The world returned to him slowly—first as cold, then as darkness, then as a faint ache spreading through small, shaky limbs that didn't feel like they belonged to him.
Ling Tian's eyelashes fluttered open.
The ceiling above him was low and warped, lines of damp spreading like veins through the rotting wood. Thin winter light leaked through the cracks. Dust drifted in the stale air. His breath came out in a fragile whisper, too faint even for him to hear.
He tried to sit up. His arms trembled violently. A wave of dizziness struck, forcing him back down.
Where…?
His mind reached for memories, for something familiar, something to anchor himself to—but all he grasped were fragments, cold and sharp like broken glass.
Snow.
Loneliness.
Silence.
A window covered in frost.
The vague shape of his own reflection.
A final exhale.
Darkness swallowing everything.
And a single truth whispered through the fog:
I died.
The thought settled with an eerie calm, not as shock but as simple fact. He didn't know his name, his age, or how he died. Only this: he was no longer in that world. Whatever body he once had was gone.
He forced himself upright again. Pain flared through frail bones. His small hands clenched the thin fabric beneath him—a tattered blanket that barely held warmth.
He blinked, taking in the tiny space around him.
A hut.
Barely four steps long.
Walls patched with dried mud and straw.
A crooked door that didn't close properly.
A cold hearth with ashes so old they smelled of dust instead of wood.
He scanned deeper, noticing the signs:
No extra shoes.
No adult clothes.
No bowls except a chipped one near the corner.
No footprints in the dust but his own.
He was alone.
This wasn't a temporary absence.
This was abandonment.
The small chest near the wall was empty except for a bit of dry grass—used as bedding. A thin wooden cup lay overturned on the floor, cracked at the rim. The faint smell of mold lingered around it.
Everything about this place whispered one truth:
He lived here alone.
He had lived here alone for a long time.
His throat tightened as a weak shiver ran down his spine. He wrapped his arms around himself, pressing his fingers into the thin cloth.
"...What kind of place is this…?" The whisper escaped him without meaning to.
His voice was small.
A child's voice.
A voice that trembled from weakness rather than fear.
He closed his eyes and reached inward, searching for something—anything—that wasn't broken fragments of death.
But all he felt was his own heartbeat. Weak. Strained. Barely able to push blood through his veins.
And beneath it, faint as a whisper in a storm, something warm pulsed once in his chest. A gentle throb, like a sleeping ember shifting beneath ashes.
It disappeared before he could grasp it.
He clutched his chest with a small hand, startled by the sensation. But his fingers felt nothing except ribs that were too sharp for a five-year-old.
Footsteps crunched lightly outside.
His head snapped toward the door, panic jolting through him.
Someone approached.
The door creaked open just enough for a small, thin face to peek through.
Big dark eyes.
A timid expression.
Clothes too big for her frame and patched more times than he could count.
A girl.
Around his age.
Her hair tied sloppily with a frayed string.
She hesitated when she saw him awake.
Then she smiled—shy, unsure, but warm. A warmth that didn't make sense in this cold little world.
"I… um… I brought you something."
Her voice was gentle, soft enough that he leaned forward just to hear her. She slipped inside and held out a small handful of red berries, their surfaces uneven and scratched.
His lips parted slightly. "…For me?"
She nodded, eyes brightening just a little. "I found them near the forest. They're sour, but… they're good. You look hungry."
He blinked at the offering. His stomach twisted with an empty ache he hadn't acknowledged until now.
"Thank you…" he whispered.
Her smile widened a bit, as if relief washed over her hearing even those two quiet words.
She carefully placed the berries beside him. "My name is Yun Xinya. You live alone… like me."
The way she said it—soft, trembling, as though loneliness were something she had grown used to carrying—made something warm bloom in his chest, a pulse that struck him faintly again before fading.
He swallowed. "Ling… Tian."
She nodded as if she already knew.
Silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. They just looked at each other—two abandoned children in a village that didn't have room in its heart for the weak.
Eventually, Xinya stood to leave. "I'll bring more tomorrow… if you want."
He opened his mouth, hesitated, then nodded. "I… would like that."
Her cheeks pinkened slightly before she rushed out, footsteps light against the frozen earth.
The door closed with a soft creak.
The hut felt less suffocating than before.
Ling Tian sat there a long time, staring at the berries, unsure why his heart felt just a little less hollow than it had moments ago.
He didn't know her.
He didn't know himself.
But warmth… even a tiny bit… was enough to keep him breathing.
Enough to keep him alive.
Years slipped by slowly, measured not by seasons or festivals, but by the rhythm of survival.
The villagers rarely visited. Sometimes an old woman dropped leftover porridge on his doorstep. Sometimes a farmer left broken firewood. But most walked past without looking, murmuring to themselves:
"Poor child."
"Won't live long."
"Such a burden at such a young age."
But Yun Xinya always came.
Every year, her steps grew a little steadier.
Every time she approached, she carried something—food scraps, a patched cloth, a tiny smile.
Ling Tian learned that she lived alone too. Her parents died while working off debts. She did chores for food. She ran errands for rude adults who yelled at her but paid little.
And she chose to spend every bit of spare time with him.
He didn't know how to say it, didn't know how to put the warmth she brought into words, but he knew one thing very clearly:
Xinya was the only person in this world who looked at him as though he mattered.
They grew up side by side, two shadows on the margins of the village. He followed her when his legs allowed; she stayed with him when they didn't.
She was the first to speak, the first to laugh, the first to worry over him.
And he was the first she trusted.
By the time they reached ten years old, the villagers had stopped pretending to be kind.
