It was black. All dark—as if the word black had taken a body and swallowed the world.
Douglas's thoughts wandered through the emptiness. He spoke to the void as if it owed him an answer.
"Is this the end I wanted?"
Silence answered him, and the old habit of pride flared. The memory of laughter on battlefields, of a blade that had bowed kings, rose in him like embers.
"The end I wanted was nothing like this. I'd rather burn in hell than drift as a lifeless thing… Me, the strongest human on Earth?" He spat the words into the darkness.
He would not accept it. He would not bow.
The void pressed in—cold, weightless, relentless—trying to drag him down. Douglas planted his fists against that nothingness and climbed. He did not swim; he climbed, each movement a stubborn theft of ground from the void's hunger. The pressure fought him, squeezed his chest, made breath a distant memory. Still he climbed.
A sliver of light bled through. He lunged toward it like a man seizing a rope in a storm. Pain lanced through him, but the light widened into a rim, and then into a brightness that burned away the black.
He poured all his remaining defiance into a single roar. "I'll make you pay, you damn god!"
And then the darkness broke.
---
"He is in a tattered state," said a broad, impatient voice.
"Yes," came a softer, younger reply. "His meridians and dantian are nearly destroyed. He's been… rent from the inside out."
A third voice, low and furious, ground out, "I will kill the Hǔ Mén bastards for this."
Douglas blinked. Light stabbed behind his eyes; the first clear thing he saw was a painted ceiling, its wood carved and lacquered in patterns of cranes and mountains. He tasted copper and cold, and felt the sweet heat of a mattress beneath him. Outside a latticed door the scent of pine and distant incense drifted in.
Movement dimly registered to his right: three faces leaning over him, unfamiliar and yet... there was a thread of memory in them, like names half-remembered at the edge of a dream.
The first was small in stature, a face like cracked jade, hair threaded with grey. His beard was long and thin, and he wore robes cut in an old-fashioned manner—a scholar's cut, or perhaps a retainer's. Beside him stood a man tall as a gate, broad-shouldered, with rough hands and a short beard that framed a square jaw. The third was middle-aged and dressed entirely in black; a plain black cap sat low on his brow, and his eyes were the sharp, watchful kind that had seen too many bargains.
They all looked surprised. For a second no one spoke, as though each had been waiting for the other to name what they already knew.
Douglas tried to sit up. Pain erupted across his abdomen—raw, unfamiliar. He sucked a breath through his teeth, the sound small and animal. The little man reached for him, anxious hands trembling.
"Hold," Douglas rasped. He forced himself to stillness despite the ache. "Before anything… tell me—who are you?"
The small man's brow furrowed. He blinked, confusion and something like pity passing over his features. He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it, as if the name in his throat had weight.
"You… don't remember?" he said at last, voice soft and strange.
---
Douglas stared at the old man who stood before him. The man's eyes were sharp as a hawk's, his presence heavy like a mountain pressing down. Even in silence, there was authority in him that made the tall chamber seem smaller. Douglas could not understand. The only memory that lingered in his heart was the faint sensation of his frail hand patting his son's head before his death.
"What is this? Where am I? Who are these people?" His thoughts echoed in confusion. His body was weak, his abdomen still aching as though pierced by a thousand blades. This warmth, this air, this strange ceiling above—none of it belonged to the world he knew.
Suddenly, a thunderous voice shattered the silence.
"YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!!!" roared the tall, broad-shouldered man standing to the right of the old figure. His eyes blazed like torches, his breath ragged with fury. "HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO YOUR FATHER LIKE THAAAAT!!! HE IS THE GUYE HO XING!!! …haaa… haa…" The man exhaled hard, his chest rising like a bellows.
Douglas blinked, taken aback. His heart didn't waver, but his mind was clouded. Father? This Guye Ho Xing?
"Calm down, Shí Xing," the old man spoke at last, his voice calm yet commanding.
The one called Shí Xing lowered his head, though his jaw clenched as though chewing on his rage.
Douglas looked at them both with narrowed eyes. He wasn't afraid—he had seen gods fall and armies crumble in his past life. But wariness pricked at him. He was not in his world anymore, and these strangers called themselves kin.
Before the silence thickened again, the physician stepped forward. His robes were plain, but his aura was steady, refined. His beard was short, his eyes deep with the patience of someone who had seen countless lives slip between his fingers. He bowed slightly toward the old man.
