The moon hung low over Rising Cloud Sect, casting silver light across the wooden huts of the outer court. A gentle wind rustled the trees, whispering secrets only the night could understand.
In the furthest hut on the mountain's edge, Ling Xian sat alone, cross-legged on a straw mat, his eyes closed—but not cultivating.
Tonight, he wasn't chasing power.
He was remembering.
The memories didn't come all at once.
They had been fragments at first—flashes of fire, screams, and a final breath beneath a blood-red sky.
But now, as the spirit qi in his new body stabilized, the dam had broken.
He saw it again.
The ambush.
The sky splitting open with lightning. The mountain fortress collapsing beneath his feet. The sight of Yu Ruoxi, her soul light fading as he reached too late. Her voice still echoed in his mind.
"Live… even if I can't…"
And then—
The dagger.
His own blade, buried in his heart, not from fear but pride. He had chosen death on his terms, in defiance of every enemy who sought to claim him.
And yet… death had rejected him.
"He is not yours."
The voice hadn't come from the heavens or the underworld.
It had come from something older. Something that existed before gods and demons.
A primordial force.
He remembered the pain of his soul being ripped from his body—not gently, but violently, like a star being pulled from orbit. Time had bent. Space had cracked. And in that moment of cosmic stillness, he had been cast downward—not punished, not banished, but…
Given a second chance.
His eyes opened slowly.
The small room was dark. Quiet. His hands were rough, his body still weak—but his will was iron again.
"This lower realm… is no punishment," he whispered to the shadows."It's a gift."
He looked down at his hands.
"With this life, I will rise again… higher than ever before."
A slow, dangerous smile tugged at his lips.
"And when I return… they'll all know what a real god looks like."