Great Yan Dynasty.
Qingzhou.
Snow Plum Manor.
Plum blossoms drifted through the air like falling snow. Their blood-red petals scattered across the ground, staining the courtyard with a chilling beauty.
The manor's usual tranquility had long since been shattered.
"Kill!"
"Leave no chickens or dogs alive!"
"Not even an ant escapes today!"
Cold, ruthless shouts cut through the howling wind, sending a bone-deep chill through the night.
It was in this chaos that Ning Qi regained consciousness.
"Am I… transmigrated?"
The thought arose naturally.
Just moments ago, he had been lying on a hospital bed, counting down the final seconds of his life. Now, he was no longer an adult—but an infant, caught in the middle of a blood-soaked vendetta.
There was no doubt about it.
Ning Qi was certain he had become a newborn.
Wrapped tightly in warm swaddling cloth, his fragile body felt strangely secure. Compared to his previous life, this alone was already a blessing.
In that life, he had suffered from a rare form of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. From a young age, he had been confined to a hospital bed, watching the world from behind cold white walls, until he finally died—quietly, alone, and unseen.
"At least I'm still alive…"
Though the situation was far from ideal.
Perhaps because of transmigration, Ning Qi could clearly understand the meaning behind every word shouted outside.
The woman holding him trembled slightly as she ran. Ning Qi could feel her breath growing uneven, her arms tightening around him.
Fear.
It spread to him as well.
Who would willingly face death twice?
He struggled to open his eyes. Dried discharge clung stubbornly to his eyelids, blurring his vision. From his angle, he couldn't see her face clearly—only her smooth, pale chin. Yet even that carried a warmth that made his heart stir.
A strange sense of closeness surged within him.
Bloodline resonance.
"Is she… my mother in this life?"
Before he could think further, the woman rushed into a study. She moved with practiced familiarity, pressing a mechanism in a precise rhythm.
Click. Click. Click.
A hidden compartment slid open.
She bent down and gently placed Ning Qi inside.
By the faint light, he finally saw her face.
Graceful. Gentle. Her eyes brimmed with tenderness, despite the exhaustion etched deep into her features. The glow of new motherhood made her heartbreakingly beautiful.
Her voice trembled as she spoke.
"Qi'er… you must live."
"I must accompany your father to face the enemy. If the gods protect you… do not resent us in the future."
Warm lips pressed softly against his forehead.
Tears fell—light, trembling, real.
Then she turned away.
The mechanism closed.
Darkness swallowed Ning Qi whole.
A faint ache rose in his chest.
Though he had only just arrived in this world, he could not deny it—this was his mother. In mere moments, she had given him everything she had left.
And now, she was walking toward death.
The sounds outside grew louder.
Metal clashed. Structures collapsed. Explosions shook the ground.
Ning Qi listened intently.
Even through the thick walls of the compartment, the slaughter was unmistakable.
Two conclusions formed in his mind.
First, the martial strength of this world far exceeded imagination.
Second, Snow Plum Manor was doomed.
His heart sank.
"If they slaughter everyone… will they find me?"
Even hidden, he dared not relax. In a world like this, who knew what methods existed to detect life?
He stilled himself as much as possible, suppressing even the faintest movement.
But unease clung to him.
As the killing sounds faded, replaced by methodical footsteps and the crash of doors being forced open, his dread deepened.
Then a voice rang out—low, malicious.
"Search carefully."
"Leave no corner unchecked."
"Especially Ning Ye and Jiang Xuemei's child. Root out the problem."
Ning Qi's heart slammed violently.
His body betrayed him—tiny muscles tensed, instincts flaring beyond his control.
"What do I do…?"
He was an infant. Helpless. Unable to flee. Unable to fight.
If discovered, death was certain.
Then—
The world fell silent.
Time, sound, and light seemed to lose meaning.
For a fleeting instant, Ning Qi felt as though his consciousness expanded infinitely—like he could grasp the workings of all things.
And just as suddenly, the noise returned.
But something had changed.
A flash of insight burst within him.
In that instant, he understood.
This was his hundredth life.
Ninety-nine lives of suffering had come before. This one began no differently.
"A hundred lives of pain…"
"Even the heavens couldn't watch any longer?"
Joy and disbelief surged together.
His thoughts accelerated, leaping freely, unfolding endless possibilities.
This was comprehension—pushed to its absolute limit.
Not borrowed. Not temporary.
Perfect.
"As long as my life endures… my comprehension will always remain at its peak."
Max-level comprehension.
His only hope.
But hope alone wouldn't save him.
"I need to survive. Now."
He turned inward.
For the first time, he fully perceived his own body—its rhythms, its warmth, its fragile vitality.
"In the womb… breathing didn't rely on the mouth or nose."
"Fetal breathing…"
A faint, warm flow moved within him.
Innate Qi.
If gathered. If guided. If preserved—
His heartbeat slowed.
His breath faded.
Until it vanished entirely.
From the outside, Ning Qi appeared lifeless.
If anyone saw him now, they would think him stillborn.
"This shall be called…"
"Innate Fetal Breathing Art."
The warmth deepened. Hunger vanished. His pores opened and closed rhythmically, sustaining him without breath.
Outside, footsteps thundered past.
Searches intensified.
A man's furious voice roared from above.
"Burn it."
"Turn Snow Plum Manor to ashes."
Inside the hidden compartment, Ning Qi lay perfectly still.
Alive.
And unseen.