Under the illumination of the light, the already slumbering Han Ling slowly awoke.
As soon as he opened his eyes, the dazzling chandelier forced him to shut them again. After a few breaths, he finally adapted to the brightness and fully opened his eyes.
What greeted him was an unfamiliar ceiling so unfamiliar it made him frown.
Hanging from the ceiling were oddly-shaped "torches," yet there was no flame, no heat. They weren't quite like the glowing pearls of the immortal realm either—he had never seen night pearls this massive, encased in glass no less.
Han Ling quickly sat up, a chill flashing in his gaze as he scanned his surroundings vigilantly.
A jade writing desk, ancient bamboo scrolls, neatly arranged classics on the shelves… The air carried a faint wooden fragrance, warm and calming. At least… there was no killing intent.
This was not the immortal realm he knew.
Nor was it the moment he was engulfed by purple-black karmic fire at the altar.
Was he… still alive?
Han Ling lowered his eyes, looking at his thin, pale hands, his fingertips trembling slightly. After a moment, the coldness in his deep eyes grew stronger.
He murmured in a low voice:
"A new body?"
If so… there was only one thing to do.
He sat cross legged, brought his two fingers to his brow, and chanted softly:
"Divine soul reflects, past dust revealed. Thoughts arise and fall, like a mirror without trace."
Spiritual light flickered, his sea of consciousness rippled, and remnants of his divine sense delved into the depths of this body.
A flood of memories surged forth.
In a dark hallway, a small figure huddled in a corner, clutching a glass marble, hearing his father's weeping and a doctor's cold advice from behind the door—'We've done all we can.' That sentence stabbed into his heart like a knife.
At school, he wore ill fitting designer clothes, head lowered as classmates shoved and mocked him, forcing himself to swallow his anger and avoid trouble.
At his mother's funeral, he hid in the crowd with reddened eyes, gripping a photo of himself and his mother in a tight embrace.
His father, busy with work and absent for years, his stepmother ignoring him with a gentle yet chilling smile.
He became increasingly silent and withdrawn, shutting himself in his room, numbly passing the days reading about antiques and ancient texts.
Han Ling quietly watched this string of memories, the corner of his lips curling into a cold smile as he murmured:
"Pathetic."
Yet deep in his gaze, there was a faint trace of pity.
"At least… pure."
Retracting his divine soul, he slowly opened his eyes. A sharp glint swept across his brows, completely replacing the weak and timid look from before.
He stood and walked to the desk, running his fingers over its cold jade surface. A cracked jade pendant caught his attention though fractured, it still contained an ancient aura.
Probing it with spiritual power, the pendant grew warm. Han Ling chuckled lightly:
"Thank you for this gift. I like it very much."
He bit his fingertip, letting a drop of blood fall on the jade. With a loud crack, it shattered and turned into a storage pouch. Sweeping his divine sense through it, he found mountains of spirit stones and a short spirit sword.
He drew the sword it was barely two feet long, shorter than usual, its blade milky white with silver clouds swirling around it. A jade cloud-shaped charm hung from the hilt, and near the base of the blade were two engraved characters: Xiao Yun.
—A spirit sword with its own intelligence.
Han Ling couldn't help thinking the craftsman must have had a cute personality. He hadn't expected such high-level artifacts to still exist in this world.
Narrowing his eyes, a rare trace of softness appeared on his lips:
"I don't know how you died, but since you've lent me your body, I'll live this life in your stead. From today onward, your silence, your weakness, your loneliness—have nothing to do with me."
When he tried to return the spirit sword to the pouch, the "feigning dead" sword stubbornly refused to go in. Han Ling gave it an exasperated look.
After a few dozen seconds, the sword finally transformed into a silver bracelet and coiled around his wrist, still adorned with the little cloud shaped jade charm. He even heard it snort softly. Helpless, he smiled faintly and let it be.
After storing the pouch, Han Ling walked into the bathroom.
When the reflection in the mirror stared back at him, he paused. It was eighty percent similar to his original face, only more pale and frail. The features were still exquisite, but the eyes no longer held any trace of cowardice.
"Same name, Han Ling… but I will become the true Han Ling."
At that moment, a knock came at the door.
"Young master, it's time to change into your suit for the banquet. Madam is waiting in the beauty salon. We'll head to the hall together shortly."
Han Ling's expression was calm as he replied,
"Got it, Uncle Liu."
That icy confidence in his tone made the butler outside the door pause in surprise.
After washing up, Han Ling followed the butler to the room where his clothes were laid out. Along the way, he observed his surroundings, noticing how utterly different it was from the immortal realm. Thankfully, the original host's memories told him what was what, and how to operate things.
"This is the suit the master prepared for you," Uncle Liu said, handing him the outfit from the hanger. Han Ling found the style rather odd very different from the aesthetics of the cultivation world but quietly found it interesting.
He accepted it, ran his fingers over the fabric it felt rather nice then stepped into the changing room. Slowly unbuttoning the shirt, he curiously studied the clothing of this era, and once satisfied, put on the suit as the memories instructed.
