Shao Xian stood in the eerie silence of the forest, his body still aching from the merciless beating he had endured. Blood soaked his tattered robes, and each breath felt like a knife carving through his lungs. But none of it mattered. He was alive.
The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. The three corpses around him lay motionless, their lifeless eyes wide in terror. Their deaths had been nothing more than a test—proof that even in this crippled body, he could still wield power. It was only a flicker of what he once commanded, but it was enough.
His grip tightened.
This world thought him dead, buried beneath the ruins of history. But history was written by the victors, and he would ensure that this time, he would be the one holding the quill.
First, however, he needed strength.
Shao Xian turned his gaze downward, assessing the frail, battered form he now inhabited. Jiang Chen—the former owner of this body—had been born into the declining Jiang Clan. Once an esteemed noble house, it had long since fallen into disgrace. Jiang Chen himself had been born with a shattered dantian, making him incapable of cultivating. A cripple in a world ruled by strength.
No wonder he had been cast aside.
Shao Xian's expression remained indifferent. In his previous life, he had seen countless "geniuses" rise and fall. Talent alone meant nothing. Power was earned, seized, forged in battle and tempered in blood.
A broken dantian? So what?
The path of cultivation was not so easily restricted. The so-called "rules" of this world were merely cages built by lesser beings. He had long since transcended such limitations.
But he needed a starting point.
His gaze shifted to the bodies. The men who had attacked him were nothing but lowly thugs, likely hired by those within the Jiang Clan to ensure he never returned. Still, even garbage could have its uses.
Moving with slow, deliberate effort, Shao Xian searched their robes, his fingers brushing against rough fabric and cold steel. A small pouch of silver coins, a few concealed daggers, and a jade bottle filled with dark pills.
He uncorked the bottle, sniffing the contents. The pungent, metallic scent confirmed his suspicion—Blood Replenishing Pills. Low-grade, barely useful for true cultivators, but for someone in his current state, they were invaluable.
Without hesitation, he swallowed two. A bitter, burning sensation spread through his throat, but he ignored it. He could already feel the effects taking hold, his body absorbing the medicinal energy like parched soil drinking rain.
Still not enough.
He turned to the leader's corpse, searching further. His hand brushed against something solid beneath the man's robes. Pulling it free, he found a small jade slip, its surface engraved with ancient runes.
A technique?
He infused a thread of his will into the slip. Images and text flooded his mind.
—Iron Bone Refinement Art.
A crude body-tempering technique, used by low-level mercenaries to strengthen their flesh. Laughable. In his past life, he wouldn't have even glanced at such a thing. But now, it was an opportunity.
Power was built step by step.
Shao Xian seated himself on the cold earth, his broken body trembling with the effort. He exhaled slowly, allowing his mind to settle.
The technique was simple—circulate energy through the limbs, allowing the bones and muscles to absorb it. In its original form, it required external medicinal baths and years of training to see results. But he was not bound by the limitations of ordinary men.
He closed his eyes.
Dao was infinite. It flowed through all things. Even without his past cultivation, he could still sense it—whispers in the wind, echoes in the earth, remnants of the vast power he once commanded.
He reached for it.
It was distant, elusive, but there. A faint trickle of energy responded to his call, seeping into his battered frame. He guided it with expert precision, weaving it into the technique, altering its flawed structure, refining it with the knowledge of an existence far beyond this world.
Pain erupted through his body.
His bones groaned under the sudden strain, his muscles twisting and burning as though set ablaze. The remnants of his shattered dantian howled in protest, but he paid it no mind.
Pain was temporary. Power was eternal.
The night deepened. The bodies around him grew cold. Yet Shao Xian remained unmoving, immersed in his cultivation. The crude, incomplete Iron Bone Refinement Art had been reborn under his hands, transformed into something far beyond its original form.
By the time dawn approached, his body had changed.
The bruises and wounds remained, but beneath them, a new foundation had taken root. His bones no longer felt brittle. His muscles no longer ached with every slight movement. It was the barest fraction of his past strength, but it was a start.
He opened his eyes.
A small puddle of blood had gathered beneath him, remnants of the impurities forced from his body during the refinement process. He wiped his lips, his expression unreadable.
This was only the beginning.
His enemies believed him dead, buried, forgotten. They had spent centuries ensuring his legacy was erased. But they had made a mistake.
They had not destroyed his will.
A soft gust of wind rustled through the trees as he rose to his feet, his posture no longer that of a broken cripple, but of a man who had once ruled the heavens.
The Jiang Clan.
The first step of his return lay there.
His current self was too weak to take them head-on. If he returned now, he would be crushed beneath the weight of their scorn. But that was fine. He had never been one to rush blindly into battle.
Patience was a virtue often discarded by those who sought power too hastily. But Shao Xian understood better than anyone—true supremacy was not seized in a single night. It was cultivated, nurtured, sharpened until none could stand against it.
He would let them think he was gone. Let them believe their actions had erased him.
And when the time came, he would return.
Not as Jiang Chen. Not as the cripple they had cast aside.
But as the Sovereign of Dao.
His journey had begun anew. And this time, there would be no mercy.