Memories continued to unspool, bright and jagged like fragments of a shattered mirror. Scenes rose and fell inside Xuansha's mind: battles under blackened skies, duels atop endless mountains, secret bargains in forgotten cities. He saw himself again and again, growing stronger, colder, until at last he had stood at the Sixth Rank a pinnacle no mortal clan could imagine.
Yet the path had been no straight ascent. The first two thousand years were a grinding hell of hunger and humiliation. Every advance was purchased in blood, every scrap of knowledge stolen at the edge of a blade. Only in the last three thousand years had he wandered freely across the world, chasing relics, unraveling sects, gathering poems like fallen stars. Five thousand years: an expanse so vast it blurred the memory of his birth. When was I born into this world? Even now, he could not say. Time had become meaningless, a circle of fights, betrayals, and lonely triumphs.
He understood something else now, too. In this world, "genius" was not merely talent or strength, but the presence of an old and lucid soul inside a young body. By that measure, he was no mere genius but an anomaly an ancient demon forced once again into a child's frame. Those poems he had scattered across taverns and scroll-houses, which mortals called "explorations of the world," were nothing compared to what he truly knew. Only the first-class beings, the true giants of the age, could grasp the depth of a real genius's insight.
The legends, it turned out, had not lied. The ocean of time could be crossed. The soul could be torn from its age and hurled backward. But as he felt for his weapon, his lifeline, a hollow ache opened in his chest: the divine artifact that had carried him here the soul-transferring relic had not followed. It was gone, lost to the past or devoured by the current.
For a heartbeat, his fingers trembled. Then he tightened them into a fist, his knuckles pale and sharp.
No matter. I carved my path once without it. I can carve it again.
The dangerous smile returned to his lips.
"This time," he murmured, "I will climb higher than before. This time I will reach my peak not as the old demon of legend, but as the youth with five thousand years of memory."
Rain hissed against the window. Somewhere in the dark, a storm was building.
"Big brother," a soft voice came from behind, breaking through the sound of the rain. "Why are you standing by the window at this hour? The storm is strong, the night is cold…"
Xuansha turned slowly. In the doorway stood a boy of fourteen, thin shoulders wrapped in a patched robe, droplets clinging to his hair. A faint lantern-light framed his face, honest and unguarded.
"Oh, it's you," Xuansha said, his eyes narrowing with the weight of centuries before softening to match the role he was forced to play.
The boy was Xuan-ray his stepbrother, his blood by circumstance if not by birth. Inwardly, Xuansha's thoughts stirred. My true parents died a decade ago. Xuanray was born of my father's second wife, yet fate left us both orphaned in the same cruel season. Our uncle and aunt took us in… but never as equals.
A faint bitterness flickered across his mind. Because I could write poems words that touched their pride they called me the clan's treasure, their rising genius. And him? They cast him aside, treated him as refuse, a shadow at the edge of the household. He bore it in silence, year after year.
Xuansha's lips curved faintly, unreadable. "Do you need something, Xuanray?"
The boy shook his head. "No… I just heard the window banging. I thought I should come and close it." He stepped forward, his small hands stretching toward the shutters, his movements awkward but sincere. "Tomorrow is the Awakening Ceremony. I don't want Big Brother to catch a cold tonight. Everyone says you are the hope of our village… the genius of the Xuan Clan."
His voice dimmed, almost embarrassed, but the sincerity in his tone was undeniable. "If you fell ill, it might affect the test."
For a breath, Xuansha only watched him, the storm's roar filling the silence between them. A thousand hypocrites I have seen. Countless voices that called me brother, friend, or disciple, only to betray me in the end. Yet this boy, despised and overlooked by all, still worries for me…
The ancient demon's smile turned sharp, shadowed. His voice came out colder than he intended, a reflex from the weight of five thousand years.
"Go. Leave this place."
Xuanray forced a nervous smile, his small hands trembling. "I-It's okay, Brother… see you tomorrow." His voice cracked as if he were both afraid and ashamed. Without waiting for an answer, he backed out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Xuansha remained by the window, his eyes half-lidded, the storm's reflection gleaming in them. A whisper slid past his lips, sharp enough to cut the silence.
