It was the prince who knocked.
The door creaked open slowly, revealing a red-haired boy frozen at the threshold. His wide eyes trembled, locked on the man sitting upright on the bed—a man the world had long since declared dead.
Yichen stood there, unmoving. Silent.
Feng Yun studied him calmly.
"He looks like my younger self... same skin tone, same silver-flecked irises. But the hair... that fiery red—his mother's. And yet, here he stands, keeping this crumbling mansion alive at such a young age. A mercenary prince. My son."
The boy's fists clenched, but tears spilled down his cheeks anyway. He wiped them away hastily, his lips quivering.
Feng Yun sighed.
He opened his arms without a word.
Yichen dropped his sword and ran forward, slamming into his father's chest with a force that nearly knocked the breath from him.
He gripped Feng Yun like he'd never let go.
"What was his name again… Yichen."
"…Mm. Yichen."
Hearing his name spoken aloud for the first time in years, the boy sobbed harder, his voice muffled against his father's shoulder.
"Father… you're awake. After all these years…"
Feng Yun's voice was soft, almost amused. "Yichen, you're crushing me. Can I breathe now?"
The boy jumped back, red-faced. "S-Sorry, Father!"
Feng Yun let out a chuckle that hadn't graced the room in years. "It's fine. It's just strange. Waking up to a son who's taller than I remember."
Yichen's smile returned, shy but glowing.
Feng Yun's gaze hardened slightly. "The maids said you stopped visiting me. Why?"
The boy hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't stop. I just... I've been busy. The Festival of the Strongest is coming up. The guild has been flooded with commissions, and I've been helping them prepare."
Feng Yun raised a brow. "Festival of the Strongest?"
Yichen nodded, eyes lighting up with excitement. "It's held once every ten years. Fighters compete in public matches for honor, fame—and the winner gets one wish granted by the reigning king. Anything within his power."
"Interesting," Feng Yun murmured. "And what would you have wished for?"
The boy looked down. "I was going to ask the king to summon the Divine Healer. To save you."
There was a pause.
Then Feng Yun reached out, resting a hand on his son's head.
"You've endured a lot. And you did it all for me," he said. "But you won't need that wish now. I'm not just going to sit in this bed while our enemies walk free. I'll enter that tournament myself—and reclaim what they stole."
Yichen's eyes widened. "You just woke up! Can you even fight? The deadline is tomorrow, and—"
"I have tricks," Feng Yun interrupted, smirking. "Tricks sharper than any blade."
As the first rays of dawn touched the window, the maids returned to clean the king's chambers and nearly dropped their brooms in shock. The room was open, airy, and the king was not only conscious—he was walking.
After a quick breakfast, Feng Yun and Yichen stepped into the city's sun-drenched streets. Colorful streamers fluttered above them, booths buzzed with merchants, and laughter echoed from alleys. The air was thick with spices, sweat, and anticipation.
People greeted Yichen warmly, bowing or waving as they passed. They glanced briefly at Feng Yun—then moved on.
"No one recognizes me. Perfect," Feng Yun thought. "Fame draws leeches. Silence lets me hunt."
They soon reached the festival's registration plaza—a large tented area flanked by guards and contestants milling about.
A lazy-looking man sat behind a wooden table, his feet propped up, eyes half-lidded. A small board hung above his head:
Festival Registration – Prove Your Worth
The man waved without looking. "Arm-wrestle the brute on my left. Win, and you're in."
Feng Yun squinted. "How many have passed?"
The man ignored him, flicking a toothpick from his mouth.
Feng Yun said nothing more. Instead, he turned toward the mountain of muscle seated nearby.
The man stood, cracking his neck.
"I'm Rin," he said with a gravelly voice. "Only nine have passed in five days. I'm Mortal Path, 10th Stage. If you're lower, don't embarrass yourself."
Feng Yun merely stepped forward.
"Feng Yun. Mortal Path, 5th Stage. This is my son, Yichen."
Rin frowned. "Feng… that name…"
But Feng Yun had already taken a seat, resting his elbow on the table.
"Let's not waste time."
They clasped hands.
Rin smirked. "Start."
He prepared to crush the stranger's wrist.
He'll give up when he feels it. Happens every time. I flaunt my realm, and the weak run—
CRACK.
Rin's knuckles slammed into the wood.
The plaza fell silent.
Even Yichen blinked in disbelief.
Rin looked at his hand, as if it had betrayed him.
Feng Yun stood up, brushing dust off his shoulder. "My match token?"
Rin shot to his feet. "You cheated! I'm five stages above—"
"In arm wrestling," Feng Yun said coolly, "raw strength is just noise. Precision and control? That's power."
He leaned closer. "Apologize."
Rin looked ready to argue—but something in Feng Yun's eyes made him pause.
"…Skill, huh?" Rin muttered bitterly. "Fine. But we'll see in the arena. I know someone in the Awakened Path. Let's see if tricks help you then."
He forced a grin and handed over the token.
"Forgive my earlier rudeness. Your match begins in two hours. Welcome to the festival."
Feng Yun pocketed the token and turned without a word.
Yichen followed, glancing nervously at the others whispering around them.
Feng Yun didn't speak.
But inwardly, he smiled.
"A test of strength? No. This is a test of resolve. And mine was forged in blood."