Morning arrived quietly in the sealed forest.
No birds sang. No insects stirred. Even the wind seemed hesitant, as if afraid to disturb the ancient presence that dominated the land. Pale mist clung low to the ground, curling around massive roots that broke through the soil like the bones of some long-dead god.
Ashen sat beneath the Immortal Tree, unmoving.
His posture was steady, legs crossed, spine straight. From the outside, he looked calm—almost peaceful. But inside, his body was locked in a brutal struggle.
The energy he had absorbed the previous night had not faded. If anything, it had grown more aggressive.
It churned inside his dantian like a storm trapped in a glass bottle, pressing outward, demanding release. Each breath Ashen took brushed against it, sending sharp pulses of heat through his meridians. His muscles twitched involuntarily, veins standing out beneath his skin.
"This thing…" he whispered, lips dry. "It's not normal."
In his previous life, Ashen had never cultivated. He had watched others do it—from a distance. He remembered the arrogant confidence of sect disciples, the casual way they spoke about breaking through realms as if it were nothing more than climbing steps.
But this?
This felt like trying to tame a wildfire with bare hands.
He closed his eyes and forced his breathing to slow.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He searched his mind for the fragmented cultivation memories that had come with his rebirth. They were incomplete, scattered like torn pages from several different manuals. Basic concepts overlapped and contradicted each other, but one principle remained consistent.
Foundation comes before power.
Ashen guided his consciousness inward.
The moment his awareness touched the energy, pain tore through him.
It was instant and overwhelming.
His meridians felt like fragile glass being flooded with molten metal. His heart hammered violently, each beat sending waves of agony through his chest. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth creaked.
Blood trickled from his nose.
Ashen's hands trembled, nails digging into his palms until skin broke.
"So that's how it is," he rasped.
This energy didn't recognize him as its master.
It was testing him.
The instinct to stop—to pull away and preserve himself—screamed in his mind. His body begged him to quit. But Ashen ignored it.
He had died once already.
Pain had lost its authority over him.
"Move," he commanded silently.
He forced the energy to circulate.
The first cycle nearly broke him.
His vision went white as the energy tore through blocked meridians, carving new paths where none existed. It felt like being disassembled piece by piece, then shoved back together without care.
Ashen let out a low, broken laugh.
"In my last life," he muttered, "I endured worse… for less."
The Immortal Tree responded.
Its massive trunk pulsed faintly, ancient runes embedded deep within its bark glowing one by one. The ground vibrated. Roots beneath the soil shifted, and thin strands of pale green light descended like threads of silk.
They wrapped around Ashen's body.
The pain didn't disappear—but it changed.
Where before it had been destructive, now it became refining. Each wave of agony was followed by warmth, by a subtle strengthening of flesh and bone. His meridians widened, reinforced by the Tree's ancient vitality.
A presence brushed against his mind.
Not a voice exactly—more like an intention.
Strength taken without preparation destroys the bearer.
Ashen exhaled slowly through clenched teeth.
"I'm not taking," he replied in his thoughts. "I'm earning."
The presence withdrew, but the support remained.
Time lost meaning.
Minutes blurred into hours. Sweat soaked his clothes, then dried, then soaked them again. His breathing grew ragged, then steadied, then faltered once more.
Cycle after cycle, he endured.
When the energy finally settled—no longer raging, but resting quietly within his core—Ashen almost didn't notice.
The pain faded.
Silence returned.
He opened his eyes.
The world had changed.
It wasn't dramatic at first. Colors looked sharper. Shadows deeper. But then he noticed the faint glow threading through the air, like invisible rivers flowing between all living things.
Energy.
Everywhere.
His own body shimmered faintly, veins outlined by a subdued crimson light. When he clenched his fist, the air rippled slightly, as if disturbed by pressure.
"…Body Tempering," Ashen whispered.
First stage.
The lowest of the low.
Any proper sect disciple would laugh at it.
But Ashen didn't.
Because this was something he had built himself—through pain, will, and refusal to kneel.
He rose to his feet.
The motion was smooth, effortless. His balance felt perfect, his muscles responsive. When he took a step forward, the ground cracked faintly beneath his foot.
He stared at it, stunned.
A smile slowly spread across his face.
Then—
A chill ran down his spine.
Not fear.
Instinct.
Ashen's smile vanished as his senses screamed a warning. The energy in the air shifted, becoming heavy and distorted, like water before a storm.
Someone else was here.
He turned toward the forest edge.
The mist there thickened unnaturally, darkening as if stained by shadow. It twisted and folded inward, forming a tall, humanoid shape.
A figure stepped out.
It wore robes darker than night, torn at the edges, yet untouched by dirt. Its form was thin, elongated, unnatural. Where a face should have been was only a swirling void, broken by two pale blue flames.
Ashen's heart pounded.
A cultivator.
And not one from any righteous path.
"You shouldn't be here," the figure said.
Its voice echoed strangely, as if layered with several others.
"This land is sealed."
Ashen didn't respond immediately. He observed, measured, calculated. The pressure radiating from the figure was immense—far beyond anything he could currently handle.
But it wasn't killing him.
That mattered.
"I could say the same," Ashen replied calmly.
The shadow paused.
Then it laughed.
A hollow, scraping sound.
"A mortal child," it said. "Standing beneath the Immortal Tree. How amusing."
Its gaze sharpened, flames flickering.
"What did it give you?"
Ashen stayed silent.
The pressure increased.
The air itself seemed to press down on him, forcing his knees to bend. His bones creaked under the invisible weight. Blood surged into his mouth, metallic and warm.
"Kneel," the shadow commanded.
Ashen's legs shook violently.
His body screamed at him to submit.
Memories surfaced—of bowing his head, of swallowing humiliation, of surviving by becoming invisible.
Something inside him snapped.
Slowly, painfully, Ashen straightened.
"I knelt enough," he said hoarsely. "In my last life."
The Immortal Tree flared.
Roots burst from the ground like living spears, slamming into the shadow and hurling it backward. The pressure vanished instantly, and Ashen collapsed to one knee, gasping.
The shadow recovered midair, landing lightly several meters away.
"So it chose you," it hissed. "That makes you dangerous."
Ashen wiped the blood from his lips and forced himself to stand.
"You can't kill me here," he said quietly. "Otherwise you would have."
The flames in the shadow's eyes flickered.
"…Sharp."
It stepped back into the mist.
"Grow," it said coldly. "Climb high enough to be worth hunting."
Then it vanished.
Silence returned.
Ashen stood there long after the presence faded.
"That wasn't a warning," he murmured. "That was a future."
The Immortal Tree dimmed, its light returning to its ancient stillness. A single leaf drifted down, landing in Ashen's hand.
Warm.
Heavy with meaning.
Ashen closed his fingers around it.
If enemies were already watching, then hiding was pointless.
Power would attract danger.
But weakness would invite death.
He looked toward the distant horizon beyond the forest—toward sects, empires, demons, and immortals who believed the world belonged to them.
"I'll grow," he said softly. "Enough to protect. Enough to burn the heavens if I have to."
And with that, Ashen took his first step away from the Immortal Tree.
Toward a world that had no idea what it had just awakened.