the Zhang family’s pillars, yet here they stood, mere guards.

What could be hidden within that merited such importance?

“Stand your posts and let no one enter,” Zhang Tai commanded. His tone was calm, yet brooked no defiance.

“Yes, sir!” The two men saluted with fists pressed to their chests, their voices booming like great bells.

“Let’s go.” Zhang Tai gazed at the stone door for a moment before exhaling, as if unburdened. Having brought Yang Yan here, there was no turning back.

They proceeded through a dim, winding corridor. Apart from their heavy footfalls echoing in the emptiness, all was silent. Yang Yan’s eyes roved ceaselessly, taking in his surroundings. Born and raised in the Zhang family, he had never known of this secret cavern.

The space within was vast, the torches burning along the walls clearly made of special materials. Their fuel—oil rendered from the bodies of magical beasts—could keep a flame alight for three to five years without failing.

Numerous side passages branched off the main corridor, twisting and turning. In the depths, Yang Yan glimpsed several stone chambers, long fallen into disrepair and abandonment.

They walked for less than half an hour before Zhang Tai stopped at the end of a passage, where a giant stone door loomed. Zhang Tai reached into his robes and produced an ancient stone key, his hands trembling slightly as he fitted it into a hollow in the door.

A deep rumbling echoed through the corridor. At length, a broad stone chamber was revealed.

The chamber was expansive—many times larger and finer than the dilapidated rooms they’d passed. The ceiling was set with countless niches, each embedded with a fist-sized moonstone, casting a soft, gentle radiance and bathing the chamber in light as bright as day.

Astonishment flickered across Yang Yan’s face, but his eyes quickly fixed on the center of the chamber, where a broad stone table stood. At its heart lay a jade box, luminous and swirling with light—a spirit artifact. Before it, a carnelian incense burner exhaled curling tendrils of smoke.

Above the table hung a portrait of a middle-aged man—sword-brows, starry eyes, features noble and handsome, his gaze carrying an air of wildness and pride. Looking closely, Yang Yan discovered a certain resemblance between his own brows and those of the man in the painting.

“Yan’er, come here.” Zhang Tai’s voice was calm, but to Yang Yan—who knew him so well—there was an unmistakable tremor beneath it. Clearly, his father’s heart was anything but at peace.

Without a word, Yang Yan stepped forward, stopping before the portrait.

“Kneel.”

Yang Yan was taken aback. A man’s knees are reserved for heaven, earth, and his parents—so he had always believed. To kneel before a stranger’s portrait unsettled him, and he wondered at his father’s intent.

“Kneel!” Zhang Tai’s face grew uncharacteristically stern, his tone sharp and commanding—a rare display of anger.

Even when Yang Yan had been unable to cultivate, stalled at the Body Tempering Realm, Zhang Tai had never shown such wrath. What could prompt this today?

Yet, the doubt passed swiftly. He owed his life to Zhang Tai; to refuse his father’s request would make him unworthy as a son.

With a thud, Yang Yan dropped to his knees before the portrait. Zhang Tai exhaled in relief, but did not address him. Instead, he stepped forward, hands trembling as he unlocked the jade box, withdrawing an old, folded gray-white cloth as delicately as if it were the most fragile treasure.

“Yan’er, you’ve always wanted to know about your origins. In the past, I found excuses to put you off. But now, the time has come for you to learn the truth.”

Zhang Tai’s expression was heavy and complicated as he placed the cloth before Yang Yan.

At that moment, Zhang Tai’s seemingly simple words triggered a storm in Yang Yan’s heart.