Lorcan's gaze hardened as he spotted a group escorting a man who stood out like a constellation of stars orbiting a moon. The newcomer was Zhou Yaoyang, the heir of the Savage Marches hou, whose chiseled features and imposing stature commanded attention. Zhou was not just a pretty face; his cultivation prowess among the heirs was unmatched, earning him widespread admiration.

  Upon entering, Zhou Yaoyang's eyes locked onto Lorcan and his companions. A smirk played on his lips as he approached. "My apologies for last time. I seem to have hit you so hard you didn't recognize your own mother," he drawled, his voice dripping with false remorse and veiled contempt.

  Lorcan's reply was a cool smile. "No worries. Soon enough, I'll return the favor—so hard you won't recognize your grandmother."

  The jab landed like a poison-tipped arrow. That single sentence confirmed Lorcan's suspicion: the pharmacist who had treated him after the beating was in cahoots with Zhou Yaoyang. The injuries, while gruesome, had been non-lethal—a calculated move to drain the Long family's finances and deepen their misery. The conspiracy was as transparent as glass.

  Before Zhou could retort, his lackeys erupted. "Lorcan, you're courting death! Once bitten, twice shy, isn't that right?"

  "A good-for-nothing who can't cultivate—what delusion makes you spout such trash?"

  "An imbecile like you sharing the title of heir with us is an insult to the very air we breathe!"

  Zhou Yaoyang silenced them with a raised hand. "Lorcan, you and I are both heirs, but our stations are worlds apart. You are but a speck of dust, meant to grovel at my feet. Should I bully you again, you'll swallow your pride—or face the same end as last time," he sneered, jabbing a finger into Lorcan's chest.

  **SMACK.**

  In a blur of motion, Lorcan seized Zhou's finger, twisting it with a sickening *crack*. Zhou's scream echoed through the hall as agony shot through his body. Ten fingers connected to the heart—Lorcan's strike had rendered him momentarily helpless.

  At Zhou's side, cultivators of the Seventh Qi Condensation stage might have weathered the blow, but Zhou, still short of the Blood Condensation Realm, possessed mere mortal flesh. Caught off guard and unable to channel his qi, he was as vulnerable as any commoner.

  Lorcan loomed over him, his voice a blade. "Lofty and high? Looking down on others? Were you describing yourself?"

  The sudden violence stunned the onlookers. Zhou, reduced to a whimpering heap, couldn't form words. His followers lunged, only to be halted by a thunderous roar that shook the chamber—a sound that belonged to Shi Feng, Lorcan's towering ally.

  Shi Feng's presence, a mountain of muscle and ferocity, quelled the advancing throng. The room fell silent, save for Zhou's pained gasps.

  A Confucian scholar, the hall's lecturer, stormed in. His eyes swept the scene, settling on the Twisted fingers. "Brawling in the Literary Hall? Know that the rules demand a month's confinement for such conduct. Shall I summon the guards?"

  Lorcan's mind raced. With a grin, he released Zhou's mangled digit. "Sir, you're mistaken! We were merely conducting an experiment—a study in unity and strength."

  "An experiment? Do explain," the scholar challenged, his skepticism palpable.

  "Ah, yes! We tested how long a single finger could withstand the assault of four others. The lesson? Unity is invincible. A lone finger, no matter how strong, is isolated—a drop in the ocean. Only through the support of its brethren can it draw endless strength and endurance. Zhou and I have gained profound insights into the nature of power, which will aid our future cultivation. Truly enlightening, would you not agree, Zhou?" Lorcan concluded, his gaze boring into Zhou Yaoyang.

  Zhou, face contorted, could only rasp, "Agreed," his voice a rasp that grated like nails on slate.

  The scholar's eyes glinted with amusement. "Very well. I shall overlook this transgression. But let this be a warning: no more antics in my hall."

  As murmurs rippled through the crowd, Zhou Yaoyang seethed, his breath ragged. "This isn't over," he hissed, venom lacing his words.

  Lorcan's smile widened. "I look forward to your next 'test,' Zhou."

  With the tension dissipated, the scholar launched into a lecture on governance and history, his monotone voice threatening to lull the assembly to sleep. Yet all remained alert—for to cross this man was to forfeit access to the afternoon's martial treasures.

  When the bell for noon finally rang, the heirs stormed the Technique Pavilion like wolves at the scent of blood. Even those like Yu Fatty, who could not cultivate, joined the fray, hoping against hope to stumble upon a technique that might change their fate.

  The Technique Pavilion's first floor, though only a fraction of the vast repository, housed seventeen shelves groaning under the weight of manuals—swordsinging forms, qi-channeling methods, and battlefield tactics. The air buzzed with the promise of power.

  "Brother Yaoyang, I've challenged Lorcan to a duel to the death. This time, I'll finish him and avenge you," Li Hao whispered, sidling up to Zhou Yaoyang.

  Zhou, nursing his broken finger, shook his head. "Not yet. But maiming him is fair game."

  Li Hao's eyes lit up. "I'll crush his testicles and gouge out an eye. That look he gives me... it needs to end."

  Zhou Yaoyang smirked, unaware that Lorcan, feigning disinterest in a nearby tome, had heard every word. Lorcan's smile turned predatory—a leopard eyeing lambs.

  As Li Hao and Zhou plotted, Lorcan turned his attention to the shelves. His memories, steeped in alchemical arts, offered little on martial techniques. He needed a war manual—and fast.

  Spotting a promising tome, Lorcan reached out, only for a hulking figure to snatch it from under his nose. "Apologies, this one's mine," the man growled, not sparing Lorcan a glance.

  Lorcan's brow furrowed. The act reeked of provocation. Undeterred, he moved to another shelf—only for the brute to intercept once more.

  "Sorry, but I—"

  **SMACK!**

  A resounding slap echoed through the pavilion. The blackguard flew backward, his cheek already blossoming red. Lorcan stood unflinching, his voice a blade. "Next time, it'll be your teeth."

  The room froze. Whispers erupted like boiling water.

  "Lorcan's lost his mind!"

  "Does he want a funeral, not a duel?"

  Yet through the chaos, Lorcan advanced, his eyes scanning the shelves. He needed that technique—and nothing would stand in his way.

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