The Jin Clan's outer compound was a place of old dust and quiet resignation, far removed from the pride and polish of the inner halls. Here, forgotten corners lingered like old wounds—cracked stone pathways, weed-choked training fields, and storage rooms converted into makeshift dormitories.
It was here that Jin Wu-ren spent most of his days, and even more of his nights, unseen and unremarkable.
But tonight, under the shroud of darkness, he was anything but idle.
His feet moved with the soft, sure rhythm of someone who had walked this path before—though no child in this clan, let alone one barely five years old, should have known the way. He paused before a broken archway behind the outer prayer hall, where vines had crept over the entrance like time's fingers trying to seal it away.
Wu-ren brushed them aside and slipped through.
Beyond lay the Archive Cavern—a hollow beneath the estate once used to house clan records, discarded scriptures, and scrolls deemed too trivial for the inner halls. It hadn't been properly maintained in decades.
Which made it perfect.
He moved deeper, a flickering oil lamp in hand. Shadows crawled along the stone walls, dancing with the rise and fall of the flame.
The air here was different. Older. Still.
He found what he was looking for tucked behind a collapsed shelf—an unassuming bamboo case sealed with faded red wax. Inside was a scroll titled: Silent Meridian Opening Sutra.
A novice's technique. Weak. Outdated.
Perfect.
Wu-ren unrolled the scroll slowly, his eyes scanning the familiar formation. As he read, he wasn't just remembering—he was reconstructing. Refining. Rewriting it in his mind using the knowledge of his former life.
This wasn't about learning. This was about rebuilding.
---
In the life before this one, he had stood atop the world.
Emperor Tian Yao.
The Immortal Flame Sovereign. Slayer of Demons. Breaker of Heaven's Chains.
He had created techniques that shifted celestial tides. He had written his name into the laws of reality with fire and blood.
But now, he had none of it.
Not his body.
Not his cultivation base.
Only his memories, and a fractured soul core—barely alive, barely breathing. A shard of godhood buried inside a child's body.
Trying to use his old methods now would be suicide. The energies would tear his meridians apart, destroy his mind, or worse—burn out his damaged soul.
So he started where all things should:
At the beginning.
The Silent Meridian Opening Sutra was slow, delicate, and subtle. It guided spiritual energy through the body in soft spirals, gently encouraging the meridians to open without pressure or pain. For ordinary children, it would take months to feel even a flicker of Qi.
For Wu-ren?
A single breath was enough.
As he sat cross-legged on the cold floor, eyes closed, breath steady, he began to circulate Qi. Not like a novice flailing through instructions, but like a master calligrapher drawing invisible ink.
He adjusted the pathway the technique followed—slightly off the prescribed route, redirecting the Qi to repair and strengthen weak points in his body. He added breathing rhythms stolen from ancient dragon heart manuals. He wove in silent mantras that synchronized his flow with the heartbeat of the earth.
In under an hour, he felt it:
The first true pulse.
A thread of energy moving through his dantian like a river finding its source.
---
He exhaled slowly, lips barely parting, eyes fluttering open in the dark.
Not bad for a child.
But he wasn't content.
His mind wandered back—years ago, or lifetimes depending on how one measured such things. To a mountain battlefield drenched in moonlight and blood, where he once fought the Jade Centurion—an immortal blessed with a thousand limbs and unbreakable defense.
He'd used a technique then: the Ash Spiral Inferno. A combination of flame-imbued Qi and spatial warping, condensed into a single, perfect strike.
The memory still burned in him.
He remembered the heat.
The weight of the moment.
The silence afterward, when the Centurion's body finally collapsed.
And the crowd of immortals who watched in stunned silence.
Those techniques... that power... it was no longer his.
But the memory of it was.
And memory, if sharpened enough, became intent.
Intent shaped Qi.
---
He closed his eyes again and whispered, "From dust I rise."
The pulse within his core answered like a second heartbeat.
He wasn't just cultivating.
He was reclaiming.
