Solaan opened his eyes, and all he saw was darkness.
His memory was foggy, and his body felt extremely weak.
The scent of damp stone, rust, and sweat assaulted his nose, making him reel his head back.
His body ached and itched.
Chink!
Raising his hands to scratch the itch, he realized that his wrists were bound in cold chains.
Am I in hell?
I guess my family's sins were greater than whatever rectification I…
He paused his thoughts as it all felt wrong. Solaan felt like those memories were false.
"Solaan Khan?" He tried saying, but could barely force out a whisper as his throat was dry.
But I am a… slave?
That can't be.
Suddenly, a wave of memories surged through his mind. He was indeed Solaan, a slave of the Empire, born of a slave woman who died during childbirth.
His father's identity was unknown, nor did anyone care to investigate. A slave's father had no worth, just like his son; they were both numbers in the statistics of slaves.
He had been lucky enough to be sent to work as a third-tier slave in the palace of one of the Imperial Princes, and he had done so for 10 years of the 17 he had lived.
Solaan, the slave, worked diligently and silently.
No ambitions for power, no genuine desire to leave the construct of comfort he had built in the little bubble he could afford.
Hence, his relentless loyalty and obedience to his superiors.
Solaan, the slave, had no talents, not in literature, politics, or Martial arts.
How did I get these memories?
Both experiences from the respective memories felt real to him; however, his current straits felt even more real.
Before he could conclude any further, a door opened up.
A single torch lit the room, casting long shadows across the cracked stone walls. A man dressed in dark imperial robes stepped into the room.
His face was obscured by the glare of the torch.
"You wake finally," the man said in a flat voice. "Good, let's begin."
Solaan tried to speak, wanting to ask the man a few questions, but remained quiet. As though he was having an internal scuffle.
"Where… am I?" He finally said.
The man didn't answer. He sat across from him and placed a scroll on the table.
"Solaan, slave of the Third Tier, assigned to the Eastern Wing of the Imperial Palace. You were taken into custody three days ago, accused of conspiring with foreign agents to assassinate Prince Lioren."
Hearing this, Solaan blinked.
He couldn't recall anything like that from either of the memory banks in his head.
Assassination?
Nearing his limits, Solaan wanted to break out of the chains binding him. He exhaled, wanting to exert some force in his hands.
Chink!!
He looked down
The chains clanged and remained intact. It was at this point that it struck him again that he wasn't who he used to be. Nonetheless, that didn't cause him to panic.
"Did you do it?" The investigator's voice cut through his thoughts.
Solaan looked up.
"No," he said calmly.
The man studied him.
"Then tell me, why were you running when the guards came for you?"
Solaan remained silent.
He didn't have an answer to that.
A few days' worth of memory was missing from the slave's mind. Giving a random answer now could spell his demise.
Despite his confusion and uncertainty, one thing was for sure: he didn't want to die here. And whatever Solaan the slave had gotten involved in, if it were true, was enough to get him killed.
A few minutes went by, and nothing was said.
The interrogator stood, causing the chair to screech against the floor.
"You think silence will save you?!" He pulled on the extended part of the chain while placing a hand on the table to keep it in place.
He was going to wedge its edge against Solaan's ribs.
In the blink of an eye, even Solaan could tell this, but when he tried to react, his limbs failed to move fast enough, causing his wrists some pain.
"You think we don't have enough evidence to hang you ten times over?"
He leaned in, close enough for Solaan to see the veins in his eyes.
"You were seen. You were followed and you were caught. This is not a trial, this is a confession." He slammed his hand on the table.
"Speak. Or I'll make you wish you had."
Solaan didn't flinch or say anything, despite the throbbing pains coming from his ribs.
The interrogator felt a bit uncomfortable the more he looked into Solaan's calm gaze.
"I told you," he began, Solaan's voice was hoarse but steady this time. "I didn't do anything… I don't remember doing anything."
The interrogator narrowed his eyes and walked to the door. "Then I'll help you remember." He said as he stepped out.
With the man out of the room, Solaan started to truly observe his condition, not concerning himself with who he truly was now.
The situation demanded a solution.
Though his cultivation was void, his mind was considerably better.
Closing his eyes, he observed his internal structure. The first place he visited was his heart.
The main organ he focused on when he began cultivating as a descendant of the mighty Khan…
Long ago, when the first Khan stood beneath a sky cracked open by thunder and carved his name into the spine of a mountain.
He began with the heart.
Not the mind, not the breath, not the lower furnace.
The heart.
To the world then, it was hearsay. Most martial traditions spoke of stillness, of breath control, drawing energy from the air.
But the Khan spat on such weakness.
He said: "The heart is the first organ to beat. The first fire to burn. If the body is a kingdom, then the heart is its emperor. If the heart is weak the kingdom falls—even if the walls are strong"
And so, the descendants of the Khan cultivated not the breath, but the pulse and the rhythm.
They cultivated internal force—Neili— not drawn from the heavens, but forged in the crucible of the body.
But even at that, what the Khans cultivated was a different form of Neili.
The Blood Pulse Method — the way of the Khan.
A method where each pulse sent a surge of Neili through the tendons, the bones, the marrow. The body becomes a weapon not because it holds energy, but because it generates it — with every heartbeat.