"Genius?" He chuckled, low and dangerous. "A genius? I am no child prodigy of poems and dreams. I am you, Xuanray. I am the shadow that this clan will one day fear. I am the demon who clawed his way across five thousand years. Xuansha…" His smile deepened into something cold, something not meant for a boy's face.
The scene shifted.
Morning spilled pale gold across the Xuan estate. Rain still dripped from the eaves, but the storm had passed, leaving behind a heavy stillness.
Xuansha sat cross-legged on his bed, his back straight, his eyes half-shut as though meditating. Inside, he was not at peace he was sifting through fragments of two lifetimes, his mind heavy with memories too vast for his frame.
A creak broke the silence. The chamber door opened, and a servant in plain robes hurried in. Bowing, he announced respectfully,
"Young master Xuanming, it is time to rise."
Xuansha's lips twitched. Xuanming… That was my name before Heaven marked me. When I climbed to the Sixth Rank, I shed that skin, burned away every trace of that child, and named myself Xuansha. Only by severing the past was I able to slip past Heaven's gaze. Names are shackles, but also masks.
The servant did not notice the weight in his silence. "Young master, I will prepare your bathwater."
Steam soon rose in copper basins. Xuansha Xuanming, for now allowed the motions of ritual to pass. He slipped into the bath, heat prickling against his pale skin, then stepped out as the boy's servant helped him dress. Another servant, loyal and talkative, moved to brush his hair, chatting as his hands worked.
"Young master," the servant said with a grin, "everyone believes that in today's Awakening Ceremony, you will reveal first-class aptitude. Who else could it be? Heaven has blessed you since birth." His voice dropped, teasing, "And as for the girls… Whoever becomes your chosen lover in the future will be truly fortunate. Such a talent, such a genius. To serve you even as a servant, young master, makes me lucky indeed. My name may be Banke, but every day others are jealous of me."
Xuansha stared at him through the mirror's reflection, eyes glimmering with a depth far older than his age. Banke, you chatter with a loyal heart… but you cannot begin to grasp who I am. Genius? Fortune? Girls and clan envy? These are children's dreams. My path is not one of praise or romance it is a road paved with corpses and betrayal.
Xuánming sat still as the servant finished combing his hair, but his mind was elsewhere.
Nan… Servant Nan. The name carried an old sting, one that even five thousand years could not wash away.
Her mother had been the head servant of the household, a woman as calculating as she was loyal to no one. She had trained her daughter well not in the art of cleaning or servitude, but in the art of men. Nan had been her finest creation: gentle smiles, lowered lashes, and a body trained to ensnare the sons of noble clans.
In my past life, I was no different than any other fool. Xuánming's lip curled in a half-smile, mocking his younger self. I believed her warmth. I mistook her practiced touches for affection. I even… loved her. When the truth of my so-called "third-grade aptitude" was revealed, she discarded me without hesitation. Love turned to laughter, devotion turned to betrayal.
A soft hand interrupted his thoughts.
Servant Nan had stepped closer, her perfume faint but deliberate, her eyes glimmering like dew-soaked petals. With a coy tilt of her head, she traced a finger along his lips, the touch lingering, testing.
"Young master," she whispered, her voice honey-sweet, "this servant does not desire riches or titles. I only wish… to serve you. To remain by your side, always."
The words, in another lifetime, would have melted his guard. He would have blushed, perhaps even vowed himself to her.
But not now.
With a sudden flick of his hand, Xuánming brushed her touch away, the gesture sharp enough to sting. His eyes, cold and unreadable, met hers.
"I don't need anything." His tone was flat, merciless.
Servant Nan froze. For the briefest moment, her mask slipped the carefully crafted seduction shattered by genuine shock. Confusion filled her gaze; this was not the boy she had thought she knew.
Xuánming rose to his feet, his robes whispering against the floor, and moved toward the door without sparing her another glance.
The door creaked open.
Standing there was Xuánray, his stepbrother. The boy's eyes widened at the scene he had witnessed the closeness between Xuánming and Nan, the way she lingered in the room. Jealousy, fear, and a childish sense of inferiority twisted his features.
