Chapter 1: Awakening
The marble floor was cold. That was what Damon noticed first, not the gunshot, not the shouting, not the scent of panic hanging in the air. Just the sterile chill of a bank lobby, and the way it pressed against his cheek. He hadn't realized he'd fallen. No, he had been shot.
His body refused to move. His lungs refused to draw. Blood pooled too fast for comprehension, a dark stain spreading beneath him, creeping toward his collar. The pain was fierce and sharp, yet secondary to the rush of clinical fascination flooding his brain, an unmistakable rhythm of life winding down. He felt, in that instant, the absurd contrast between saving lives and losing one: the surgeon whose hands once coaxed hearts to beat now felt his own slowing.
This can't be how it ends.
He had performed surgeries under pressure, his hands as steady as ice, suturing torn vessels faster than any older mentor. Lectured experts twice his age on vascular reconstruction. Shattered records that once seemed immutable: youngest licensed doctor in history at fifteen, the world's prodigy. He could recite anatomy in his sleep and diagnose conditions from a heartbeat alone. And yet here, on a Thursday afternoon, someone's trembling fingers on a trigger reduced him to a dying man.
If I'm going to die one day, what is the point of life?
He had asked himself that question as a child, lying awake in a silent house filled with medical journals and the sterile scent of antiseptic. He answered it with achievement, mastery of knowledge, accumulation of accolades. But beneath every triumph lurked emptiness, a question: did another patched artery matter if its surgeon would one day decay? Suspended between consciousness and oblivion, the question reemerged with force.
The shooter's face hovered in his vision, a young thief whose panic pushed his finger to squeeze. Damon recalled that flicker of hesitation, knew the gun was not aimed at him personally. Fate remained blind. A moment's arrogance, a jolt, then crimson ruin.
His last thought was curiosity: what would die first, mind or body? Would neurons collapse before tissues liquefied? He wanted to measure the decay, to chart the final decline, typical Damon Aekos, seeking data even as darkness closed in.
Then blackness swallowed the world.
But it did not last.
In a quiet crook of Jing Zhu Village, hidden behind bamboo fences and the illusion of insignificance, the awakening grounds waited. Tall reeds whispered in a light breeze; the morning sun slanted through clustered bamboo, casting mottled shadows on the polished stones. Soon, ceremony would stir them from slumber. Every year, on the cusp of summer, the seventeen-year-olds assembled here—some with pride, others with dread. The Awakening was not a ritual of joy but a threshold. One stepped forward and was measured. Some were permitted to ascend; most were cast back into the mire.
At the heart of it stood Mo Yan, the village head, whose qi flowed into each core like water filling a vessel. He would pour his qi into their cores pushing them onto the path of cultivation, and then, in the silence that followed, he would announce the verdict: pass or fail, grade or shame, a new life or no life at all. His staff, carved from ancient ironwood, rested against his shoulder; the wood warm from years of cultivation. He wore a simple dark robe, sleeves trimmed with pale jade thread—an understated reminder that power could be quiet, yet immutable.
As the hour approached, villagers gathered like shadows drawn to firelight, murmuring, shifting. Parents clutched talismans; elders offered whispered prayers; younger siblings flitted at the edges, curiosity and envy warring in their eyes. Lens-shaped fans and dripping vials of cool water passed from hand to hand, but the heat clung to everyone. Lanterns of silk and bamboo flickered at every corner, though their light felt pale against the brilliance of midday. Distant, the river murmured through reeds—a lazy counterpoint to the ceremony's tension. This year's cohort was unusually large: 167 candidates stood on the brink, each one a sealed fate waiting to be opened.
Wu Yuan stood among them. Unmoving. Unremarkable. Yet within him lay twelve years of design—born the day he first understood that destiny was not received; it was stolen, piece by piece, from those unworthy or unprepared.
Damon Aekos—dead in one life, reborn in another—had awakened in this body at age five, disoriented and blood-soaked in memory. In the weeks that followed, he'd cried alone in darkness, speaking English to people who did not understand. Eventually he adapted, absorbing the world around him like data—language, custom, politics, power. When he discovered what cultivation was, what immortality meant in this world, he made a decision.
I won't die again.