When the annual Spirit Root Assessment came, the entire village gathered in the square.
Children lined up nervously as Elder Mo placed a glowing orb on a wooden stand. Parents whispered excitedly, hoping their child might awaken even a faint Earth-grade potential.
One by one, children placed their hands on the orb.
Light flickered—bright for some, dim for others.
"Earth-Grade Wood Root."
"Low Metal Affinity."
"Water Root, stable."
Then Yun Xinya stepped forward.
Her hand touched the orb.
A soft green glow spread through it—gentle but steady. Stronger than average for village children.
"A cultivator," someone whispered.
"She'll reach Elementary Spirit easily."
Adults nodded approvingly. Even Elder Mo smiled faintly. "A good start, child. Work hard."
Xinya stepped back, stealing a glance at Ling Tian with hopeful eyes.
He forced a small smile.
Then his name was called.
Ling Tian walked forward slowly. Too slowly. Too weakly. Whispered sighs echoed around him. A few children snickered.
He pressed his palm to the orb and waited.
Nothing happened.
The orb stayed dark.
Still.
Cold.
Lifeless.
Silence rippled through the crowd.
Then whispers.
"He really is useless."
"No spiritual root at all?"
"What a waste."
"Orphan and cripple. Pitiful."
Ling Tian lowered his hand quietly. His face remained calm, but inside, something shrank into a tight knot of humiliation and resignation.
Xinya rushed to him afterward, hands clenched at her sides. "It's not your fault. Don't listen to them."
But he couldn't lift his head.
He couldn't pretend it didn't hurt.
He couldn't ignore the truth everyone now believed:
He was a cripple.
A boy with no future.
A burden to the village.
The weakest among the weak.
In the years that followed, the gap between them grew wider.
Xinya cultivated diligently. By thirteen, she reached Elementary Spirit Level 1. By sixteen, Level 2. At seventeen, she touched Level 3—already above most youths in poor villages.
Meanwhile, Ling Tian remained stuck at zero.
He couldn't sense qi.
Couldn't complete basic breathing patterns.
His body refused to strengthen.
No matter how hard he tried, his meridians stayed sealed.
Villagers mocked him openly now.
"Xinya's wasting her time on you."
"You'll only drag her down."
"You're eighteen already and not even at Level One."
But Xinya ignored them all.
She bandaged him when he fell sick.
Scolded him when he skipped meals.
Defended him when bullies pushed him into the dirt.
Worked long hours to bring him food.
And every time someone insulted him, she glared at them with a fierceness that didn't match her gentle appearance.
He wished he could protect her like she protected him.
He wished he could stand beside her as an equal.
But no matter how much he wished…
He remained powerless.
The night everything changed was cold enough to freeze breath into crystals. His hut was silent except for the wind slipping through the cracks like thin blades of ice.
Ling Tian sat alone on his straw bedding, knees pulled to his chest. His breath fogged in the dimness.
He had turned eighteen that day.
Xinya had given him a small bun she bought with her own coins. She smiled brightly while handing it to him as if it were a treasure. He promised to eat it later.
He lied.
The bun still lay untouched beside him.
He couldn't bring himself to eat something she worked so hard for.
He stared at the flickering candle, feeling the same heaviness he'd carried for years—helplessness, shame, and a quiet longing he didn't know how to name.
"Why… am I still so weak…?" he whispered.
His chest ached.
His meridians burned faintly, as though something inside him struggled against invisible chains.
He pressed a hand over his heart, confused and frustrated. "If I really got a second chance… why am I like this?"
A memory surfaced—uninvited and faint.
A girl's smile.
A snowy window.
A cold, lonely room.
A final wish spoken into empty air.
The fog in his mind shuddered.
The warmth in his chest pulsed again—harder this time.
He gasped softly, clutching his shirt. Something inside him… something sealed… was reacting.
Faces flashed behind his eyelids:
A woman laughing at a bar.
Headlights crossing a road.
The screech of metal.
A hospital room.
The doctor's voice.
Cold nights staring at empty walls.
A window covered in snow.
A quiet whisper:
"If I could live again… let me feel real love…"
Light burst through his mind like a shattering dam.
Memory crashed into him all at once—every emotion, every sorrow, every regret of his life before this one.
He remembered everything.
His past life.
His loneliness.
His mistakes.
His death.
His final plea to Heaven.
The warmth that answered him.
The promise given to his soul.
The imprint seeded deep within him—
Eternal Unity.
He collapsed forward, trembling violently, breath caught in his throat as two lives folded into one.
Tears spilled down his cheeks without permission.
He wasn't weak.
He wasn't talentless.
He wasn't a cripple.
He was sealed.
Because Heaven was waiting—
waiting for him to learn the meaning of connection,
waiting for him to cherish something he never valued,
waiting for his heart to be capable of the vow he once made:
"Next time… I won't waste my life."
His breaths shook as he wiped his eyes with trembling hands.
Xinya's smile flashed in his mind.
Her tears.
Her bruises.
Her kindness.
Her loneliness… the same loneliness he once carried.
She had given him warmth.
Protection.
Companionship.
A reason to live again.
He pressed his forehead to his knees, swallowing a sob.
"Xinya… I'm sorry," he whispered into the cold air. "I've been blind for so long."
He looked up, eyes burning fiercely for the first time in eighteen years.
A quiet strength stirred deep inside him.
A promise began to take shape.
"From now on… I will protect you. I will stand beside you. And I will never let you suffer alone again."
Outside, the wind howled softly.
Inside, Ling Tian's heart beat steadily—stronger than ever before.
His new life had finally begun.