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**Chapter 4**
*"The soul carries its scars across lives, but sometimes, it's given a new canvas to paint its story."*
Elias woke with a gasp, his chest heaving as if he'd been pulled from drowning. The air was thick, scented with sandalwood and dust, not the sterile tang of antiseptic he'd grown used to. His eyes fluttered open, expecting the hospital's white walls, the hum of machines, his mother's tear-streaked face. Instead, he found himself in a room that seemed torn from a forgotten age—wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling, a cracked mirror propped on a rickety table, and walls of rough-hewn timber. A single window let in a sliver of golden light, illuminating dust motes that danced like spirits. The bed beneath him was a hard pallet, draped in coarse linen, nothing like the hospital's sterile sheets.
His body ached, not with the searing pain of his disease, but a dull, unfamiliar heaviness, as if his bones were made of lead. He raised his hands, expecting the frail, tube-marked fingers he'd known for months. Instead, they were small, calloused, and tanned, the hands of someone who'd worked too hard for too little. Panic clawed at his throat. Where was he? What was this place? And why wasn't he… dead?
Memories flooded in, unbidden, like a river breaking its banks. They weren't his—at least, not Elias's. A boy named Lin Zen, fifteen, an orphan in a world that didn't care. Images flickered: a cramped orphanage, its walls damp with mildew; children huddling for warmth; a stern matron barking orders. Lin Zen had been weak, sickly, always last to eat, his body too frail for the labor demanded of him. At fifteen, this world—strange, ancient, yet pulsing with power—deemed him an adult, casting him out to fend for himself. He'd found work as a waiter in a tavern, scrubbing tables and dodging drunken cultivators who could shatter stone with a flick of their wrist.
Elias clutched his head, the memories—Lin Zen's memories—clashing with his own. He saw his mother's face, Anna, her hand gripping his as he slipped away. Lily's sobs, her small body curled against him. Richard's regret, too late to matter. The hospital room, the flatline, the darkness. He'd died. He was sure of it. Yet here he was, in this strange body, in a room that felt like it belonged to a time of myths and legends. His heart raced, a mix of fear, confusion, and something else—hope? Was this a second chance, or a cruel trick?
He staggered to the mirror, his legs wobbly, as if learning to walk again. The face staring back wasn't his. Lin Zen's features were sharp, almost delicate, with dark eyes shadowed by exhaustion and a mop of black hair tangled from neglect. He looked like a boy who'd been chewed up by life and spat out, yet those eyes held a spark Elias recognized—his own stubborn will to keep going.
"Where am I?" he whispered, his voice—Lin Zen's voice—higher, rougher than his own had been. The words echoed in the empty room, unanswered. He pressed his hands to his chest, expecting the familiar ache of his disease, but found only the faint throb of overworked muscles. No tubes, no monitors. Just this body, frail but alive.
More memories surged, painting a picture of this world. It was a place of cultivation, where men and women harnessed qi, an energy that let them soar through the skies like dragons, bend the elements, and shatter mountains with their fists. Cultivators were gods among mortals, their power revered, their battles shaping the land. But this world wasn't just ancient—it was laced with strange technology, artifacts that hummed with qi-infused runes, lanterns that glowed without flame, and airships that glided above jagged peaks. Power was everything here, and Lin Zen had none. His body was too weak to cultivate, his meridians—whatever those were—blocked and brittle. He was a nobody, scraping by in a tavern, serving ale to those who could crush him without a thought.
Elias—no, Lin Zen—stumbled to the window, his breath catching. Beyond the glass stretched a city of contrasts: wooden pagodas with curved roofs stood beside towering spires of gleaming metal, their surfaces etched with glowing symbols. Flying figures darted through the air, their robes trailing like comet tails, while carts rolled on their own, powered by unseen forces. The air thrummed with energy, alive in a way Elias had never known. Yet, beneath the wonder, he felt a crushing weight. This world was beautiful, but it was brutal, and Lin Zen was its discarded scrap.
He sank onto the pallet, his head spinning. Emotions churned—grief for the family he'd left, confusion at this new existence, and a flicker of anger. Why him? Why this body, this life? Lin Zen's memories showed a boy who'd fought to survive, just as Elias had. An orphan, mocked for his weakness, working in a tavern where cultivators treated him like dirt. He'd been kicked out of the orphanage at fifteen, deemed too old to stay, left to fend for himself in a city that valued strength above all. Elias saw himself in Lin Zen—the struggle, the refusal to break, even when the world seemed determined to crush him.
Tears pricked his eyes, not for himself, but for Lin Zen, for the boy who'd carried this weight alone. Elias had had Anna, Lily, even Richard in the end. Lin Zen had no one. The loneliness of it was a blade, sharper than the pain of his old disease. He remembered Lily's small hand in his, her plea not to go. He'd promised to stay, and he'd failed. Now, he was here, in a body that wasn't his, in a world that didn't want him. Was this a gift, or a punishment?
He stood, pacing the small room, his bare feet cold against the wooden floor. The table held a chipped bowl, a half-eaten bun, and a small jade pendant—Lin Zen's only keepsake, left by a mother he'd never known. Elias picked it up, its cool surface grounding him. He didn't understand this world, its cultivation or its rules, but he felt a spark of defiance. He'd fought death once; he could fight again. Maybe Lin Zen's life was his to redeem.
A knock at the door startled him. "Lin Zen!" a gruff voice barked. "You're late for your shift! Get to the tavern, or I'll dock your pay!"
Elias froze, Lin Zen's memories supplying the context: the tavern, a grimy place called the Drunken Crane, where he served cultivators who barely noticed him. He wanted to scream that he wasn't Lin Zen, that he didn't belong here. But his stomach growled, and the reality of this body's hunger grounded him. He had no choice. Not yet.
He pulled on a threadbare robe from a hook, its fabric rough against his skin. As he stepped outside, the city assaulted his senses—vendors shouting, the hum of qi-powered machines, the distant roar of a cultivator's duel shaking the air. He felt like shit, his body weak, his mind a tangle of two lives. But beneath it all, a resolve took root. Elias had died, but Lin Zen lived. And if this world was about power, he'd find a way to claim his own, no matter how frail this body was.
The tavern was a short walk, its sign creaking in the wind. As he stepped inside, the noise of drunken laughter and clinking cups hit him like a wave. A burly man—Boss Chen, Lin Zen's memories supplied—glared at him. "Move it, boy! Tables won't clean themselves!"
Elias—Lin Zen—nodded, grabbing a rag and diving into the chaos. The cultivators at the tables glowed with power, their eyes dismissing him as they discussed techniques that could level cities. He felt small, insignificant, but he remembered Anna's strength, Lily's love. He'd survived a hospital bed; he could survive this.
As he scrubbed a table, the jade pendant swung against his chest, a reminder of Lin Zen's past—and Elias's future. He didn't know why he was here, or how, but he'd find out. For his family, for Lin Zen, for himself, he'd fight to make this life mean something.
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