Late afternoon—the sun's final light filtered through the dense canopy, falling across a clear, flowing river. Ripples shimmered like liquid gold, reflecting off the face of a man rising slowly from beneath the surface.
Mo Long drew a long breath. His black hair clung wet against his face. Around him, thick dark liquid—like ink diluted in water—floated and drifted away downstream. He pushed his hair back and rubbed his arms roughly.
"This stench… disgusting," he muttered under his breath.
But when he looked down at his skin, he froze. His body gleamed clean and bright. The bruises, cuts, and lash marks that had once covered his flesh were gone, as though they had never existed. His hands trembled—not from weakness, but from the memory of the night before—the longest, cruelest night of his new life.
The night he purged the poison within his body. The night of his first true cultivation.
The night he stood at the threshold between life and death.
That night, his body had fallen face-first into the dirt, retching streams of black, venomous blood. The soil around him had turned slick and foul, its stench unbearable. With what little strength remained, Mo Long dragged himself upright, forcing his legs to fold once more.
"If I stop now… I die," he rasped between strangled breaths.
Agony devoured him from the inside out. It was as if his flesh was being flayed alive, his bones crushed and reassembled from within. His body convulsed violently; his teeth clattered like steel. The last trace of Shadow Qi from the elixir was faint—fragile as a wisp of smoke, fading fast.
'If this qi dies before I reweave my dantian… it's over.'
Summoning every shred of will, he shut his eyes and plunged his consciousness inward—into the spiritual realm of his body.
There, his shattered dantian glimmered faintly—its fragments floating like shards of broken glass.
'Silk-Weaving Technique… now or never.'
His fingers formed the Prana Mudra—the tips of his thumb, ring, and little fingers touching, while his index and middle fingers pointed straight.
Black threads began to emerge—born from his will. One by one, they stretched across the void, stitching each fragment together. The pain was beyond imagining, like molten needles piercing his heart. His physical body trembled, spasming violently—but the threads continued to weave, binding even the smallest, most elusive fragment.
And then… something he never anticipated happened.
The dantian came together—whole, radiant for an instant—then pulled in all the remaining Shadow Qi from every vein and meridian in his body. The qi compressed, folding in upon itself—condensing into a roaring sea of power.
BOOM!
The explosion was tremendous, but instead of tearing him apart—it filled him. He felt the surge flow through him like lightning. From his chest, the qi cascaded downward into his lower abdomen, swirling furiously—then rose again, igniting another point between his brows.
Three cores of energy. Three dantian.
A tremor of awe rippled through him as his eyes opened wide, pupils glowing faintly in the moonlight. The impossible had happened. The legend whispered in Jianghu—the body of the Trinity Dantian—was now his.
In that moment, beneath the moonlit forest, Mo Long was reborn.
The Shadow had awakened.
His body went rigid, veins bulging beneath his skin. His eyes snapped open—entirely black, darker than midnight. Shadow Qi surged through him like a storm, swirling violently as the ground trembled beneath his levitating form. He rose half a hand's width above the earth, hair whipping wildly as his body became wreathed in a dim, flickering light interwoven with thick, rolling smoke.
The night deepened.
Long after midnight, the violent current of qi began to subside. The three dantian within him pulsed steadily, slow and synchronized—like three new hearts beating for the first time. Mo Long sat still, breathing deeply, his expression calm yet radiant.
Thoughts rippled through his mind—reflections born from pain, struggle, and rebirth.
Power… something he once took for granted when he was Guang Lian.
Courage… something he once thought he possessed, yet only now did he truly understand its meaning—when facing despair alone, without strength, without anyone beside him.
Hard work… not merely sweat and blood, but the will to move forward despite every limitation, despite every wound.
And sacrifice—the thing he once deemed trivial—had become the core of his existence, the essence of his new life: to give up everything for a single purpose.
A strange harmony formed within him. A faint light glowed from his skin, fusing with the dark qi that coiled around his body. Countless new insights, philosophies, and instincts spun within his mind.
That night, beneath the pale moon, Mo Long was reborn once again.
He had attained enlightenment.
In utter stillness, Mo Long sat cross-legged with his eyes closed. His lips moved faintly, whispering the ancient cultivation incantations of the Shadow Dragon Clan—words his body had remembered since childhood.
It was a technique to draw the dark energy of the world, to refine it into a qi that fused illusion and poison—the essence of the clan's forbidden art.
"Inhale the toxin, exhale the shadow... I vanish within poison, eternal in darkness... The blood of Hei Long flows in my soul—his power is my power..."
The tension of the night passed at last.
Now, beside the crystal-clear river, Mo Long gazed at his hands bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. His fingers still trembled from the aftershock of the qi storm, but his lips curved into a grin—then widened into a laugh.
"I did it… I've regained my cultivation!" His voice rang through the forest, echoing across the water.
He flicked his fingers. A stream of black Shadow Qi flared to life, wrapping around them like dark fire. It was dense, alive, and far more vicious than any qi he had wielded in his past life.
A falling leaf drifted past his hand. The instant it brushed against the dark flame, it withered—shriveling to dust before it even touched the water.
'This qi… it's destructive beyond measure.'
Mo Long chuckled—then burst into a triumphant laugh, tilting his head back toward the sky.
"I possess qi again—and not just one dantian…" His laughter grew louder, echoing across the quiet forest.
"…but three!"
Mo Long leaned back against the riverbank, closing his eyes as he felt the rhythm of his three dantian pulsing in harmony.
'In my past life, I possessed two dantian—an anomaly rare even in Jianghu. But now… three.'
His lips curved faintly, a quiet satisfaction flickering in his chest. 'Could this be heaven's compensation—for both my suffering and this boy's tragic fate?'
