Rain whispered against the paper window, soft as ghostly fingertips tracing the world outside. The night hung heavy, thick with the mingling scent of wet earth and bitter herbs, curling from vials and jars scattered across the dimly lit manor. Beyond the walls, Azure Tempest City slept beneath a silver curtain of drizzle, unaware of the storm about to awaken within the Lei household.
In a secluded chamber draped with silks, a frail boy lay motionless atop a cedar bed. Pale skin, shallow breaths, a body that had been mocked, abandoned, and written off by everyone—even the servants had long stopped whispering his name.
Until now.
A crack of lightning tore across the sky, searing through the darkness, and the boy's eyes snapped open.
Not in fear. Not in confusion.
But with calm that belied time itself.
Where once there was dull brown, now a storm-blue blazed in his gaze—deep, eternal, and burning with the wrath of countless lifetimes.
He sat up slowly, the weight of his soul settling into this fragile vessel.
"So… this is the body I've been given," he murmured, voice low and measured. The words were both foreign and familiar, carrying the echoes of a god who had known heaven and been torn from it.
Memories clawed at him—betrayal, laughter, voices once trusted. Feng Jiutian. Mu Yiran. Zhao Wusheng. They had stolen it all: his godhood, his ascension, his place among the stars. And now…
> "You've taken everything. Now watch as I take it back."
A small gasp sliced the air.
"Y-Young Master?!"
The voice trembled—gentle, frightened, soaked from the rain. Xiao Yu. The maid who had once cradled this fragile body in her care, who had secretly brought warmth and tea, who had cried when he nearly died.
Tiān Lán turned to her. Slowly. His eyes no longer belonged to a sickly twelve-year-old boy.
They belonged to a god who had touched the heavens and been cast down.
The courtyard bell rang. A small silver bell, tied to an ancient branch, long silent even in storms, now pealed once… twice… thrice. Its chime carried a resonance that seemed to stir time itself.
Far away, beneath centuries of moss and forgotten stone, something ancient stirred.
The Mirror Bell had awakened.
The rain returned with purpose, as if the sky itself answered the call.
Thunder roared—not from clouds, but from within his mind.
---
Flashback – The Day of Ascension
The sky had burned gold. Mountains trembled beneath the gaze of countless cultivators, their eyes lifted toward the center of the Divine Ascension Altar. There he floated—Tiān Lán, wrapped in flowing azure robes, lightning coiling around him like dragons circling a throne.
His body shattered its mortal shell, reshaping into something beyond human. He was on the precipice of godhood. Just one strike of the Heavenly Tribulation remained. One breath, and he would ascend.
Then came the voice. Cold. Familiar.
He turned… too late.
Mu Yiran's jade blade pierced his spine, striking at the flame of his soul. Zhao Wusheng shattered his core with a binding talisman. Feng Jiutian smiled, serene, and whispered as he pushed Tiān Lán into the abyss:
> "You shone too brightly. You made the rest of us shadows."
They had taken it all—power, name, fate. Even the heavens did nothing.
As his body fell, thunder tore across the sky—not punishment, but grief. Grief for him, abandoned, betrayed, stolen from the stars.
---
Present Moment
Tiān Lán's breath hitched. Fingers trembled over silk. Jaw clenched until blood touched his tongue.
"You will see me again," he whispered, voice low, dangerous, eternal.
"And when you do… I will not kneel."
The storm outside mirrored the storm within. Heaven would soon learn to weep.