In the fading light of late afternoon, the Jin Clan's outer court glowed with the amber warmth of the setting sun. Dust rose in lazy spirals from the worn training grounds as young disciples practiced their basic martial routines, some grunting with every palm strike or foot sweep, while others slacked, their attention drifting to idle chatter or the quiet rustle of trees in bloom.
To most, this was a place of mediocrity. The outer court wasn't where future elders were born—it was where forgotten lineages lingered, where names that once mattered faded into obscurity. The Jin Clan's glory resided far deeper within the sect's core, in the inner peaks and grand pavilions where true cultivation resources and attention were lavished.
But none of that mattered to Jin Wu-ren. Not right now.
He sat quietly beneath a crooked plum tree, the bark peeling like dried paper, its branches heavy with sweet-scented blossoms. Wrapped in a simple cotton robe tied unevenly at the waist, he looked every bit the five-year-old he was supposed to be. Soft cheeks. Slight limbs. Eyes too large for his face.
But beneath those eyes simmered the soul of Tian Yao, the former Immortal Emperor who once stood above heaven itself. The man who had stared down divine calamity and challenged celestial authority. The one who had died… betrayed.
Now, reborn into this frail shell in a lowborn branch of the Jin Clan, he was learning again what it meant to start at the bottom. What it meant to be powerless. And how to hide power when you possessed far more than you let on.
He looked around slowly, watching the other children spar and play. Some were a few years older—seven, eight at most—but none were particularly talented. Their cultivation was weak, their forms sloppy, and their spirit energy flow almost non-existent.
"It's almost tragic," he murmured to himself. "No discipline. No hunger. They don't even know they're weak."
A breeze passed, stirring the petals around him. Jin Wu-ren closed his eyes and inhaled. The air was dry, tainted with the scent of stone dust and smoke from nearby kitchen fires. It lacked the purity of higher spiritual realms—the rich, crystalline flow of essence he once drank like wine. Now, every breath offered only the thinnest wisp of energy. Most wouldn't even bother absorbing it.
But he wasn't most.
He had long since started refining this world's energy, no matter how crude. He knew the body well. Every meridian. Every acupoint. His soul core—damaged as it was—still responded to ancient rhythms. He had begun the arduous process of rebuilding it from nothing, layering his spiritual foundation stone by stone.
And he had to do it all in secret.
His mother, Mu Qinglan, was kind but cautious. She worried when he disappeared for too long or looked too tired. And his father, Jin Yao, though gentle in manner, had been made hollow by decades of clan dismissal. He had no ambitions, and thus no instinct to guide or protect a child that might one day draw dangerous attention.
Even now, Jin Wu-ren felt it—eyes occasionally drifting toward him. Not the eyes of love or concern, but the predatory gaze of a rigid hierarchy. Elder Jin Rou, matron of the outer court and the one who ruled its domestic life like a shadow queen, sat not far away sipping her tea. Her wrinkled lips curled with amusement as she watched Mu Qinglan speak with the other mothers.
Wu-ren noticed it immediately. The casual disdain. The way Jin Rou's eyes flicked to his mother's patched sleeves. Her secondhand shoes. Her downcast gaze.
It was happening again—those tiny cruelties that start as whispers and escalate to weapons.
And he was already preparing to answer.
He shifted slightly, adjusting his seated posture to better align his internal flow. Slowly, methodically, he cycled his breath through the Four-Stroke Incantation—an old foundational technique he had long discarded in his past life, but now revisited as if greeting an old friend.
Each breath sank deeper, flowing through meridians that still tingled from recent repairs. His soul core pulsed softly. Not strong enough to form qi yet, but no longer cracked and dormant.
He would need more time.
He would need opportunity.
And soon, fate would give him both.
Because in this clan of failing outer branches and forgotten names, even the flicker of a flame could stir the winds of fate.
Later that evening, the outer court's communal courtyard bustled with noise.
Dinner was always a chaotic affair. Disciples returned from training or errands, and outer-clan families clustered around long wooden benches while steaming bowls of millet porridge, pickled radish, and boiled cabbage were handed out in dull ceramic dishes. The aroma wasn't unpleasant, but it lacked warmth—like the people who served it.
