The bus hissed to a stop at the East Sea City terminal, its undercarriage protesting the abrupt halt. Qiang Ming stepped off the rear platform, boots crunching on worn cobblestone slick with sea spray. He inhaled deeply, lungs roaring with relief as the humid tang of salt and bustling life filled him. The clamor of distant docks—cranes creaking, gulls cawing—blended with the city's heartbeat: merchant carts rattling, vendors hawking fish and exotic spices, the muted footfalls of travelers weaving through narrow alleys. He exhaled a slow, triumphant breath. He was home.
He paused in the sprawling plaza, drinking in the sun-dappled façades of white stone and blue tile that loomed above. At twelve years and eleven months, Qiang Ming had visibly changed since last he walked these streets. He stood 172 centimeters tall, almost towering over the shortest adults. His shoulders were broader, chest carved with the lean strength of someone who had wielded a hundred-ton hammer and pinned a thousand-year-old tiger. Every muscle on his body seemed individually defined, as though each had been sculpted by brutal necessity rather than idle training.
But it was his eyes that struck most: once curious and wide, they now burned with a dangerous violet glint, like the embers of a dying star. His hair had grown long, cascading past his shoulders in gleaming black-purple waves, bound at the crown by a simple silver hairpin shaped like a hammer's head—an emblem of his clan and his resolve. A few unruly strands framed his face, accentuating the fierce line of his jaw and the calm confidence in his gaze.
Qiang Ming adjusted the strap of his satchel, tucked the edges of his fresh linen shirt over lean hips, and set off down the winding street toward the Clear Flow Clan manor. Sprawling pavilions and jade bridges marked its approach, each carved beam and tiled roof a testament to ten thousand years of tradition. He felt a thrill of anticipation, mixed with the slightest tremor of nerves—he had changed so much, and yet this was where his story had begun.
He reached the carved wooden gates, heavy and ornate with river motifs. A pair of armored guards barred his entrance, their halberds crossed across the threshold. The larger guard folded his arms. "Halt. No entry without invitation."
Qiang Ming met the guard's stare, calm as the sea beyond. "I am Qiang Ming, heir of the Clear Flow Clan," he said, voice carrying across the courtyard. "Open the gates."
The guard hesitated, brows knitting. "Identification—"
Without another word, Qiang Ming extended his right hand, and in a wash of violet mist, the Blackstone Abyss Hammer manifested in his grip. The weapon's surface shimmered with latent power, veins of purple energy pulsing like a heartbeat. The guards stumbled back, awe breaking their stern composure, the gate unlatching with a single clang.
He crossed the threshold and walked across the marble courtyard, his boots silent against jade inlays. Servants bowed in passing, eyes wide at the sight of their transformed heir. A fountain gurgled nearby, lotus petals drifting atop the water—a peaceful counterpoint to the storm contained within him.
Beyond the courtyard lay the Council Chamber, its towering doors carved with the clan's ancestral hammers and flowing rivers. Qiang Ming pushed them open without knock. Inside, the chamber's long mahogany table was ringed with elders in formal robes, their jade circlets glinting in torchlight. His father, Duke Qiang Shen, sat at the head, his midnight-blue robes immaculate, eyes narrowing as he looked up from the scroll before him.
A hush fell. The elders exchanged startled glances, scrolls rustling as they sat straighter. No one spoke.
Qiang Ming strode to the head of the table, boots echoing. He slung the Blackstone Abyss Hammer across his shoulder with a practiced flick. Duke Qiang Shen's stern mask cracked into a slow, incredulous smile.
"The Prodigal Son returns!" Qiang Ming announced, voice firm, swaggering with triumph and relief.
For a moment, all was silent—then pandemonium erupted. Elders rose, chairs scraped, and shouts filled the chamber: "Ming'er!" "He's grown!" "By the heavens!" Qiang Shen leapt to his feet, robes billowing, and crossed the table in two strides. He embraced Qiang Ming fiercely, palm creasing his son's shoulder under the hammer's haft.
Behind them, the chamber doors burst open as guards flooded in, armor clanking, alongside the other members of the clan. A cacophony of voices rose—questions, cries of joy, the echo of footsteps as more clan members rushed to witness the heir's homecoming. In the whirlwind of commotion, Qiang Ming caught his father's eye and saw pride shining through lines of worry.
He exhaled, raising a hand to the roaring assembly. "SILENCE!" His voice crackled with authority. Slowly, the room hushed, all eyes fixed on him. Qiang Ming set his jaw and let the silence stretch, savoring the moment.
Then, with a grin that split his bruised lips, he added softly enough only his father could hear, "I'm back."
And in that instant, amid the storm of surprised elders and breathless guards, Qiang Ming felt a simple, central truth take root: his trials had forged him anew, but his path—his purpose—remained bound to the Clear Flow Clan. The legacy of the Hammer Kid had come full circle, from prodigal exile to triumphant heir… yet the greatest challenges still lay ahead.