For twelve years, Wu Yuan studied, planned, and prepared. He devoured every book in the village library, coaxed gossip and stray lessons from passing elders, and masked every question under a veil of curiosity. His combat skills grew as well—first out of necessity, then with interest. By fifteen, he was undefeated in blade practice and undefeated in hand-to-hand combat, a record unmatched by any peer or mentor. Both his body and mind were honed like a scalpel, precise and lethal.
Even now, as the villagers gathered like crows awaiting carrion, Wu Yuan's mind ticked forward. He tracked every motion around him—posture, cadence, voice modulation. A loose strand of hair caught his cheek; the scent of roasted millet soup drifted from a nearby stall. He catalogued the finest details: a boy's clenched fists, a girl's trembling foot, an elder's silent nod. Every micro-expression told a story, and every story whispered of fear, hope, or disdain.
When the final family arrived, Mo Yan rose. His staff struck the earth once, not to silence the crowd but to tether their attention. He spoke, voice resonating through the hush.
"Today marks a pivotal moment in the lives of our youths—and in the fate of Jing Zhu Village. Before us stand warriors yet unproven, elders yet unborn. It is time. Let fate unveil what it has hidden."
His hand extended toward the candidates. Trained well, they moved. One by one, they lined up, waiting and anxious.
Mo Yan's voice rang out like the swing of a guillotine.
"Shi Feng."
He stepped forward, shoulders hunched. When Mo Yan placed a cool hand on his chest and infused qi, Shi Feng's core accepted it until it reached capacity—no pulse, no resistance, just the silent draw of energy.
"Fail. D-grade."
A ripple passed through the families. Shi Feng bowed his head and stepped back, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
"Zhang Fu."
He moved forward with lips pressed tight. Mo Yan flowed qi into his chest; Zhang Fu stood still, no reaction but a pale flicker in his gaze.
"Fail. D-grade."
The hush deepened. Each failure drained hope—a dozen names, two dozen. No passes. The air thickened with tension, as if the very ground weighed upon them. Elders shifted in their seats, murmured prayers, but nothing changed.
Finally:
"Su Yan."
He stepped forward with cautious composure, lips pressed thin. Mo Yan transferred qi into Su Yan's core; it accepted the influx until the incoming qi hit a barrier.
"Pass. Aptitude level: 67 percent. C-grade."
A flicker of relief rippled through Su Yan's family. Polite, muted applause followed as he returned to the line.
More names followed. Two more C-grades—barely enough to maintain pretense. Then:
"Han Tao."
He moved with the grace of a spear—sharp, proud, controlled. Mo Yan infused qi into Han Tao's core; it sank in evenly, filling to capacity. His pupils dilated for a heartbeat, then steadied.
"Pass. Aptitude level: 93 percent. A-grade."
A storm broke across the crowd. Gasps, cheers, exclamations. An A-grade in Jing Zhu was rare, monumental. Parents exchanged quick glances. Teachers bowed in respect. Even cultivators at the edge of the clearing inclined their heads. Already, resources would funnel to Han Tao—mentors would vie for his loyalty, merchants would offer qi stones, elders would speak his name in hushed approval. For someone born with that much innate talent, a future was promised.
Then:
"Li Song."
She stepped forward as though she owned the sunlight, robe whispering across stones, chin held high. When Mo Yan's hand met her chest, her core accepted qi seamlessly, filling until nearly full capacity.
"Pass. Aptitude level: 98 percent. A-grade."
Silence descended. Awe had its limit. Li Song's lips curved into a polished, faint smile. She turned, and the line parted before her as though afraid to touch her shadow. Her parents pressed together—pride and relief mirrored in their eyes. Mentors licked their lips, already plotting how to guide her refinement. In Jing Zhu, Li Song's success guaranteed immediate access to rare resources—spirit-herb clippings, superior forges, favored tutors.
Wu Yuan observed all of it without surprise. He noted the shift in energy: the smiles that mouthed promises, the lingering glances charged with ambition, the hushed urgency of alliances forming. He marked each silent exchange—potential rivals, potential allies—each a variable in a grand equation he would solve.
Eventually:
"Wu Yuan."
He stepped forward—not with pride, not with fear, but with intention. Each stride measured, each breath balanced. Twelve years of preparation condensed into five calm paces. The sun glinted off the bamboo fences, casting stripes of light and shadow across his face. He felt no heat, no sweat—only the steady pulse anticipation.
Mo Yan's hand pressed against Wu Yuan's chest, palm cool and controlled. He poured qi into Wu Yuan's core. His core drank greedily. Mo Yan's brow creased slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his eyes.
