Chapter Twelve: A Fate Fraught with Misfortune

“Ah—” Han Bingyan jolted awake from a nightmare, and immediately felt pain radiating throughout his body. “What’s this?” As he gradually regained his senses, he realized he was wrapped up like a rice dumpling, white bandages coiled around him from his hands all the way to his waist, layer after layer. It seemed the only parts spared from the wooden staff’s blows were his legs.

He tried to lift his arm, but a sharp, piercing pain shot through his heart. Clearly, his injuries were severe. Han Bingyan gave a wry smile; to think he’d been beaten so badly by his own grandmother—it was truly unbelievable.

An appendage, was that all he was to the Han family? An expendable accessory? They would never cherish his existence; even if he vanished from their sight, so what? It would merely mean one less memory.

Looking around at the familiar furnishings, he confirmed he was indeed in his own room. Just then, the door creaked open and Han Bingran tiptoed in, carrying a large bowl with utmost care, as if terrified the medicinal soup inside might spill.

“Be careful, don’t let it tip over,” Han Bingyan, seeing his sister’s cautious approach, felt his earlier bitterness melt away and reminded her gently. Hearing his voice, Han Bingran set the bowl down on the table and rushed over, flinging herself at him. “Careful, that hurts—” Han Bingyan groaned in pain, prompting Han Bingran to climb off him with an apologetic grin.

“Brother, did you know you’ve been unconscious for nearly two days?” Nearly two days? Han Bingyan frowned. Given his current feeble state, perhaps it was true. Recalling Han Bingruo, who’d also been injured, he asked, “How’s Bingruo?”

“He’s fine now,” Han Bingran replied cheerfully, then teased, “But our number one patient is you! Once you recover, we’ll have no patients left.”

“Oh, you little rascal, making fun of me. Am I really that bad?” Han Bingyan laughed at her jest and made as if to get up and scold her, but Han Bingran quickly protested, “Stay down! You can settle accounts with me once you’re well.”

Indeed, he truly was a patient now; even drinking the bitter medicine required his sister’s help. Yet the presence of a caring family member made the bitterness disappear—these injuries felt worth it. Throughout his days on the sickbed, his sister tended to him, and Han Qianyu and Han Qianyun often visited, asking after his recovery. Their concern brought Han Bingyan a sense of peace he’d never known.

Over ten days later, a lively Han Bingyan reappeared before everyone. Han Bingruo, too, had mostly recovered, though traces of injury remained.

Worldly affairs pass by like a fleeting glance; life, like a paper kite, is a dream of rise and fall, with moments of surprise but more often compounded misfortune. As Han Bingyan and the other children played together, a harsh reality was thrust before them.

Perhaps this accident touched something deep within Han Liang; his impression of Han Bingyan worsened. Before Han Bingyan and Han Bingruo had fully healed, Han Liang hastily announced a decision that would affect everyone—the Han Family’s New Generation Selection!

The so-called New Generation Selection was a tradition passed down through generations. It was both a test for every newcomer to the Han family and a rare opportunity. The Han family revered martial prowess—an undeniable fact and a driving force behind its development. Cruel as it may be, no one questioned its necessity.

This selection, therefore, was a valuable chance: those who participated and emerged victorious, especially the champion, would almost certainly be named as candidates for the next family head, joining future contests for leadership. For each newcomer, it was also a trial, as their martial ranking within the family would be determined. Those who ranked high would earn great honor, but those at the bottom would face ruthless elimination—either to stay or to leave.

Those lacking in martial skill would be sent away, to toughen themselves in harsher environments and pursue greater growth.

“What a joke. Greater growth? It’s really just so they won’t tarnish the Han family’s reputation,” Han Bingruo scoffed. Once expelled, how could the weak possibly develop? Anyone could guess—they’d drift aimlessly, eventually swallowed up by the howling sands. That was their fate.

A grain of sand, when it falls into the endless desert, when will it ever stand out? Perhaps only when all the other grains have perished—a thousand centuries, or longer. And who’s to say it won’t share the same fate and vanish as well?

Han Bingyan nodded in agreement. Why cover an ugly truth with ornate lies? Even when making the most ruthless decisions, they still cloak them in vibrant colors—was it all just vanity? A congregation of hypocrites; when they commit acts of evil, they still boast of their kindness and heroic deeds. Is it pitiable, or simply inevitable?

“In the end, the ones who’ll leave are probably us,” Han Bingruo said with a bitter smile. “Born unlucky—congenital blockage of the meridians!”

“Don’t complain. Think about how to face it—give it your all!” Han Bingyan encouraged him. “Even if we leave, at least we tried, we fought! Besides, we have one more chance.”

“The Feathered Rite!” Han Bingruo’s eyes lit up.

Han Bingyan nodded approvingly, pleased to see his cousin’s renewed confidence. But was there really another chance? Han Bingyan wasn’t so sure. The Feathered Rite seemed more like a fragile hope they clung to. If even that hope was shattered…

Compared to Han Bingyan and Han Bingruo’s newfound resolve, Han Bingran’s spirit was dim. Could this fragile balance truly not be maintained any longer? She didn’t want to break the harmony she’d grown to cherish. How could she easily let go of what she already possessed?

※※※Feather※※※Emperor※※※

At last, the long-awaited day arrived.

In the Han family’s martial arena, every clan member had gathered, some traveling from distant regions across the country. Han Liang stood at the most prominent spot, flanked by Han Qianyu, Han Qianyun, and several elders of high status. The crowd filled the venue, over three hundred strong. At the center stood nine children, around ten years old—Han Bingyan and the other candidates for this selection. Han Bingran was one of only two girls; the other was Han Bingyan’s cousin, Han Bingyao, who rarely resided at the Han family estate.

“Well then, let this generation’s New Generation Selection begin!” Han Liang’s hoarse voice, amplified by his inner strength, rang out across the arena, loud and clear, piercing every ear. He signaled for the attendants to bring out nine huge paper boxes. “These nine boxes represent the nine participants. Inside each box is a slip of paper, representing their opponents. The draw will determine matchups. Each will compete in seven bouts, each decided by victory or defeat. If you draw your own name, you get a bye and are awarded a win. If you draw someone you’ve already fought, your record accumulates accordingly. When all matches are done, the rankings will be determined. It may not be perfectly fair, but luck is also a factor in overcoming opponents. Everything is left to fate. Any objections?”

Seeing no objections, Han Liang nodded slightly and declared, “Then the official competition begins now.”

With this announcement, the arena erupted, all eyes fixed on the boxes before the family head.