Mu Qinglan stood in line, holding her lacquered tray close to her chest. Her hair, always neatly tied with a cloth band, had come slightly undone from rushing to finish laundry before the meal. Her sleeves were damp, her face flushed from the fading heat of day. She shifted from foot to foot, waiting quietly as two inner kitchen servants ladled out servings.
Then the voice came, sharp and sticky as syrup.
"Oh my, Lady Mu. Didn't expect to see you here so early. Finally found some use for that idle husband of yours?"
Mu Qinglan stiffened.
The voice belonged to Jin Rou's niece, Jin Meixiang—a woman in her mid-twenties who had never let a single outer-court event pass without asserting her inherited sense of superiority. Though technically of the same generation as Mu Qinglan, Meixiang held herself like an elder and walked like she owned the courtyard.
Behind her stood a few other women, laughing into their sleeves, whispering just loud enough to be heard.
Mu Qinglan said nothing at first. She lowered her head, attempting to brush past the confrontation. But Meixiang stepped in her way with a feigned stumble, "accidentally" knocking into Mu Qinglan's tray.
The ceramic bowl teetered—then fell.
It shattered at Mu Qinglan's feet. Porridge splattered across the ground, soaking the hem of her robes.
Gasps rippled around them. A few children looked up from their meals. A serving woman halted mid-ladle.
"Oh dear," Meixiang exclaimed, hand covering her lips. "Such clumsiness. Do be more careful. It's not as if food grows on trees for people like us."
Mu Qinglan bowed her head, her voice quiet. "I apologize."
Another snicker. "No need for apologies. It's only natural for someone with no cultivation to struggle. I'm told even your son is a bit… slow."
That was when a second silence fell.
Jin Wu-ren had seen it all. He'd been sitting cross-legged by the edge of the courtyard, a worn booklet open on his lap. He had planned to keep a low profile, focus on rebuilding his meridians before attracting unnecessary attention.
But now…?
Now he stood.
The people closest to him noticed. A five-year-old boy in common gray robes, face unassuming, stepped forward. No one stopped him. He walked toward the scene of humiliation like a drifting petal—not rushed, but with clarity.
"Please don't insult my mother."
His voice was calm. Soft. Too soft, some might say, for such a setting.
Meixiang looked down, blinking. Then her lip curled in amusement.
"And what is this? The mute child speaks?"
Wu-ren met her eyes. "I can't let you say such things and pretend they don't matter."
A few of the adults began whispering. Jin Rou, still seated nearby, now turned her head slightly toward the commotion. Her gaze narrowed.
"Oh?" Meixiang arched a brow. "And what will you do about it, little Wu-ren? Recite poetry? Cry to your father?"
"I'll show you," he said simply.
"Show me what?"
"How valuable your pride really is."
He turned and knelt beside the shattered bowl. With careful fingers, he picked up a broken shard. The sharp edge caught the light—and then, in full view of everyone, he pricked his index finger.
A drop of blood bloomed on his fingertip.
"What—" Meixiang began, confused.
But Jin Wu-ren pressed his finger to the air in front of him and began drawing.
Symbols. Glyphs. Old, primal calligraphy burned faintly into the air as blood smeared the spiritual threads he weaved. It wasn't a proper talisman—it was too crude and imbalanced—but it didn't need to be perfect.
It needed to be seen.
His hand moved with grace far beyond a child's. Lines curved with intention. Dots struck like punctuation from another era. And then, with a final sweep, he released the blood-formed sigil and tapped it lightly with two fingers.
It flared. Just for a moment.
The spilled porridge boiled.
A flash of spiritual heat surged into the bowl, and then—not quite fire, not quite illusion—a soft burst of flame twisted upward in a spiral. It danced, hovered, then faded, leaving behind a patch of clean ground and the sharp scent of ash.
Silence.
Jin Wu-ren turned back to Meixiang. His voice didn't rise, but the weight of it cut like wind through silk.
"My mother may be humble, but I am not slow. You've insulted her with words. I've answered with proof."
Jin Meixiang's face flushed crimson. "That was… that was just a parlor trick."
Wu-ren tilted his head. "Then replicate it. Here and now."
She opened her mouth—but said nothing.
Around the courtyard, murmurs began. Soft, stunned. Someone called out, "That technique… wasn't that a forgotten flame-writ glyph?"
An elder muttered, "I've only seen it once before. Who taught that child?"
Meixiang turned on her heel, robes whipping behind her. "Let's go," she snapped to her companions, who followed quickly, whispering all the while.