The gentle current brushed against his neck, cool and clear. He smiled softly, feeling the qi circulate like a serene river within him. 'If my second dantian once perfected every movement, making my body an instrument of precision… then this third one—it connects me to the flow of nature itself.'
He opened his eyes to the brilliant blue sky. Clouds drifted lazily above, and for the first time in this new life, he felt at peace.
But that peace did not last.
A shadow passed through his thoughts—cold and sharp. His eyes darkened. 'Who poisoned this body until it was ruined? Who shattered the dantian of this poor boy before I came?'
A long sigh escaped him as he sat up, water streaming down his chest. "Could it be… her?" he murmured quietly, suspicion flickering in his gaze.
He quickly shook his head, dispelling the thought. There would be time for that later. For now—he needed to test the strength of what he had gained.
He stepped out of the water. His body had changed—taller, lean yet sculpted, his muscles defined beneath the afternoon light. His skin gleamed like polished jade, and only his torn black trousers clung to him.
A grin crept across his face.
"Time to test… Shadow Qi."
Dark energy began to surge—thick black smoke mixed with fine dust, swirling around him in a storm of shadows.
"Let's start simple… Qinggong!"
He sprang lightly from the riverbank. His feet barely touched the stones before he shot forward, gliding above the surface like a phantom. He leapt from one tree branch to another, each step silent, fluid, precise.
A boulder the size of an ox loomed in his path. Instead of dodging, Mo Long accelerated. Shadow Qi condensed around his fist, spiraling like a living vortex.
He jumped—fist first—
BOOM!
The rock exploded into shards, scattering across the forest floor. Dust and fragments filled the air like smoke from a battlefield.
Landing lightly, Mo Long examined the wreckage. His eyes glimmered coldly.
'So this is Shadow Qi… he thought. A force of pure destruction. With this, I'm one step closer…'
Dusk descended. The last streaks of sunlight faded behind the trees, turning the forest into a vast sea of darkness.
***
At the same hour, somewhere far away—
The glow of sunset seeped through the cracks of a wooden window, casting long lines of amber across the floor of a small inn room. The air was thick with the scent of stale wine and faint incense.
On a wide bed, two beautiful women lay fast asleep, their bare shoulders wrapped loosely in tangled sheets.
Then—
KNOCK… KNOCK… KNOCK…
A slow, deliberate knock broke the silence.
Mo Feng grunted in irritation. Eyes half-open, he dragged himself out of bed, the scent of cheap perfume still clinging to his bare chest. When he slid the door open, a familiar face stood outside—one of his classmates, pale and anxious.
"Feng," the man whispered, glancing around. "You need to know— that rich merchant's son you beat last night… Jin Yuu… he's still unconscious. His family's furious. They're searching the entire city for you!"
Mo Feng rubbed his face and chuckled lazily.
"Hah… that's all?" He stretched his shoulders, voice dripping with amusement. "Let them search. They wouldn't dare touch me."
He patted the man's shoulder and smirked. "Come on. You're ruining my mood—let's drink."
By the time the sun had sunk, the tavern at the street corner was alive with noise. Cups clinked, drunken laughter echoed, and the smell of roasted meat mingled with spilled wine.
Mo Feng sat in a shadowed corner, swirling a golden cup of liquor, his finger tapping a steady rhythm against the table. His nervous companion sat across from him, fidgeting.
"How can you stay so calm?" the thin man asked, voice low.
Mo Feng sighed, tilting his head back. "Are you still talking about that?" He cracked his neck, then smirked. "Our clan has worked with the Jin family for years. We guard their caravans, their storehouses—we keep them alive."
"But the Jin family is known to be stubborn," his friend pressed. "What if they cut ties?"
Mo Feng downed his cup, the liquid gleaming like blood in the lamplight. "The Jin family?" he scoffed, laughing softly. "They're nothing more than mid-tier merchants. Do you think they can afford guards stronger than the Shadow Dragon Clan? Without us, their trade routes would be crawling with bandits and sect mercenaries. They'd be wiped out in a month."
His friend went silent. Mo Feng's words were arrogant, but terrifyingly plausible.
Leaning closer, Mo Feng lowered his voice, eyes glinting like a predator's.
"Besides," he said, "our clan's roots run deep inside their business. Guards, warehouse keepers—even some of their inner-circle men serve us. Every move they make, we already know."
A slow grin stretched his lips. "I'm the heir of the Shadow Dragon Clan. They fear me. No one dares lay a hand on me."
The man swallowed hard. He'd always known Mo Feng was arrogant—but hearing the scope of his power chilled him to the bone.
Still, curiosity clawed at him. "Feng… don't you ever think your father—the Patriarch—knows about everything you've done? The women, the debts, the fights… all of it? Hasn't he ever been angry?"
Mo Feng slammed his cup down. The sharp clack silenced nearby chatter. His eyes narrowed to cold slits.
"Tell me something. You know my younger brothers, right?"
The man nodded quickly. "Y-yes."
"Then you know they're worthless—especially that wretch, Mo Long." His sneer deepened. "My father doesn't care about anything else. As long as I'm strong enough to enter the Heavenly Demon Academy, I can do whatever I want."
"So you're saying…" his companion hesitated. "You're free to do anything."
Mo Feng leaned back, grin widening. "Exactly. I can do whatever I please. Because in the end, I'm the only hope the Shadow Dragon Clan has left. No one—not even my father—would dare stop me."
A drop of wine slid from the edge of his cup, splashing onto the table. He twirled the golden goblet idly, the faint reflection of firelight glimmering on his smirk.
In that moment, with arrogance burning in his eyes and the taste of wine on his tongue, Mo Feng truly believed the world itself lay beneath his heel—unaware that somewhere deep within the forest, a shadow had already begun to rise against him.