Morning in the Jin Clan's outer court was always the same: cold air heavy with dew, cracked stones warming slowly beneath weak sunlight, and servants with blank expressions hauling water and rice from the lower granaries. The world creaked into motion like an aging cart—too stubborn to stop, too weary to rush.
Jin Wu-ren was awake long before the others.
He'd already completed his first breath cycle, the one that refined the dregs of lingering night-qi from his blood. A technique adapted from the Harmonious Dawn Sutra, a long-forgotten method originally designed for monks in seclusion. Useless for combat, but invaluable for slow foundational work. It had been a gift from a scholar-cultivator he once spared in his youth.
His second breath cycle incorporated elements from the Iron Thread Meridian Loop, a body-tempering method developed in the Flame-Scorch Desert by ascetics who had no access to pills or external qi. Painful. Brutal. Effective.
He had once used it to train common soldiers in the lowest ranks of his army. Now he was that soldier.
And as he opened his eyes to the empty courtyard, sweat beading on his young brow, he felt it—that flicker.
The ember.
His soul core pulsed. Ever so faintly, but steadier than yesterday.
Even damaged, even fragmented, his immortal foundation remained stubborn. Alive.
It would return. Piece by piece. Scar by scar.
But first... he needed power. Not celestial. Not profound. But useful. Practical. Tactical.
And for that, he needed scrolls, pills, spirit stones. Tools. Resources.
He needed leverage.
Something stirred at the edge of his senses. Not qi. Something physical. A presence.
He shifted to the side of the stone pillar where he trained and peered toward the gate leading to the lower path.
A figure approached.
Not a servant.
Not clan-born.
A stranger.
The man was draped in a travel-stained azure robe with silver threading, the kind worn by outer-sect envoys from mid-tier spiritual factions. A hood covered his head, but a glimpse of pale hair caught the light as he passed beneath the withered prayer tree. His stride was confident, but not arrogant. Each step precise. Controlled.
Wu-ren narrowed his eyes.
This wasn't someone random. He knew that kind of gait. That kind of measured pause at thresholds. The stranger had military discipline—or had once possessed it.
And he was here early. Too early for couriers. Too early even for guests.
The guard at the outer gate hadn't stopped him.
Which meant the inner clan had already sanctioned his presence.
Wu-ren stepped into the shadow of the pillar and waited. The man's gaze swept the courtyard once—and passed right over him.
But he stopped.
Then turned back.
"Strange," the man said, his voice light. Curious. "I thought I sensed someone..."
Wu-ren stepped forward slowly, keeping his expression neutral. His small frame betrayed nothing.
"I live here," he said, voice clipped.
The man tilted his head. "Name?"
"Jin Wu-ren."
The stranger studied him. "Interesting. 'Wu-ren'... No kindness in the name. No status, either. Fitting for a child in the outer court."
Wu-ren said nothing. Names held power, but silence wielded sharper edge.
The man smiled faintly. "You're not afraid of me."
"You're not dangerous."
"Not yet," the man chuckled. "But you are curious."
"You spoke as if you were expecting someone."
"I was."
"Who?"
The man turned. "Not you."
And then, as if that ended the matter, he walked on.
But Wu-ren watched his steps. Noted the subtle lightness in his footfalls. The way his right sleeve hung slightly heavier, as if concealing weight—perhaps a concealed scroll or thin blade. The faint scent of plum ash on his robes.
The Jin Clan hadn't entertained visitors from any sect in over two years. They weren't influential enough. Not yet. For someone like that to appear meant something was shifting.
It also meant...
He would need to move faster.
Whatever opportunity—or threat—this envoy brought, it was too early in Wu-ren's return to contend directly.
But perhaps...
He looked up at the sky. The sun had fully crested the eastern ridge now, spilling light across the courtyard walls.
Wu-ren slipped past a leaning shed as the sun rose higher. He didn't head toward his mother's dwelling this time, nor toward the servant kitchens. Instead, he made his way toward the south garden wall—a section rarely maintained. A trail barely visible beneath the overgrowth led to a hollow beneath a leaning storage shack: a narrow opening into the abandoned Archive Cavern.
He had swept it clean three nights ago.