Xuánming's gaze slid over him, calm and detached, before he asked coolly, "Are you ready? If you are, then let's go."
Xuánray swallowed hard, his small hands clenching at his sides. His brother's presence suddenly felt heavier, more dangerous. He nodded quickly, but the unease in his eyes remained.
The rain from the night before had left the village streets damp, the soil dark and heavy beneath their sandals. As Xuánming and Xuánray walked side by side toward the clan square where the Awakening Ceremony would be held, whispers trailed them like shadows.
People paused from their morning chores, eyes following the two boys with thinly veiled judgment.
"Look those two orphans," an old woman muttered, half-hiding her mouth behind her sleeve. "The clan head's brother took them in after their parents died. Pitiful children, but…" Her voice lowered to a cutting whisper. "…only one of them has any worth."
Another man, balancing a basket on his back, nodded. "That tall one in front that's Xuánming. They say he writes poems so profound that even elders nod in approval. A rare talent. The clan's shining hope."
A younger voice snickered from the crowd. "And the one behind? What's his name again? Xuán… something? Bah, doesn't matter. A piece of trash doesn't need a name. He's nothing but a shadow of his brother."
Laughter broke out, cruel and dismissive.
Xuánray's steps faltered. His head sank lower with every word, and though he bit his lip to stay silent, his clenched fists betrayed the sting of each insult. He walked a step further behind, as if shrinking from the world.
Xuánming heard it all. The villagers' words carried easily to his ears, sharp as needles yet strangely dull at the same time. He did not turn to comfort Xuánray, nor did he rebuke the villagers. Instead, his eyes narrowed slightly, and an almost invisible smile touched the corner of his lips.
Useless and trash… worthy and unworthy…
The words of the crowd blended together, becoming less like insults and more like the buzzing of flies.
This is what mortals are, Xuánming mused silently. Insects who long to soar like dragons, yet their wings are too frail. They cannot fly, so they spit venom at those who might. They mock what they cannot be. They laugh at weakness to hide their own. And in the end, they all burn in the fire of their own jealousy.
He remembered everything as if the old wound had been opened and salt poured into it.
In his first life, they had dressed him in praise to poison him. When the clan declared him a third-class aptitude, the smiles that followed were barbed courtesy meant to breed rivalry, admiration meant to sow envy. They raised him on a pedestal only so they could watch him and his brother tear at one another like wolves forced into the same stall.
They handed him Servant-Nan as if presenting a prize. Beautiful, practiced, the daughter of the head servant she had been schooled not in loyalty but in seduction. Her softness was a weapon; her touch a contract signed in secret. They gave nothing to Xuánray. The boy was left to the scraps: scorn, silence, and the bitter lessons of neglect. Because Xuánray had been simple, trusting an easy thing to break uncle and aunt needed only a whisper and a look to make the rift grow.
He laughed then, but it was not the laugh of a boy. It was the cold, detached sound of a man who had learned how to turn other people's hands into puppets. If he chose, he thought, he could erase Xuánray's name from the world. With a single flex of cunning, he could make the whole household dance to his tune. Servant-Nan cheat, seductress could be used and tossed aside; his uncle and aunt could be humiliated until even their shadows feared the light. The village, with its petty gossip and brittle loyalties, would be nothing more than a theater for his amusement.
But why waste himself on flies? he mused, letting disdain lace his voice even in silence. For a thousand years and more the sea of lives had shimmered and bubbled with insects countless, loud, and easily crushed. Playing their small games would be beneath him, a trivial diversion that would dull his edge. He would not scatter his wrath on every petty slight. He had no time for tedious conquests.
Only those who stood between him and his true aim those who would block his rise or stand in the path of his vengeance would feel his hand. Those insects he would crush utterly. He would rise again, but he would pick his battles like a predator choosing its prey: swift, final, merciless.
The smile that bent his mouth then was not the smile of a child hoping for love; it was the grin of a storm gathering behind a calm sky. The village could whisper. The servants could scheme. Let them. When he moved, when his old will reassembled in this young frame, those who had toyed with him would be swept away like driftwood. Only the worthy those who dared to stand in his way would learn what it meant to face a demon reborn.