In this world, vast and endless like the starry sky, the laws of yin and yang flow like rivers through every living thing. There is light and shadow, virtue and vice, swords and flutes, enemies and friends.
And yet, in all its balance, this world was never quite prepared for someone like Ling Yiran.
He was born into the noble Lingxiao Clan, the fourth most revered among the Five Great Clans. Known throughout the realm for its grace, kindness, and mastery of the sword and bow, Lingxiao had always stood tall and proud.
But Yiran? He was… a little different.
Born without a golden core, without yin or yang qi, the spiritual currents of cultivation refused to flow through him. The elders called him "blessedly useless," the outer disciples whispered of "a defect in the bloodline," and even the spiritual beasts avoided him like he carried an aura of blandness.
And yet—
"Yiran! Don't run with the paintbrush in your mouth!"
"Too late!" a boy's voice echoed through the painted corridors of the Lingxiao estate.
Ling Yiran, seventeen this year, hair loose in the wind, sleeves flapping, and laughter trailing behind him, skidded across the white stone paths with a brush clenched between his teeth. Splotches of ink stained his robes and even more stained the white tiger spirit beast that had been napping peacefully in the garden moments ago.
Chasing after him was his older sister, Ling Qingxue, graceful as ever, but with the gentlest of smiles.
"Big Brother is being stupid again," muttered Ling Yuze, one of the twelve-year-old twins, as he dragged a broom to clean the mess.
"I bet he forgot to hide the talisman book again," his twin, Ling Yuhan, added with a sigh.
Yiran popped out from behind a scroll rack, grinning with pride. "Wrong! This time, I remembered. It's hidden under your bed."
The twins groaned.
———
That night, the pavilion they stayed in glowed under lantern light. Located near the edge of Jinyue territory, it overlooked the silver lakes and tall willow trees swaying in a disciplined breeze.
Qingxue poured tea calmly as her brothers argued over roasted chestnuts.
"We'll be entering the Jinyue Clan tomorrow," she said softly. "Try to act... slightly more normal."
Yiran lay sprawled on the railing, gazing up at the stars. "Ten thousand rules? What kind of masochist makes that many?"
Yuhan adjusted his collar, sighing. "The kind of people who don't let you burp after soup."
"Or throw talismans at pigeons," Yuze added dryly.
Yiran pouted. "Those pigeons deserved it."
———
The next morning, they walked the white jade road toward Jinyue Clan'sfront gate—a towering archway of carved crystal wood, guarded by spirit wardens in matching silver robes. Zithers played in the distance; even the wind hummed in harmony.
The Lingxiao disciples were ushered forward one by one, their invitations presented.
Then it was Yiran's turn.
"Invitation," the guard said flatly.
Yiran blinked. Patted his sash. His boots. His sleeve.
"...Hehehe. Um. I might have left it at the pavilion."
The guards immediately crossed their spears.
Before anyone could speak, a hush fell over the crowd.
A young man descended the inner steps, dressed in flowing white robes that whispered frost with each step. A blue spiritual sword hung at his waist, and a red spirit thread was wrapped neatly around his right wrist.
His eyes were like winter — sharp, silent, and impossible to warm.
"Y-Young Master Jin Suoxue!" the guards bowed immediately.
The disciples lowered their gazes in reverence.
Except one.
"Ah! Cold-face!" Yiran called out brightly. "Hey! Tell them to let me in. I'm totally legit!"
Everyone froze.
Qingxue nearly dropped her fan.
Yuze whispered, "Dead. He's dead. Our brother is dead."
But Jin Suoxue, youngest master to the Jinyue Clan, didn't even blink. He stared at Yiran for half a second before turning away.
"No invitation. No entry."
He walked into the gate, white robes trailing like mist.
Yiran fumed. "Tsk! So full of himself! Alright, fine. Older Sister, you all go in first. I'll run back to the pavilion. It's not that far."
"It is far," Qingxue said, concerned. "You'll return at night."
"Then I'll bring food and fireworks," he winked.
.
.
.
An hour later.
Yiran returned, arms filled with steamed buns, rice wine, and his missing invitation triumphantly held in his teeth.
"HAH! I have returned, refined and triumphant!"
And then—
BOOM.
A spiritual pulse threw him backward. Bottles shattered, buns scattered.
"WHAT THE ACTUAL—?!"
He stood, hair messy, eyes blazing.
"Oh, that's IT."
He pulled a black talisman scroll from his sleeve and slashed characters into the air. Red light gleamed as the word "扰 (Disturb)" flared on the paper.
The talisman shot into the barrier like a firefly, and for three seconds, the gate flickered.
Enough time for one very angry, very dramatic boy to march through with his last unbroken wine bottle.
As he passed the formation, he took a long sip and grinned.
"Your rules are dumb."
From the inner courtyard, a familiar cold voice replied: "And you are loud."
Yiran choked on the wine.
"Oh. You again..."
—————
Thus began the most unpredictable chapter in the Jinyue Clan's storied history—when a boy who laughed at heaven walked into the realm of ten thousand rules.
And unknowingly, into the life of the one person who had never laughed at anything at all.