It was the only place in the outer court where he could meditate without risk of being interrupted by other children, servants, or his ever-watchful mother. Mu Qinglan was loving in the way only a woman crushed by fate could be—her kindness came wrapped in desperation and worry. She had tried so hard to hold on to dignity and care for her son in this brutal environment, but she couldn't shield him from everything.
And so Wu-ren had stopped trying to let her.
Inside the cavern, stale air greeted him. The old wooden shelves lining the stone walls were warped, scrolls rotted or half-devoured by mildew. But he had salvaged enough to reconstruct a useable breathing method and physical refinement scroll. Not worth much to his old self—but in this fragile new body? Gold.
He reached the inner alcove, his chosen place of cultivation, and sat down cross-legged on a faded stone mat.
From the satchel he had buried behind the prayer idol, he retrieved three items: a worn fragment of beast leather inked with meridian diagrams, a broken jade talisman, and a dull gray pebble.
He placed the pebble on the floor and pressed a small thread of qi into it.
The pebble glowed faintly—only faintly—and the light disappeared after a few seconds. A makeshift alarm. If anyone entered the chamber, he'd feel the disruption.
Only then did he allow his breath to settle.
"Begin."
His soul core flickered into focus—a spiraling fragment hovering deep within his dantian. A remnant of what once made him a god among mortals. It was cracked and smoldering, the edges unstable, and he could not channel more than a trickle through it without risk.
But even that trickle was enough.
He began with the Iron Thread Meridian Loop, channeling qi through his muscles and bones using ancient pathways designed to reinforce bodily resilience through pain and pressure. A thousand years ago, he'd used this very method to help train a company of slave-soldiers destined for suicide battles in the Ravaged Western Passes. They hadn't lived long—but they had fought like wolves.
He remembered one of them—a boy named Yan Luo. Scarred, quiet, brave. He had once stood in front of Wu-ren to shield him from a collapsing rockslide, despite being told never to intervene in a general's affairs.
Wu-ren had granted him a warrior's burial. He hadn't remembered Yan Luo's face in years.
As the pain from the cycle wracked his small frame, Wu-ren gritted his teeth.
"You died for me," he whispered. "I won't squander your gift."
Next, he drew upon the Silent Reversal Sutra, a minor mental technique designed to suppress emotional distraction and silence inner turmoil. It had been taught to him by a mad cultivator-turned-prisoner whom Wu-ren had kept alive just to hear his philosophies. That man had raved about balance, breath, and silence in madness.
Now, Wu-ren found that silence again.
Emotion clouded qi. Passion muddled focus. He had been furious at his death—but that fury had burned too quickly. He needed precision. Not fire.
And lastly, he invoked the Nine-Star Void Lattice, or what fragments of it he remembered. A divine-tier method designed to synchronize soul and body during spirit ascension stages.
He couldn't execute even a tenth of it. But the entry lattice—a way to prepare one's spiritual meridians for eventual breakthrough—was intact in his memory.
And his body remembered more than his words could.
Qi spun.
It didn't flow freely. It stumbled, scraped against bone, surged into swollen meridians, and leaked out from unstable apertures. But it moved. Faster than it should. Stronger than a child should allow.
Wu-ren's brow slicked with sweat. His ribs trembled. But his eyes... were clear.
So clear.
"Too fast," he whispered. "This progress is too fast. Even accounting for my knowledge—this body... it's strange."
Something about it responded to qi with near-perfect receptivity. He could control his breathing, suppress spiritual rejection, and accelerate absorption beyond what was normally possible even for gifted prodigies.
But why?
He'd thought it was merely due to the remnants of his soul core. But now, he wasn't so sure.
He pressed two fingers to his inner wrist, felt his pulse, the rhythm of blood and energy.
It was almost like...
"This vessel was shaped," he muttered.
Not naturally.
Not entirely.
He had assumed his reincarnation was a cosmic accident or the backlash of the tribulation gods. But if someone had interfered—had prepared this vessel for him—it meant...
Someone wants me alive.
Or worse: someone needs him alive.
His lips drew into a cold smile.
"Then let them come."
The pebble flashed.
He froze.