Wu-ren stood still until they vanished into the deeper corridor. Then he bent, carefully picked up the unbroken portion of the tray, and handed it to his mother.
Mu Qinglan stared at him, wide-eyed. "Wu-ren…"
"Let's get you another bowl," he said simply.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he walked with her toward the kitchen counter.
Behind them, the outer court buzzed like a disturbed beehive.
That night, the stars above the outer court of the Jin Clan burned clear, sharp, and uncaring.
Jin Wu-ren sat cross-legged in the dark, alone in the rear of the crumbling courtyard. Behind him, the stone wall that separated the outer and inner compounds stood tall and cold—an ever-present reminder of how far the low-born were kept from power.
But tonight, he didn't look at the wall.
He stared at his hand. The one that had painted the crude glyph in the air just hours before.
The faint sting of the self-inflicted cut had long faded. Yet a tingling heat lingered at his fingertips—not painful, but alive, as if the remnant of flame still danced beneath his skin. His core, that fractured, stubborn remnant of an immortal's soul, pulsed softly within him. It wasn't quite whole. But it had stirred.q
He exhaled slowly. A child's breath, shallow and uneven—but every draw of air carried awareness, calculation, memory.
That technique he'd used—"Crimson Ember Glyph"—wasn't the most powerful in his arsenal. Not even close. But it was old—a relic of his youth as Emperor Tian Yao, when he was still a wandering cultivator with no name and fewer resources. Back then, he'd learned it from an itinerant fire-wielder named Han Jieshi, who had demanded five spirit stones and a bowl of fiery liquor in return.
She'd laughed at his arrogance and told him the glyph was a toy—"Only good for lighting candles or scaring fools." But he'd practiced it anyway. Used it to survive more than one cold mountain pass. Used it to fend off beasts with dry tinder and spark. And later, when he was stronger, he had refined its shape, buried its function into layered sigils, and built whole formations from its concept.
And now, here he was. Five years old again. Relearning it with the blood of a child and the memories of a tyrant.
He clenched his hand into a fist.
The display had drawn attention. Too much, perhaps.
He had planned to remain beneath notice until his meridians finished stabilizing. Until he could fully awaken even a sliver of his former power. But that wasn't possible anymore.
He had intervened to protect his mother. And for that, he didn't regret it.
Still… there would be consequences.
Already, he could sense eyes on him. Earlier that evening, one of the junior stewards from the inner court had passed unusually close during the distribution of meals, pretending to adjust the water urns. An older cousin, Jin Tongxu, had hovered just outside earshot as Wu-ren's name passed from mouth to mouth among the courtyard dwellers.
None of this was coincidental.
He sighed. "So much for obscurity."
Then he heard footsteps.
He didn't move, but his ears sharpened. Light, cautious steps—bare feet brushing stone.
A shadow detached from the wall. His mother.
She sat beside him without a word. For a time, neither spoke.
Finally, she whispered, "They're saying things."
"I know."
"They're wondering where you learned it. What you are."
He looked up at the sky. "Let them wonder."
A pause.
"I'm not afraid," she said.
That made him glance at her, startled.
She was staring straight ahead. Her voice was calm—but there was something in it. A steady defiance, like coals beneath ash.
"I'm not afraid," she repeated. "I saw you draw light from the air. You weren't just protecting me. You were declaring something."
"I only did what was necessary."
"You did more than that." She touched his shoulder lightly. "You told them who you are."
He frowned. "Not yet."
"But soon?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I'm not the same as I was," he said finally. "In the past, I ruled with strength. But strength is like sunlight—everyone gathers to bask in it. Then scatters when it fades. This time, I will grow like shadow. Quiet, and everywhere."
Mu Qinglan looked at him, but said nothing more.
The silence between them deepened—not cold, but full.
Then, from the direction of the inner compound, a bell rang once. Dull. Heavy.
It was the signal for curfew.
She stood. "Come inside, Wu-ren."
He hesitated, then rose.
But even as he followed her steps, he glanced once more over his shoulder, toward the upper tiers of the Jin estate. The part of the mountain where the clan's true power resided. Where elders whispered and schemed. Where lines of blood mattered more than lines of effort.
He would have to walk among them soon.
Not yet. But soon.
He would stand where the light touched the highest stones—and cast shadows back down where none expected them.