The morning mist lingered over the training courtyard, casting a hazy veil over the sparse figures moving through slow martial forms. From a distance, Tang Yun looked like any other outer disciple, his posture loose, his movements unimpressive.
But beneath the surface, his mind churned.
He had spent the previous night meditating in isolation, cycling his Poison Qi in slow, careful spirals through his meridians. It was still volatile in his current early stage of Qi Awakening, but with his past-life experience, he stabilized it more smoothly than any outer disciple should have been able to.
"I can't attract attention. Not yet," he reminded himself.
In the shadows of the Tang Clan, weakness was protection.
He had begun experimenting with a personal technique the night before. It involved threading his Poison Qi into hair-thin strands within his meridians too fine to notice, too subtle to detect. It lacked offensive power for now, but it was invisible.
A true weapon of a serpent.
During the afternoon drills, Instructor Tang Mu barked orders. He was a stoic man with a clean-shaven head and a back as straight as a spear.
"Form Twelve again! Sloppiness is death in Murim!" he shouted.
Tang Yun complied, performing the same form with slight variation. He subtly shifted his weight slower than normal, letting his limbs look lazy while circulating a strand of Poison Qi to his fingers.
No one noticed. Good.
From his peripheral vision, he noticed a figure watching Tang Mo, an elder with sharp eyes. His presence had been intermittent the last few days. Tang Yun suspected he had noticed something.
But he didn't act.
Tang Yun returned to his small courtyard room by evening, sore from the day's drills. He lay on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling.
"If Tang Mo is watching me, then I'm doing something right. But that also means I'll need a few more precautions."
He pulled a small scroll from under his bedding. It was blank to anyone untrained. But by running a thread of Poison Qi along its edge, faint words appeared notes from his past life.
Widow's Blanket A soft-contact technique. No immediate pain. Seeps into pores. Activated later.
Dustless Thorn A fingernail technique. Low visibility. Causes mild paralysis.
Neither could be used properly yet, but he could begin refining his understanding.
These were Tang Clan arts. Arts most of the clan had forgotten or ignored in favor of flashy, direct poison arts. Tang Yun's path would be different. Silent. Patient.
He recalled the Great Eight Clans:
Namgung Clan – masters of the sword
Zhao Clan – famed for Golden Body techniques
Lee Clan – movement and footwork geniuses
Gu Clan – formation and sealing
Huang Clan – wielders of soul arts
Jin Clan – alchemists and healers
Wei Clan – spear mastery
Tang Clan – poison users, now in decline
And the Eight Great Sects:
Wudang Sect
Mount Hua Sect
Kunlun Sect
Sword Sect
Moonflower Sect – all-female, illusion and charm arts
Beggar Sect
Hao Sect – mercenary and intelligence network
Bodhimanda Temple – Buddhist monks, silent and deadly
He needed to remain unnoticed until he was strong enough to strike at the root of what had gone wrong in his last life.
And for that, he needed a group.
Not allies. No, trust was foolish. But tools. People who owed him, who relied on him. People too small to be watched.
The next day, he visited the outer training yard early.
There, a boy named Liu Qiren struggled with his stance. His knees trembled under his own weight. Others laughed.
"Good-for-nothing like Tang Yun and limp-legs Liu. Make a great pair!" one snorted.
Tang Yun ignored them and stepped beside Qiren.
"You're leaning forward too much. Your back heel isn't grounded. Shift your weight," he said.
Qiren blinked in surprise but adjusted.
His stance stabilized.
"T-thanks!"
Tang Yun offered a faint smile.
One.
He'd help Qiren again tomorrow. Let the boy grow. Not too fast, not too slow. Make him dependent. Then maybe another would join. A quiet, forgotten group beneath everyone's notice.
He didn't need talent. He needed loyalty born of gratitude. He needed pawns.
That night, he tried something new.
While circulating his Poison Qi, he reversed the flow briefly to pass it through his lungs. A risky act.
It burned.
But then he coughed. His spit landed on the ground, smoking faintly. A drop of saliva corroded the wooden floor, leaving behind a small black mark.
"Success."
That meant he had reached the point where his internal Qi could carry poison outside the body, however weakly. A minor step, but vital.
He scribbled down notes.
Reverse Qi Infusion: Rotate poison qi counter to the heart's rhythm. Time limit: 3 seconds. Risk of inner bleeding: high.
Still too unstable for combat, but perfect for testing.
He glanced toward the dark window. No moon tonight. Just enough cover.
He slipped out silently.
Behind the outer disciples' quarters, there was a small garden overgrown with weeds. Nobody came here. He found a toad common, harmless.
With a drop of spit, he touched its back. It convulsed and died.
"Crude, but real."
He would develop this further. Eventually, his enemies wouldn't even know they'd been poisoned.
As the week went by, Tang Yun maintained his mask.
He failed a few drills on purpose.
He stumbled during a demonstration.
He let others call him useless, and he smiled when they did.
But Liu Qiren began improving. Then a girl named Chen Lihua asked for help with meridian control.
Soon there were four outer disciples who trained near him regularly. All weak. All grateful.
And none of them knew who he truly was.
The real Tang Yun had died in battle, surrounded, poisoned, and beaten. But that man had been too public, too powerful, too proud.
This Tang Yun was a shadow.
Coiled.
Waiting.
And he would strike when no one expected it.
[Tags]: Reincarnation, Martial Arts, Poison, Scheming Protagonist, Cultivation, Weak to Strong, Anti-Hero, Cold Protagonist, Clan Wars, Hidden Identity, Revenge