Warm sunlight poured in through the window. The curtains swayed gently in the morning breeze, and the scent of steamed buns filled the air.
Lin Hao sat in stunned silence.
His small hands gripped the edge of the wooden table, trembling. His feet barely touched the floor. Across from him, his mother hummed softly while feeding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket.
His sister.
Alive. Peaceful. Smiling in her sleep.
He turned his head.
There he was—his father. A tall man with a rough voice and kind eyes, sipping hot tea before heading off to work. His uniform was faded, stained from long days at the factory.
"Don't run in the house, Hao'er," his mother scolded gently, laughing as he darted over and hugged her leg tightly.
She paused. "Are you alright?"
Lin Hao looked up at her face.
It had been three decades since he last saw her. Not in dreams. Not in pictures. But truly, here and now.
"I just missed you," he whispered, barely holding back tears.
His father chuckled from the table. "Silly boy, we're right here."
He was.
For now.
But that wouldn't last—not unless Lin Hao did something about it.
His heart sank.
In just over a year, his father would collapse at the factory. They'd say it was exhaustion. Overwork. A "necessary sacrifice." But he knew better. It was his managers. The brutal schedules. The lack of proper breaks. His father would never complain—not once—but it would kill him.
Lin Hao bit his lip.
He had a second chance. But he was five. No money. No power. No influence. What could a child do to stop a grown man from following the path that led to death?
He needed a plan.
He needed strength. Influence. Leverage.
But above all... he needed time.
A year wasn't long.
He stood quietly by the door as his father left for work, memorizing every detail—the factory badge, the callused hands, the fake smile he wore for their sake.
Next time, it wouldn't be fake.
He wouldn't let him die.
Lin Hao spent the rest of the day in silence. He played with his sister. Helped his mother clean. But his mind was racing. To stop that tragedy, he needed to act now.
He needed money.
Cultivation wasn't just training—it required resources. Medicine baths to strengthen the body. Herbs to temper the muscles and bones. Specialized food to build internal energy.
At six, many children from martial families would begin their physical foundation training. They had wealth, support, ancestral techniques.
Lin Hao had nothing.
Except memory.
And then, it hit him.
A flicker—buried deep in his past life.
The fire. The last night before the final battle.
He was sitting with other survivors, huddled near a crumbling wall. One of the warriors—older, quiet, but strong—had shared a story.
"When I was a kid," the man said, "we had nothing. But one day, my brother found a metal box buried under an old tree in the city park. Inside were rare ores, scrolls, tools—things no normal person could afford. My guess? Some rich cultivator tried to hide them during the first beast wave and never made it back."
He remembered the man's smile.
"Without that box, I'd be dead. With it... well, here I am."
Lin Hao's eyes widened.
He remembered the park. The tree. The exact spot.
It was a large white tree, twisted and leaning to the left, near the western pond. The city hadn't been attacked yet—he still had time.
If he could find that box...
He clenched his small fists tightly.
That would be the start.
Strength alone wouldn't be enough. But strength backed by resources? That could move mountains.
Lin Hao lay in bed that night, staring at the wooden ceiling above. He could hear his sister's breathing. His mother's soft humming from the other room. The quiet snore of his father sleeping after a long day.
So much would change.
So much had to.
But tomorrow...
Tomorrow, he would begin.