The changing room's soft, warm light fell over the neatly hung clothes and the full length mirror on the wall, which reflected a slender, handsome figure.
Han Ling stood before the mirror, long fingers fastening the last cuff button. The tailored white suit fit him perfectly like armor, hugging his slender yet straight shoulders and even flattering the curve of his collarbone beautifully.
Lowering his head, he tucked a stray lock of black hair behind his ear. As his fingertips grazed the snowy white collar, he couldn't help admiring the original host's father's taste.
Admittedly, Han Ling had always been a little vain.
Looking at himself in the mirror too pale, too pristine, too cold to approach—he thought the delicate, almost perfect face looked especially unfamiliar in the silent room.
Still, he was very satisfied with himself now, and liked how comfortable the suit felt. In the quiet, he could only hear the faint sound of his fingers stroking the fabric.
After savoring his own reflection for a moment, his thin lips pressed into a cool line, his lashes lowering as if he was putting on a perfect mask.
Then he turned and walked to the door, his tall, straight figure casting sharp, icy lines under the lights.
As the lock clicked softly, his voice was low and quiet:
"Let's go, Uncle Liu."
In the changing room, the reflection in the mirror silently watched him leave.
But before he could step out, Uncle Liu called him back and summoned a waiting stylist to tidy his long hair. The stylist combed his hair back smoothly, leaving a few loose strands at his temples, adding a touch of cold elegance and unruliness. The ends were tied with a thin black ribbon embroidered with a subtle silver family crest—low-key yet refined.
"Young master truly looks splendid," Uncle Liu said with a smile.
Faced with outsiders, Han Ling merely replied impassively.
Uncle Liu then led him outside to the estate's open courtyard. The obsidian-paved ground gleamed like a mirror. A massive archway bearing the family crest loomed overhead, and several cold white standing lamps lit the corridor as bright as day.
Beyond, in the swirling night clouds, an airship hovered silently above the mansion like an inverted silver black sword, its sleek hull faintly traced with dark blue energy patterns. The crest on its edge gleamed gold, casting a faintly chilling pressure.
The ship slowly adjusted its position in the low sky, its quantum engine emitting a low, steady hum that made the floor beneath them faintly tremble. When a hatch opened beneath the ship, a curtain of light poured down, illuminating the ground and forming a straight bridge of light connecting to the mansion's steps, with faint violet guardrails crackling with arcs of electricity.
Han Ling noticed the crest engraved on the airship bore the family name—a large Han character—making him once again reassess the original host's father's capabilities.
"See you later, young master," Uncle Liu said, watching him board the ship before turning back toward the mansion.
Onboard, Han Ling sat quietly, silently circulating his spiritual power to absorb the world's ambient energy.
"Plentiful spiritual energy… truly a fine land."
Before long, the airship stopped outside a beauty salon. His stepmother, freshly made up, stepped out. When she saw him, she froze for a moment, but quickly masked her expression and sat on the sofa opposite, coolly instructing:
"Don't cause trouble at the banquet."
Han Ling's lips curved faintly, his reply light:
"Alright."
As the ship resumed its journey, Han Ling turned to look out the window, his gaze deep and unfathomable.
This unfamiliar world—he didn't yet know where it would lead.
But it didn't matter.
He had never been afraid.
In the faint spiritual energy that lingered at his fingertips, a trace of future killing intent quietly bloomed.
After the airship arrived at its destination, Han Ling disembarked with his stepmother, only to see the Morpheil family's grand estate shining brightly as though it were daytime. Hundreds of crystal chandeliers glittered in harmony, casting the magnificent and ancient hall in a dazzling golden glow. The ceiling was adorned with intricate patterns and reliefs, catching the light like a dreamscape. Within the wall niches, rare treasures and antiques were displayed; a long gilded table was draped in smooth velvet, its surface lined with countless porcelain plates and silverware, each laden with exotic delicacies and fresh fruits.
The air was filled with the scent of wine, spices, and a faint hint of roses. Nobles in fine attire gathered in small groups, laughing and chatting while servers weaved through the crowd with trays of jewel colored drinks. This was a rare banquet, the kind that would make any guest feel honored to attend.
When Han Ling stepped into the hall, his vision dimmed slightly as countless curious or even contemptuous gazes fell on him. But they were quickly drowned out by the splendor of the scene. He lowered his eyes, the corner of his lips curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
So this is what it felt like for the original host to attend one of these… how unpleasant.
His stepmother clung to his arm as they walked, whispering, "Don't embarrass the Han family."
No sooner had she spoken than she let go, as though casting off a burdensome piece of luggage, and briskly made her way to her own flock of gaudily dressed sisters. Laughter soon rose from that corner, lively yet hollow.
Guided by memory, Han Ling turned his head and saw his father on the far side of the room, surrounded by well dressed guests, laughing and talking, never sparing him even a glance.
Han Ling stood still, his eyes trailing over the golden filigree on the wall. Yet there was no sadness in his gaze on the contrary, it was as though a weight had lifted. He chuckled softly to himself.
