There was no light.
There was no darkness.
There was only drifting.
Li Shibai's consciousness floated in a sea without color, form, or time. He had no body. No breath. No heartbeat. He had no pain—but also no sensation. It was not peace. It was not agony. It was nothingness.
And yet, something of him remained.
A sliver of self. A flicker of will.
A fragment of Li Shibai that refused to vanish.
I… failed?
No… I was… punished.
But I survived the chains… I resisted the Will… I—
The thoughts unraveled like silk in a hurricane.
He tried to scream, but his voice did not exist.
He tried to move, but there was no space.
He tried to remember who he was—but memory itself had begun to dissolve.
Who… am I?
Then, something shifted.
A soundless pressure swept through the void.
Not divine. Not righteous. Not demonic.
It was something other.
A ripple of awareness brushed against Shibai's soul—not gentle, not cruel, but curious. Ancient. Alien. As if a being far older than language had turned its eye toward a lone ember in the sea of oblivion.
And suddenly… the nothingness began to change.
The sea of void gave way to shadows. Not darkness, but living silhouettes — bleeding across the edges of space, flickering like shattered memories.
And amid those shadows stood a door.
It had no handle. No hinges. Just a tall, arched slab of black stone, pulsing faintly with lines of crimson light. A mark glowed at its center — a symbol that defied recognition, as if the human mind wasn't built to comprehend it.
A whisper echoed through the vast dreamscape.
"You endured what none should have survived."
"You denied death. So now… it denies you."
The voice came from behind the door.
Smooth. Low. Neither male nor female. It was not threatening — but it left no doubt: it was watching.
Shibai's soul hovered in front of the door. Somehow, without sight, he could still see. His soul, tattered and bleeding golden essence, reached toward the door.
A laugh answered him — not mocking, but amused.
"Still so arrogant, even after you've been burned to ash."
"Good. You will need that arrogance."
The door opened without a sound.
Inside was a mirror.
It reflected Li Shibai — but not the one who sat atop Heaven's Ridge.
This Shibai was younger — perhaps seven or eight years younger — and his eyes were different. There was no pride in them yet. No fury. Just cold purpose, and something else… something emptier.
"Would you begin again?" the voice asked. "Not as you were, but with what you now know."
"Ten years. That's what I give you."
"And in return… you carry my Mark."
Shibai's soul hesitated.
What are you? he thought, though no words formed.
Why offer me this?
The voice responded.
"I am no demon. No god. I am older than both. I watched when your heavens were born screaming."
"I offer you a path, because I despise chains."
"You shattered your soul in defiance. That qualifies you."
Shibai floated before the mirror.
Inside, his younger self raised a hand.
And slowly, Shibai extended his own — a soul reaching for its former body.
Before his hand touched the glass, the voice spoke once more:
"But know this: power given always comes with a price."
"This mark… it is not a blessing. It is a door."
"And doors… open both ways."
Shibai didn't hesitate.
He pressed his hand to the mirror.
The glass shattered, and the void howled.
He fell.
Through dreams. Through time. Through memory.
He fell past moments he had long buried—his mother's face, his first kill, the night he buried his own emotions to climb faster, harder, colder.
He fell, until there was no falling left.
And then—he woke.
He gasped.
The air was warm. Not the cold thin wind of Heaven's Ridge, but the humid breath of a temperate forest.
He blinked rapidly, vision swimming.
Branches swayed overhead. Leaves rustled. Somewhere, water trickled over stone.
And nearby… the sound of laughter.
Shibai sat up sharply.
His limbs were thin. His skin smooth. He looked at his hands and nearly choked.
No calluses. No lightning scars. No Qi tattoos from years of cultivation.
He was in his younger body.
A boy again.
A weak, undeveloped core. Barely Qi Gathering stage.
His heart pounded, wild and disoriented. But in the back of his mind… something pulsed.
The Mark.
It sat at the base of his spiritual sea, etched like a brand across his soul — shifting, unreadable, alive.
And with it came knowledge.
He could see the flaws in the world's cultivation paths.
He could sense the lies buried in sect doctrines.
He remembered the Ascendant Gate. The Five Thrones. The way divine light trembled at his final breath.
And something else now whispered through his soul — a presence that did not speak, but urged. It pushed visions into his mind.
Forbidden formations.
Hidden realms.
Sealed truths.
And a feeling like he had been hollowed out and replaced with something colder.
From a distance, a voice called, "Shibai! Hurry up! Stop daydreaming!"
He turned. A familiar face — a younger outer disciple from Crimson Cloud Sect.
A memory he hadn't seen in over a decade.
He took a step.
Then another.
Ten years...
Ten years until I attempt my breakthrough again.
Ten years to prepare.
Ten years… to make the world bleed.
And as he walked down the slope to rejoin his former life, the Mark inside him pulsed again.
And for the first time, he heard it speak — not in language, but in hunger.
Feed me…