The scent of blood thickened the air like a suffocating shroud.
Jun Mo Xie slowly opened his eyes. His head throbbed like a war drum, sharp pain shooting through his limbs. He tried to rise, but the weight of an unfamiliar body pinned him down. This wasn't his body. Not the agile, battle-hardened vessel of the Seventh Shadow.
This body was weak.
Thin.
Wounded.
Around him, crimson curtains fluttered from a shattered window. The floor was stained with blood—some dry, some still fresh. An overturned brazier hissed as glowing embers crawled across the wooden floor, releasing curling tendrils of smoke.
He tried to recall the last moment before waking here. The mission. The gunshot. The... rupture.
And then, the voice.
He wasn't dead.
Not exactly.
A creaking sound broke the silence. A timid girl in servant robes peeked through the door, her eyes widening in horror when she saw him sitting upright.
"Young Master Jun?" she whispered, voice trembling.
He stared at her, his eyes narrowing. Her name surfaced from the haze.
**Xiao Ru.**
A shy servant. Loyal. Often beaten. The only one who hadn't abandoned this body when it was left to die.
The memories were merging. Not his own, yet now part of him. The previous Jun Mo Xie had been a disgrace—drunken, foolish, scorned by servants, mocked by kin, despised by the clan.
But now, **he** was Jun Mo Xie.
He rose, wobbling slightly. Xiao Ru rushed to his side.
"Please, young master, you must rest! The Grand Elder said you wouldn't survive the night..."
He locked eyes with her and spoke, his voice as sharp as a drawn blade:
"I'm not who I used to be."
She froze, fear and awe blending across her face.
Outside, chaos reigned. Screams echoed from the courtyard. Two rival branches of the Jun Clan clashed in open warfare—assassins, poison, burning scrolls. The family was devouring itself.
Jun Mo Xie stepped forward. Pain lanced through him, but he didn't falter.
He approached a mirror on the wall. The face staring back was young, soft, unscarred. But the eyes—
They were different.
Sharp.
Cold.
Lethal.
"If this world worships strength," he murmured, "then I shall become stronger than them all."
Behind him, Xiao Ru dropped to her knees.
"Young Master..."
No.
**Monarch.**
He walked slowly toward the door. The floor creaked beneath his light steps, but he didn't pause. The night air from the corridor carried the scent of war and conspiracy. Voices argued, swords clashed, whispers of betrayal hissed through the walls.
His steps led him to the eastern balcony, where he could see much of the estate. Flames licked the rooftops of a nearby wing. Servants ran in every direction. He saw an elder of the family stabbed by a rebellious disciple. Another leader burning alive, screaming the name of a rival branch.
All of this was the legacy of this body.
But he would not be a victim of that legacy.
He reached for the wall, where an old sword hung. Rust corroded its edges, but he grasped it with confidence, as if greeting an old friend.
"I will reshape this world... with sword, deceit, and blood if necessary."
Within him, a new heat stirred. It wasn't a fever—it was a spiritual core awakening. Slowly, he began breathing in a rhythm unfamiliar to his old self but instinctive to this body. As if it had long been waiting for the right soul.
He smiled.
Not a smile of joy, but of intent.
And thus, Jun Mo Xie opened the first chapter of his legend.
---
*To be continued...*