"Leader Ho," the physician began, his tone respectful but cautious. "I believe we should keep our tempers under control. Please, may I have a word in private?"
Ho Xing's sharp gaze lingered on Douglas for a moment before he gave a firm nod. He stepped aside with the physician to a far corner, their voices low but audible if one strained to listen.
Douglas did not strain. Instead, he studied the two others in the room. The furious Shí Xing glared at him like a caged beast, yet said nothing further. The third man—the one dressed in black with a cap shading his eyes—watched in silence. His expression betrayed nothing, but his gaze weighed heavily, as though measuring Douglas's soul itself.
At last, the physician spoke. "Leader Ho, forgive my bluntness, but I believe… the Young Lord has lost his memory."
Ho Xing's brows furrowed. "Lost his memory? What do you mean, Physician Namda Ku?"
Namda Ku clasped his hands behind his back. "What I mean is precisely that—he remembers nothing. His eyes carry no recognition, his words are those of a stranger. I do not believe it to be simple confusion."
Ho Xing's expression darkened. "I have never heard of such a thing. How can one lose their entire memory?"
The physician's face was grave as he continued. "Leader Ho, I have a theory. When Young Lord's dantian was half destroyed during the attack, one of the Qi-carrying vessels—"
He paused, searching for the right term.
"The Jīng Mài (经脉), the meridian pathways that carry qi through the body," he clarified. "I believe one of the vessels leading into the mind was damaged. It is a miracle that Young Lord even breathes today. In light of that, memory loss is but a small price compared to losing his life entirely."
Ho Xing's lips tightened. He was a man who had walked through rivers of blood; his heart was not easily swayed. Yet the words 'losing his life' caused a flicker of pain to pass through his eyes.
"So," he asked quietly, "what is it you suggest?"
Namda Ku lowered his voice. "Introduce yourself to him again. Tell him who he is. Anchor him. If he can remember nothing, then give him something to hold on to—his name."
Ho Xing nodded slowly, his mind weighed with unspoken thoughts.
Meanwhile, Douglas sat upright as much as his injured body allowed, his arms trembling slightly under the strain. Shí Xing continued to glare at him, fire barely restrained in his chest. Douglas met his gaze evenly, his own eyes cold and unreadable.
This man calls me ungrateful. This old man they call 'Leader.' They all look at me as though I belong here… but I am no one here. I am Douglas Verrina Varkierd the Third. Who is this Hué they speak of?
The silence stretched until Ho Xing returned. His steps were firm, the authority of command echoing with each footfall. He stood before Douglas, casting his shadow over him like an ancient tree.
"You will listen carefully," Ho Xing said, his voice sharp as steel.
Douglas raised his head slightly, his eyes steady.
"If you have forgotten, then let me tell you. I—Guye Ho Xing—am the leader of the Lóng Mén Sect (龙门宗, Dragon Gate Sect). And I… am your father."
The words rang in the chamber, undeniable and heavy.
Douglas did not flinch. He understood the meaning of each word, though his heart rejected them. Yet in his condition, he could only nod. To deny outright would gain him nothing but suspicion and wrath.
"Understood?!" Ho Xing barked.
Douglas gave a quick nod.
Ho Xing's gaze softened—only slightly. "Good. Then you will also know this. You are not only my son, but the third and youngest child of the Guye Clan. Your two elder brothers walk the path of strength before you. And you… you are the second son of my bloodline."
Douglas's eyes narrowed. Sweat trickled down his temple. His body trembled—not from fear, but from the effort of restraining his own disbelief. Brothers? Clan? This body… what is it they claim of me?
Ho Xing bent closer, his eyes burning with the authority of blood.
"Your name is…" His words stretched, pressing into Douglas's soul like a seal.
"Guye Zu Feng."
The chamber fell silent.
Douglas—no, Zu Feng—sat frozen. The name rang in his ears, alien yet insistent. For the first time since waking, the weight of another identity pressed upon him, like a cloak draped across unwilling shoulders.
Shí Xing exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. The man in black remained silent, his eyes studying Zu Feng with quiet intensity.
Zu Feng's breath was shallow. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. He lowered his gaze to his hands—hands that were young, frail, unfamiliar.
Guye Zu Feng… is this who I am now?
The question lingered in his chest, heavier than the void he had clawed through.
And though he did not yet know it, the path of his second life had already begun.