Someone had entered the outer chamber.
---
The faint flash from the alarm pebble faded into the gloom, but its warning rang clear in Wu-ren's senses. Someone had stepped into the Archive Cavern—light-footed, careful, but not invisible. They hadn't triggered the main loose stone at the entryway, which meant whoever it was either knew the terrain—or was lucky.
He did not believe in luck.
Silently, Wu-ren scooped the pebble into his sleeve and erased all traces of his presence from the alcove—folded the meridian diagram, slipped the jade fragment back into its hiding place beneath the floorstone, and drew a thin layer of dust over the mat. Within three breaths, the alcove looked untouched. Abandoned.
Another breath, and he was gone from sight—tucked behind one of the collapsed stone shelves, his qi suppressed into stillness.
Footsteps echoed.
Slow. Testing.
A shadow stretched into the chamber, thin and angular. Not an adult.
Wu-ren narrowed his eyes.
A child?
No, not just any child. That uneven gait. The rasp of suppressed breath.
He recognized it.
Jin Renshu.
The third son of Elder Jin Rou. A boy not much older than Wu-ren's current body—eight years old, maybe nine—but twice as pampered and ten times as arrogant. Renshu was born from Jin Rou's official marriage to Elder Liang Zhi, a minor elder from a side branch of the main Jin lineage. That union had power, influence, and ambition written all over it.
Renshu himself, however, was nothing more than a loud nuisance.
Wu-ren waited. Still as a stone.
Renshu stepped into the chamber fully, peering around with nervous curiosity.
"Tch... Grandma said there might be hidden scrolls," he muttered, voice high and smug. "And that brat's been sneaking off lately... If I find something, Mother might finally give me one of the spirit-engraved tokens. Hah."
He knelt beside one of the moldy shelves and began poking around with a stick, disturbing layers of dust and snapping brittle parchment.
Wu-ren weighed his options.
He could frighten the boy and risk exposure. He could harm him and risk greater retaliation. Or...
He stepped out silently from the shadows.
"Renshu."
The boy yelped, jumping upright and spinning around. His stick fell with a clatter.
"Y-you!" he sputtered. "What are you doing here, Jin Wu-ren?"
Wu-ren didn't answer immediately. He took slow steps forward, his five-year-old frame seeming far older in stillness.
"This cavern is abandoned," he said, voice calm and quiet. "Why are you here?"
Renshu tried to puff up, his chin lifting imperiously.
"I'm here under Elder Jin Rou's command. This place is clan property, not some rat hole for weaklings like you!"
Wu-ren tilted his head, gaze cold.
"You came alone. No guards. No stewards. No official seal. Just a stick and your greed."
Renshu flushed red.
"H-how dare—!"
Wu-ren raised a hand to stop him. "Listen carefully, Renshu."
His tone sharpened, slicing through the stale air.
"Go ahead. Tell the elders I was cultivating alone in the dust and shadows. Practicing weak breathing techniques. Hiding in an old ruin." He stepped forward. "Tell them, and they'll ask what you were doing here without escort. Why you were snooping through records you shouldn't even know existed."
Renshu's lips moved, but no words came.
"Or," Wu-ren continued, "you can leave now. Forget what you saw. And go back to polishing your boots and memorizing your family tree."
The silence stretched.
Then Renshu hissed through clenched teeth.
"You think you're better than me?"
"No," Wu-ren said softly. "I know I am."
He turned and walked away, leaving the boy fuming, hands balled into fists.
He didn't look back—but he heard the rapid shuffle of footsteps retreating toward the surface moments later.
Alone once more, Wu-ren exhaled slowly.
The Archive Cavern was no longer safe. He would need a new location for cultivation—perhaps the old quarry on the western cliffs. Or the half-collapsed granary near the servant quarters.
It didn't matter.
He'd stood his ground. Tested his new identity—and found the will to dominate even now, weakened and reborn.
He sat back down on the stone mat, not to meditate this time, but to reflect.
His cracked soul core pulsed faintly, and from deep within its fractured depths, something stirred. Like a slumbering beast turning over in its lair.
Not danger.
Promise.
His legacy wasn't dead. It was waiting.
Just beneath the ash.