"Pass. Aptitude level: 89 percent. B-grade."
Muted cheers followed. B-grade meant solid potential, reliable growth. Not as blazing as Han Tao or Li Song, but undeniably talented.
Wu Yuan turned and returned to formation. He did not look at the villagers. He did not bask. He did not smile. His expression remained unchanged. But his mind sharpened. Every whisper, every glance, every hurried promise now fit into a larger pattern.
A short, sharp whistle cut the air. A new figure had entered the clearing: tall, thin, clad in layered robes of silver and blue, trimmed with copper thread. His hair was tied high in a scholar's knot, and his eyes sparkled with the sort of intelligence that made lesser men uncomfortable. The murmurs resumed. An elder from the Academy.
He strode to the platform with unhurried steps, nodding toward Mo Yan with polite deference. Then he turned to face the assembled youths, voice light but carrying.
"I am Elder Cui. Congratulations. You have survived your first threshold."
He smiled—not kindly, but with quiet amusement, as though he were already calculating outcomes in his mind.
"As custom dictates, you will now choose your first Spirit. The village will provide one for each of you, along with one month's worth of sustenance. Make your choice wisely. You will not be given another."
He then gestured towards a side door on the platform. A soft flash of light came from his wrist, presumably the activation of a spirit, then the door swung open, revealing a room lined with wooden shelves, each holding sealed Spirits: small jade slips etched with writing, glowing faintly with contained essence.
"The order of selection follows contribution rank. Until your first choice is made, your class rank determines priority. After that, all ranks reset."
Li Song stepped forward without hesitation, graceful and unhurried. No one doubted her rank—she had been second in class before the ceremony. Now, with her 98 percent A-grade core, she stood at the top. She barely glanced at the options before selecting a jade slip carved with sharp, geometric lines, pulsing with pale blue light.
"Qi-Bolt Spirit," Elder Cui announced. "Rank 1. Feeding cost: one qi stone per week. Your path will be the village's—Qi Construct."
Li Song smirked faintly. "Of course."
Wu Yuan noted her choice: the Qi-Bolt granted cheap ranged offense, but the Qi-Bolt was relatively weak, in terms of projectile spirits. Accuracy would need to be honed for any great effect.
"Next."
Han Tao stepped forward, eyes sharp, posture rigid. If Li Song moved like a swan, Han Tao moved like a drawn bow—tension in every muscle. He barely even glanced around before selecting a slip wreathed in faint embers, the jade emanating gentle heat.
"Flame-Bolt Spirit," Elder Cui intoned. "Rank 1. Feeding cost: five fire-lotus petals per day. A fierce weapon, but a hungry one. Dangerous if neglected."
Han Tao gave a curt nod. "I'll manage."
Wu Yuan catalogued that choice: Flame-Bolt yielded raw destructive power, suited for someone who valued direct strength. But its qi cost was quite high for a rank one spirit. Han Tao's confidence might become hubris.
Elder Cui's gaze shifted, face unreadable. "Next."
"Wu Yuan."
The crowd's murmurs flared again. His name hadn't echoed as loudly as Han Tao's or Li Song's—but it lingered. The boy with the B-grade core who said nothing, yet watched everything.
Wu Yuan walked forward with silent steps, gaze slipping over the selection of Spirit slips like a hand feeling hidden gears. There were dozens. Ice-Spirits exhaled frost in tiny breathy wisps; Lightning-Spirits crackled with latent energy; Wind-Spirits stirred a faint current that ruffled a scholar's sleeve. Others hummed with qi-based utility—slips marked "Stone Skin," "Wind-Step," "Aqua Shield."
But Wu Yuan knew what he was looking for. He had known for years.
His hand paused above a small, almost unremarkable jade slip. Its glow was dimmer than the others. A faint shimmer of silver thread crossed the surface—like neural strands suspended in glass.
He picked it up without hesitation.
Elder Cui's brow lifted.
"Mind-Spark Spirit," he said, eyes narrowing with interest. "A mental Spirit. Rare, even here. Rank 1. Boosts cognition by twenty percent via synthetic neuronal mimicry. Feeding cost: three drops of blood per day. Activation requires an initial qi investment—eighty percent of a Rank 1 core."
Wu Yuan said nothing. He held the slip like a scalpel, careful not to betray the significance of his choice.
