Rain drummed relentlessly against the tall wooden windows of the Duke's manor, a soft but insistent rhythm that seemed to mock the turmoil within. Inside, the halls were still, deceptively calm, like a mask hiding the fire that raged in Tiān Lán's chest.
He stood by the window, staring out into the ink-black night. His reflection stared back, pale, almost unrecognizable. A boy of twelve—or so the world thought—staring back with wide brown eyes. But beneath the fragile human shell, a storm raged: the soul of an immortal cultivator, sharpened by betrayal, rage, and memories of a power lost too soon.
This body.
This life.
It meant nothing.
His real body—the one he had called his own—had been stolen, broken, erased. Mu Yiran. Zhao Wusheng. Feng Jiutian. Each name was a knife, each memory a wound. Power, legacy, godhood—all ripped away in moments of treachery. And yet, something far more dangerous had taken root:
Revenge.
The thunder outside was weak, pale, compared to the storm inside him. The scar of betrayal ran deeper than any blade. Yet for now, he had to hide. No one could know the truth of his potential. He was a "weak child," a fragile piece in the courtly dance of nobility—but the calm exterior would not last.
The door creaked softly. A delicate voice cut through the silence.
"Young master… are you awake?"
Xiao Yu. The maid. She stepped inside, holding a tray of steaming tea, her face pale under the dim candlelight, eyes wide with hesitant concern. She had always been kind—but kindness no longer mattered. He didn't need sympathy. He needed strength.
She hesitated as her gaze met his. There was something in his eyes—sharp, ancient, and unnatural—that made her pause. Then, cautiously, she spoke:
"The Duchess asked me to bring you tea. She wishes for you to join her for dinner… if you feel well enough."
Tiān Lán didn't reply immediately. His thoughts swirled with memories of another life, another self, locked away deep in the marrow of his being. Finally, he turned, stepping back from the window and seating himself at the low wooden table. He motioned for her to place the tray down.
"Tell my mother," he said quietly, but with iron resolve, "that I'll join her after I finish my meditation."
Xiao Yu blinked. "Meditation? But… Young Master, your health—"
"I'll be fine," he interrupted, his tone colder than the rain outside. "Just leave."
Her lips parted, uncertain, but she nodded. "Very well, Young Master."
The door clicked shut, leaving Tiān Lán alone in the silence—a silence as heavy as the storm, as suffocating as a sealed tomb. There was no time for politeness. No time for pretense. The real battle awaited.
He rose and moved to the center of the room, closing his eyes. The air thickened, charged with an energy no one else could perceive.
The forgotten methods…
A soft hum began, almost imperceptible at first. Then, blue lightning curled around his hands, crackling with a distant fury, a storm held in miniature. This was a technique lost to time, forged in a life that had been erased, a creation of his own genius in the Rain Lotus Sect—forbidden, dangerous, perfect.
The thunder outside seemed to echo his pulse.
Crack!
Lightning ripped through the room, a sudden illumination that made shadows leap and bend. The storm merged with his cultivation, a fusion of elemental force and spiritual will. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Tiān Lán glowed, ethereal and terrifying, reconnecting with the storm that had once been his birthright.
When his eyes opened again, they shone with the deep, turbulent blue of a storm's heart.
This world may have taken my past… but it cannot take my future.
He would rise. Stronger. Sharper. Vengeful beyond imagination.
A faint chime rang from the courtyard.
The Mirror Bell.
Tiān Lán's gaze hardened. Its sound was subtle, insistent—a call meant only for him. Its secrets awaited, and with it, the path to revenge.
Down the hall, Xiao Yu lingered at the doorframe, peering through the crack. She had heard the hum of power, felt the strange, unnatural energy. This boy—or rather, this man trapped in a child's form—was no longer the weak, sickly Duke's son. There was a presence that went beyond mortal comprehension, a quiet apocalypse waiting in his gaze.
With a shiver, she retreated down the hallway, leaving the storm to awaken fully in its chamber.
Tiān Lán was no longer just a boy.
And the storm… was only beginning.