Chapter Three: Enhancing the Bloodline

Zhu Family, Main Hall.

The family head, Zhu Quan, was deep in conversation with a man dressed in black when suddenly a servant rushed in, his expression tense. He whispered urgently into Zhu Quan’s ear.

“How dare the Zhao family! They actually laid a hand on my son,” Zhu Quan roared as soon as the servant finished his report. Fury surged through him, his bloodline power erupting; the teacup in his hand crumbled to powder, and even the chair beneath him shattered into splinters.

“Father, leave Second Brother’s matter to me,” came a voice from the doorway.

A tall, powerfully built man in crimson fighting attire strode in, a black broadsword strapped across his back, his eyes brimming with a ruthless light.

“Zhong, you’ve returned from your retreat!” Zhu Quan exclaimed in surprise.

Zhu Zhong nodded. “Father, I broke through to the third star last night and have stabilized my bloodline.”

“Then I’ll leave this in your hands.”

“Yes, Father.” Zhu Zhong turned to leave.

As he departed, the man in black spoke up. “This young man possesses an exceptionally robust life force. Judging by his bone age, he’s barely twenty and has already reached the third star. His bloodline must be the Mad Blade from the Bronze Compendium, ranked tenth. It seems your Zhu family has produced a prodigy.”

“I’d heard rumors your son once defeated a third-star bloodline martial artist with only a second-star bloodline. I was skeptical then, but now I see it’s no exaggeration.”

“You jest, Lord Mo. My son is merely a little more diligent than most; compared to the disciples of the Mo Sect, he still falls short. I hope that during the sect’s selection in a month, you will look kindly upon him.”

This distinguished guest was a sect elder, and Zhu Quan dared not overstep, though pride shone in his heart.

Meanwhile, on the Zhao family’s side, Zhao Hu lay on the ground, blood spilling from his mouth, writhing in pain, his eyes blazing with hatred. He had never imagined he would be defeated by Zhao Yuan.

Zhao Yuan hadn’t even activated his bloodline power. His opponent’s Flaming Scarlet Bird had been crushed with a single hand, and he himself was left gravely injured.

Then there was Zhu Feng, a two-star bloodline warrior with a weapon bloodline renowned for its combat strength. But years of debauchery had rendered his bloodline feeble and hollow.

It hadn’t taken much for Zhao Yuan to kick Zhu Feng to the ground, leaving him unable to stand.

As for Zhao Qing, he’d managed to slip away by chance.

Even Zhao Yuan was surprised by the power of his own Barbaric Bull bloodline—its black markings were on par with a third-star bloodline. Was it just his imagination?

“Zhao Yuan, how dare you injure me! You must have a death wish. When my elder brother arrives, not only will you be unable to protect your sister, but you will die as well,” Zhu Feng spat viciously from the ground.

A sharp crack sounded as Zhao Yuan slapped Zhu Feng, leaving him dizzy and coughing blood.

“If you utter another word, I’ll cripple you.”

“How bold! I’d like to see you try!” A man suddenly appeared on the rooftop and dropped into the courtyard.

“Brother, you’re here! Take him down for me!” Zhu Feng cried, gritting his teeth as he glared at Zhao Yuan. “Let’s see what you’ll do now! If I don’t take revenge for this humiliation, I’ll never be at peace.”

Zhu Zhong remained silent, his blood patterns gleaming as he summoned the power of the Mad Blade bloodline. Gripping his massive sword, a wild and violent aura gathered around the blade.

“That’s an enhancement-type bloodline!”

Zhao Yuan narrowed his eyes, frowning. He had heard of Zhu Zhong, whose Mad Blade bloodline from the Bronze Compendium could multiply his sword’s power several times.

Moreover, Zhu Zhong had spent years hunting beasts in the wild; his accumulated combat experience was not to be underestimated.

Fortunately, Zhao Yuan had often sparred with his own father, who always fought with full force; thus, he too possessed considerable battle experience.

“A useless young master should know his place and remain useless,” Zhu Zhong sneered.

He leapt into the air and came crashing down, his sword carrying a violent gale as it slashed toward Zhao Yuan.

Just the force of the sword wind made Zhao Yuan’s pupils contract and his body tense, a sense of imminent danger surging through him.

The black sword looked unwieldy, but its edge was razor-sharp and the blade itself weighed over a hundred pounds. If it landed, it would take his head clean off.

Zhao Yuan adjusted his stance, tracking the sword’s trajectory. At the last moment, he leaned his body along the blade’s path—the edge barely grazed his chest as it passed.

“He dodged it?” Zhu Zhong frowned in surprise. That move had been honed through countless deadly battles against fierce beasts—yet this so-called useless youth had evaded it.

Zhao Yuan had just avoided the strike when Zhu Zhong’s attack changed mid-flow. The blade flashed and thrust straight for his chest.

Just as the blade was about to pierce him, Zhao Yuan’s heart, shrouded in black mist, pulsed again. Blood energy surged unbidden from within, and the power of the Barbaric Bull bloodline seeped from his pores, condensing into a layer of black armor over his chest.

With a thunderous boom, the broadsword struck the armor, sending a shockwave rippling out.

“Impossible!” Zhu Zhong’s eyes widened. The force of his strike had been reflected back at him.

The shockwave hit him like a charging bull. With a loud crash, he was flung backwards, slammed into a wall, and spat blood.

“Barbaric Bull Armor! That’s a mid-tier blood technique! How could a useless wretch like you know such a skill?”

Zhu Zhong had trained for over a decade and had only ever mastered a low-tier blood technique.

“Useless?” Zhao Yuan’s eyes flashed coldly at the word. He picked up the black sword from the ground and strode toward Zhu Zhong.

“You keep calling me useless, yet you can’t withstand even a single move. What does that make you? Trash?”

“You—!” Zhu Zhong coughed blood from rage. “So what? I am a member of the Zhu family! If you lay a hand on me, the entire Zhao family will suffer our wrath.”

Zhao Yuan paused, thinking of his sister, Zhao Ling’er, and hesitated.

Zhu Zhong saw his hesitation and laughed triumphantly, “Good, you know fear. Crawl back where you belong.”

Suddenly, Zhu Zhong’s eyes flew wide as he looked down to see the sword’s tip piercing his chest.

“You—you’re courting death!”

“Whether I live or die, I don’t know. But you—are already dead.”

Zhao Yuan pulled the sword free, his gaze icy as he turned to face Zhu Feng and Zhao Hu.

Zhu Feng was so terrified he wet himself. “What are you planning? Don’t kill me! I can give you money—anything you want!”

“Zhao Yuan, I’m your brother! We share the same blood. You killed Young Master Zhu, but if you let me go, I’ll speak for you to Father and help you redeem yourself,” Zhao Hu stammered, his face pale and trembling.

“Redeem myself? Hah.”

Zhao Yuan did not hesitate. The sword flashed, and two more bodies fell.

There was no longer any place for him in the Zhao family—so why remain?

“Brother, you killed them!” Zhao Ling’er finally came to her senses, fear written across her face.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” Zhao Yuan replied, his voice resolute.

“What do we do now?”

“We go—to the place Father left behind.”

Neither noticed that as the three bodies fell, three beams of light emerged from their corpses and entered Zhao Yuan’s body.

Within the light were a mass of flames, a weapon, and the phantom of a blood-red blade.