The morning sun rose over Shang City, casting golden light over crumbling rooftops and filthy streets.
Inside a dusty shed behind the Zhen estate, Zhen Zenin sat cross-legged on the cold floor. Flies buzzed. His bones ached. But he did not move.
His fists were swollen, his knuckles cracked open from pounding stone all night.
"Pathetic," he muttered, staring at his fragile hands. "This body is worse than mortal trash."
But his eyes burned—not with defeat, but with hunger.
He remembered his former self—Xiong Shen, whose single roar could silence continents. Now, he was beaten by even the youngest servant boys.
But rage was fuel. And he would burn the heavens with it.
The door creaked open.
A boy from the clan, Zhen Bo, stood smirking. "Still trying to act like a cultivator, worm?"
Zenin didn't answer. He stood up slowly, his spine cracking.
Bo tossed a bucket of water at him. "Wash the latrines before breakfast. If I see even a single speck of dirt—"
Smack.
Bo froze, one hand on his cheek. Zenin's palm had struck faster than his eyes could follow.
"You…" Bo growled, raising his fist.
Zenin grabbed his wrist mid-air, tightening until the boy dropped to his knees.
"You've grown too used to stepping on me," Zenin said coldly. "That ends today."
He shoved Bo aside and walked out, not looking back.
---
That night, in the abandoned corner of the Zhen Clan grounds, Zenin stood before a shattered training dummy. Blood dripped from his palms. His muscles trembled.
Every night he pushed himself beyond human limits. Every blow carried the hatred of betrayal. The shame of weakness.
He recalled ancient breathing techniques from his past life. Though his cultivation was sealed, his knowledge remained.
He could feel it—a flicker. A stirring. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, a tiny ember of qi responded.
His lips curled into a smile.
"Soon," he whispered.
---