Elder Cui's tone remained neutral, but his eyes flickered with curiosity. "You understand what this choice entails?"
"I do."
The elders seated behind Mo Yan exchanged a glance—recognition, perhaps. A rare mental Spirit chosen by a B-grade candidate: unexpected, but calculated.
Elder Cui inclined his head. "Very well."
Wu Yuan stepped aside. The slip nestled in his palm like a sleeping parasite.
Behind him, the next cultivator was called. More slips were chosen: most of the 29 new cultivators, like Li Song, chose to stick with the village's qi-construct path.
Though there were a few outliers.
A girl with trembling hands chose a defensive Spirit—"Bark-Armor Spirit," Elder Cui announced, its jade slip encased in faint green light. Her eyes widened with relief. A boy picked up a Wind-Step slip.
Wu Yuan watched from the side, expression unchanged, but his mind catalogued everything. Which cultivators were brave enough to step onto their own path, versus those willing to trust the village path.
Eventually all of the new cultivators had finally picked their initial spirit. 9 of the 29 chose to pick something other than the qi-bolt spirit.
Elder Cui turned to face the new cultivators once more.
"You now stand beyond the mortal threshold. The path of cultivation stretches before you—not as a gift, but as an obligation. You will be expected to earn your keep. Contribution points, odd jobs, study, sparring—these will determine your rank, not family or birth."
His gaze swept the crowd.
"Class rankings have now been reset. You all stand equal. Consider how long you wish that to last."
Elder Cui gestured once more, and village assistants stepped forward with two kinds of packages. The first: small sacks of dried food, tightly sealed, for those whose Spirits required it. The second: pouches of thirty Rank 1 qi stones, each wrapped in protective cloth.
Wu Yuan received the latter. His Mind-Spark Spirit needed only blood—simple, cheap, endlessly personal.
"Your resources will not be replenished," Elder Cui said. "Use them wisely. When you exhaust your qi stones, you will need to earn more. The village will not coddle you."
He let the words hang, then inclined his head toward Mo Yan.
"The choosing is complete."
Mo Yan stepped forward once more, voice solemn.
"Jing Zhu Village congratulates you. From this moment on, you are cultivators of the valley. Carry this honor with discipline. And do not forget—power is not inheritance. It is responsibility."
He raised his staff again and struck it once upon the stone platform. The sound echoed like a gong. A signal. The crowd began to disperse. Villagers murmured, new cultivators broke into hushed conversation, and for the first time since dawn, the awakening grounds began to exhale.
Wu Yuan did not linger. Without a word, he turned and walked away, the Spirit slip tucked safely inside his sleeve and the pouch of qi stones resting against his side like a private promise.
The Spirit Inn was quiet by dusk. Wu Yuan entered his room and locked the door. He drew the jade slip. The Mind-Spark Spirit pulsed faintly in his hand.
All that binding required was qi and willpower. Wu Yuan laid his palms lightly on the slip and sent a tendril of qi into the spirit. Because this Mind-Spark Spirit came from the village's storage, having already been subdued,it offered no resistance. His qi enveloped it effortlessly, the spirit settling into place without struggle.
Once anchored, the spirit drew eighty percent of his core's qi to build a new neural network within itself—filaments of silver light weaving into tiny synaptic clusters. After which it would use his blood to link those networks directly to his brain, forging conduits to boost his cognitive capacity by increasing both the number of neurons and their connections. Wu Yuan's research showed that this effect multiplied according to natural intelligence, making his choice exponentially more potent.
As the spirit absorbed qi, a deep pressure built in his chest and skull, like a flood pressing against a dam wall. He adjusted his breath to steady the flow, focusing his mind on controlled calm.
Then he carefully pricked his finger with a needle acquired prior to his awakening day, and manifested the mind-spark spirit outside of his core in order to feed it. The mind-spark spirit was oddly shaped. Entirely spherical, it had 2 dark eyes, and a wide mouth, though no teeth were present. Wu Yuan carefully dripped 3 drops of his blood into its open mouth and sent the spirit back into his core.
As the spirit used his blood to fuel the connection between his brain, and this new nexus of neurons he could feel intimately as his cognition increased, not massively, but for a genius it was definitely noticeable. With the binding done he carefully cleaned up and began to refine the qi in his newly awakened core.
Let the others rest. Let them marvel over their spirits. He would not sleep tonight. The work had only just begun.