The rough straw mat groaned beneath Zhou Feng's weight as he shifted, the phantom ache of two consciousnesses settling finally into one body. He opened his eyes, not to the harsh, neon lights of his memory, but to the muted morning shadows of a small, Spartan room. The air was thick with the scent of aged cedar and a faint, metallic tang of spiritual essence.
He was in the Great Qin Empire. A world of immense, terrifying beauty and absolute spiritual hierarchy.
He rose slowly, pulling on a simple, dark tunic. The transmigrated soul was no longer dizzy, only intensely focused. In his previous life, he had been a man of failed ambition, swallowed by debt and the crushing mediocrity of a mundane world. Here, the world itself was a weapon, unforgiving and lethal, yet it offered true, tangible power—immortality, if one was strong enough to seize it. He preferred this challenge. The failure of his past life gave him an unnerving calm; there was nothing left to lose.
He checked his inner self. Deep within his spiritual sea, the quiet anomaly remained. The strange, silent fog.
It looked less like an essence and more like a void given shape, a cloudy mass that should not exist in a healthy cultivator's core. He instinctively knew it was the residue of his journey, a bizarre, cosmic inheritance. For now, it was simply inert, a hidden chamber waiting to be unlocked.
A gentle knock brought him back to the present.
"Feng'er, you are up late. The dawn practice must not be missed."
It was his mother's voice—soft, clear, and carrying the unique authority of a woman who commanded respect without uttering a single word of spiritual threat.
Zhou Feng opened the door.
Lady Mei stood in the dim corridor, a figure of serene beauty that belied her true status. She was mortal, yet she possessed a dignity that often surpassed the Qi Tempering elders of the clan. She wore simple robes, emphasizing her fragility and her strength in equal measure.
"Mother," he greeted her, bowing correctly. His respect for her was absolute. She was the only true warmth and protection he had in this cold house of wolves.
"Your father's last missive arrived yesterday," she said, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "He is still detained on the western border. The incursions from the Divine Mountain are fiercer than expected."
Zhou Feng tensed almost imperceptibly. His father, the Divine Executioner, Essence Refining powerhouse, was their clan's absolute shield. Every month his absence was extended, the cracks in the clan's stability widened.
"Is his spiritual jade sound?"
"It is," Lady Mei confirmed, a flicker of worry crossing her beautiful face. "But the messages grow short. Come. We have time before your official morning session for the Zhou techniques. Today, we work on the Face Mask."
They moved into a small, enclosed courtyard, paved with smooth river stones. This was their private sanctuary, hidden from the watchful eyes of the servants and the concubines' spies.
"Your brothers are training their Qi; you must also hone your defense," she instructed, her tone pragmatic, devoid of emotion. "The Qi Tempering Realm is easy to break into, but an arrogant Stage Two cultivator can still be killed by a clever mortal."
She took a piece of smooth, unassuming cloth from her sleeve. "The Face Mask is not a glamour, Feng'er. It is a psychological tool. It changes how people see you, not necessarily what you are."
"I understand, Mother. The mask allows them to underestimate my intent."
"Precisely. Intent is everything." She sat down on a stone bench, watching him intently. "Now, take this. The movement we practiced yesterday. Show me the steps that would allow a mortal to evade an aggressive Qi surge."
Zhou Feng took the cloth. He began the footwork: a rapid series of steps that kept his center low and constantly moving, prioritizing evasion over blocking. The technique felt awkward and mundane compared to the powerful Qi techniques his half-siblings were learning, but he knew its value. It was a foundation of survival.
He knew that without his father's Essence Refining aura, the siblings would soon turn on his mother. Her past—her spirit bone, her ruined family, her connection to the lesser North Palace Sect—made her both valuable and a liability. He was her only remaining anchor.
"Good, Feng'er. Your mind is quick. You move like a shadow in the moonlight." Lady Mei nodded, satisfied. "Your greatest asset is your patience, not your strength."
As he slowed his movements, a dull, familiar weight pressed against his ribs. It was the aged, tough beast hide his mother had given him years ago, wrapped and strapped tightly beneath his tunic. It was the inheritance of her destroyed clan, covered in the bizarre, complex patterns of a powerful Body Refining Technique.
He glanced down at the bulge beneath his clothes. He had been focusing on the clan's Qi Tempering technique because it was available and required, but he knew the true power, the true change, lay hidden in that pattern. He was still too weak in Qi and spirit to attempt to decipher it, but he studied it every night, tracing the overlapping lines in his mind.
"You worry about the other children, don't you?" Lady Mei asked, interrupting his thoughts with unsettling accuracy.
He straightened. "They are competitive, Mother. They follow the path of the strong."
"They are greedy," she corrected him simply. "And without the Divine Executioner's immediate presence, that greed turns to open hostility." She leaned forward, her beautiful eyes holding his. "You must survive their greed. Use what I have taught you. Live your life to its fullest, no matter the cost."
Her words, the philosophy of a mortal trying to survive among nascent gods, resonated deeply within his transmigrated soul. It was the command he lived by.
Later that afternoon, while his official tutor—a middle-aged Zhou elder—was away, Zhou Feng retreated to his room. He settled cross-legged on the mat, ready to attempt his own version of meditation. The ambient spiritual Qi of the Market Mountain region, while not abundant, was sufficient for a beginner.
He focused on the Strange Fog in his consciousness.
Mimicry.
He projected his nascent spiritual sense toward the fog, not asking for energy, but for knowledge. The fog stirred, not violently, but like oil spreading on water. It gave him an image, a feeling.
It showed him the face of his half-brother, Zhou Lie, a Stage Three Qi Tempering brute who often bullied the younger, weaker sons. The image was fleeting, but the accompanying sensation was a perfect, arrogant, unstable pressure—the hallmark of Lie's cultivated aura.
Zhou Feng drew his spiritual sense back, trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the realization of the sheer magnitude of this bizarre power. He could not truly access Zhou Lie's power, but he could project his aura.
If he could master this, he could walk through the clan undetected. He could appear strong when he was weak, or weak when he was secretly strong. When the inevitable conflict came, this fog would be his true shield, the ultimate Face Mask.
The problem, however, was time. He was still in the gas-stage of Qi Tempering. He was still physically weak. He needed to accelerate his progress without attracting the fatal scrutiny of his siblings, especially the older ones like Zhou Lie and the calculating Eighth Sister, whose mother was a powerful concubine.
He looked out the small, square window. The foothills of the Market Mountain rose sharply, culminating in the massive, fortified castle jointly controlled by the Zhou, Luo, and Duan families. Profit, resources, and power radiated from that castle.
He could not remain safe in his small, quiet outpost forever. He needed to reach that market, to acquire the herbs, the pills, and the hidden knowledge that would fast-track his ascent. But he could not move until the conflict forced his hand, and until his mother's death released him from his filial duty—or until his father's prolonged absence made escape necessary.
For now, he was still the quiet seventh son, practicing evasive mortal footwork and simple Qi cultivation, waiting for the day his fragile world shattered.
He would be ready