Good. Just like this…
He never liked such noisy affairs, nor did he care to curry favor with anyone here. Being ignored suited him just fine. Finding a quiet corner, he picked up a glass of red wine and, mimicking the others, sipped slowly, his eyes half dazed, half-cold as he observed the room.
Just as he was idly debating whether to try some desserts, a sudden commotion drew his attention.
In the middle of the crowd, a young noble richly dressed yet haggard stood trembling slightly, a glass of wine in hand. His grip faltered, and the wine spilled all over another man's expensive suit.
The other man's face darkened instantly. "What's the meaning of this?!" he barked, his tone full of humiliation and threat.
The haggard youth stared in disbelief at his companion, trying instinctively to explain, but his voice came out hoarse and shaky, his face as pale as paper.
Snickers and jeers rose around them; someone even shoved him lightly, muttering, "What bad luck."
The youth didn't understand why his luck had been so awful lately misfortune and scorn seemed to follow him everywhere. Tonight, all he wanted was to avoid being ridiculed in front of everyone…
But the suited man, apparently infuriated, raised his hand as though to strike him.
Han Ling's eyes narrowed slightly.
That young man's look his movements, his fragile endurance reminded him of his first disciple, Xie He, in the sunless training caves: exhausted, lost, yet desperately clinging on through humiliation.
Frowning, Han Ling found himself stepping forward. A subtle sweep of his divine sense revealed a faint, insidious energy coiling through the boy's meridians, blocking his qi and even trembling his soul—as though bound by a strange, malignant curse.
So… someone really did put a spell on him.
Han Ling's gaze darkened. He hadn't intended to meddle in these petty power struggles… but this boy's shadow of his disciple stirred something in him.
Just then, a peculiar presence brushed against his senses a strange, alluring aura, gentle and pure on the surface yet carrying a subtle, irresistible danger. Like a holy creature tempting the hunter.
Han Ling's head snapped up, his eyes locking onto a figure at the edge of the crowd.
A tall man approached slowly, his features delicate and sharp as though sculpted from moonlight. His silver-grey eyes gleamed faintly, pure yet unfathomable, and his detached expression made it seem as though nothing around him truly mattered.
"—!"
"I can't believe it! That's Leander Ashcroft! He actually showed up tonight?!"
Excited whispers erupted throughout the hall. The Ashcroft family was one of the most powerful and enigmatic in the Empire, its lineage stretching back to times unknown. The fact that Leander had taken over the family at such a young age was still the subject of endless speculation.
On the surface, Leander appeared gentle, yet no one dared underestimate him. People feared him… and yet countless still vied to marry into his family.
When Leander entered, Han Ling's gaze froze on him.
Though this was their first meeting, he could sense that peculiar constitution within him—not merely a rare spiritual root or noble bloodline, but something that seemed to warp even the laws of heaven and earth. It was foreign, yet eerily familiar, compelling him to investigate further.
Han Ling cast a glance back at the haggard youth, raising a hand to lightly sweep the air. In an instant, the insidious energy dispersed like a retreating tide. The youth gasped and his complexion flushed slightly. Though still weak, he managed to stand firm.
He stared at Han Ling, stunned. "…Thank you."
Somehow, he instinctively knew it was Han Ling who had saved him.
Han Ling didn't reply. He merely said coolly: "Stay away from such filth."
And with that, he began walking toward Leander.
No one else noticed this insignificant little episode. Some were still reeling from the shock of seeing Leander Ashcroft; others were lost in the glitter and noise of the banquet. The music swelled, crystal chandeliers spinning as dancers twirled below.
Han Ling stopped before Leander, his gaze deep and unreadable as he looked into the other's face, the faintest smile curling his lips.
After all… this wasn't the immortal realm. He didn't have to keep up the solemn, stoic persona of a master teacher here.
"You…" he murmured low, his voice pitched for Leander alone to hear. "You're… very special."
Leander stiffened, his silver eyes flashing with a hint of confusion and wariness. He lifted his gaze to meet Han Ling's, an almost imperceptible light flickering in their depths. Coldly, he said, "…I'm afraid you've got the wrong person."
Han Ling merely smiled without answering. He reached out, plucking a glass of wine from a passing tray and swirling it idly, his gaze still fixed on Leander.
"No," he murmured, his smile deepening, his tone darkly playful. "I never mistake my prey."
In the depths of his eyes, something dangerous and curious glimmered—a subtle hunger.
Leander's brow furrowed faintly. This man felt… dangerous. Yet he couldn't look away. He had never seen eyes like that before, as though they could pierce through his very soul.
The music and revelry raged on; no one noticed the faint barrier Han Ling had set around them, isolating this quiet corner of destiny.
Han Ling chuckled softly, drained his glass in one gulp, and turned toward the garden, leaving behind only his name:
"Han Ling. Pleased to meet you."
Leander stood there, fingers tightening around his glass, staring blankly for a long while.
…Was that really just… an introduction?
Under the moonlight, the scent of roses grew heavier.
And somewhere, the gears of fate began to turn.