And in the silence of the Archive Cavern, a single spark caught flame.
He stood slowly, rolled the scroll back into its case, and replaced it exactly where he found it. The less attention drawn to this place, the better.
As he exited the cavern, the early light of dawn began to warm the horizon. Birds stirred in the trees above, and the sounds of waking servants drifted through the compound.
Jin Wu-ren walked back into the world as if he'd never left.
By midmorning, the outer courtyard of the Jin Clan was alive with the rhythm of daily life—wooden buckets clattering at wells, the laughter of clan children, and the tired bickering of aunties sweeping the porch. All of it moved around Jin Wu-ren like a tide parting around a rock.
He was quiet today—more than usual—and sat with legs crossed in the small courtyard outside his family's shared quarters, feigning play with a set of painted pebbles.
Each one bore a mark, some fresh, some worn away. One for cultivation paths. One for breathing rhythms. One for danger.
He tapped the pebbles in sequence, a game to any onlooker, but in truth, he was tracing spiritual circuits in his mind—preparing to test the second variation of the novice sutra.
But he wasn't alone.
From within the house, he could hear his mother's voice. Low. Controlled. But strained.
"…Yes, I understand, Elder Rou. My husband is still away in Blackstone Vale handling the grain quota. If you have questions about our duties, I'm happy to answer them."
A pause. Then the sharper voice of Elder Jin Rou, brittle and scornful.
"You're always full of words, Mu Qinglan. But words don't clean latrines or pull weeds. Your son is nearly six and still hasn't shown spirit roots. Are you raising a cultivator or a cripple?"
Wu-ren's hand froze over the last pebble.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just listened.
His mother didn't defend him. She didn't have to. He already knew her silence wasn't weakness—it was restraint. Mu Qinglan wasn't a woman who fought with fists or fury. She endured.
But endurance bred scars.
And some scars, he couldn't allow her to wear.
He stood, brushed the dust off his knees, and walked into the house.
The air inside the house was tense.
Elder Jin Rou stood like a gnarled stick of ironwood near the low tea table, her bony fingers tightening around the rim of a porcelain cup she had no intention of drinking from. Her face was a storm of contempt, and when her eyes fell on Wu-ren, they narrowed with something between pity and loathing.
"So," she sneered, "the mute appears. Maybe now he'll say something useful."
Wu-ren said nothing.
Instead, he walked forward with the deliberate, unhurried grace of a child not concerned with time. He stopped beside his mother and bowed—not too deeply, not too shallowly. A perfect, polite bow.
Then he looked up at Elder Jin Rou.
"My father said that when a teacup gets too old, it shouldn't be used for boiling water," he said.
Rou blinked.
"Because," he continued, "it might crack and spill bitterness everywhere."
There was a beat of silence.
Then his mother made a choking noise—caught between a gasp and a suppressed laugh.
Rou's face turned a dangerous shade of red.
"You impudent little—" she began.
But Wu-ren raised his hand calmly.
"If Elder Rou believes I'm without potential," he said, voice quiet but clear, "then perhaps she'd like to test me."
The room went still.
Wu-ren turned, picked up one of the pebbles he'd brought in, and set it on the floor. He sat cross-legged beside it and breathed once. Twice. Thrice.
And then he touched the stone.
The air around it rippled—soft, barely visible.
But it moved.
The Qi in the room stirred, the faintest pulse of spiritual energy circling the stone like dust caught in wind.
Rou's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"That's not possible," she muttered. "You… you weren't listed for testing. The census said—"
Wu-ren stood.
"I wasn't ready until today," he said, with the faintest curve of a smile.
"Perhaps you should update your records."
He turned to his mother.
"I'll go help Old Liu with the herb garden now."
And with that, he walked out.
Behind him, silence reigned.
Mu Qinglan looked at the stone. At her son. And for the first time in weeks, her lips curved into something proud.
Outside, Jin Wu-ren walked into the sunlight.
One more scar erased.
One more step reclaimed.