High above the mortal realm, clouds churned like dragons in a restless sea. Peaks speared into the heavens, shrouded in mists that glimmered silver under a pale sun. Waterfalls cascaded down black cliffs, roaring like the cry of a thousand beasts.
Hidden within those mountains lay cities suspended on floating jade platforms. Ancient pagodas scraped the sky, their roofs tiled in spiritual gold. Lights glowed from paper lanterns etched with runic seals. Sects carved their names into mountainsides, each stroke radiating arrogance and authority.
It was a world ruled by strength.
Where a single cultivator could topple kingdoms.
Where a single sect could dictate the lives of millions.
Where legends spoke of immortals splitting suns and devils swallowing entire rivers of blood.
And amidst it all, countless mortals struggled to catch even a fragment of heaven's favor—to break free from their meager fates.
This was the cultivation world. Glorious. Merciless. Unforgiving.
And it was once my domain.
Yet now…
A cracked wooden ceiling is all I see.
The faint scent of dried herbs and damp wood clings to the air. Somewhere nearby, rain patters gently against roof tiles, each drop like a soft drumbeat.
I lie still for a long time, feeling my chest rise and fall—slowly, delicately, like a fragile bird.
It's so… small.
So utterly mortal.
I died.
Even in my mind, the words feel foreign. Like a joke told in poor taste.
Me. The Heavenly Demon who ruled nine realms. The one whose mere name silenced entire sects. Whose blade drank the blood of heroes and villains alike.
Dead.
And not in a battle worthy of song. No heavenly tribulation. No last stand beneath the crashing stars.
No… I died because of betrayal.
Faces flash through my memory, distorted like brushstrokes blurred by rain. Smiles dripping with honeyed words. Knees bent in false loyalty. A blade shining with cold light—and pain exploding in my chest as it plunged between my ribs.
He whispered as he drove it deeper: "Forgive me, Master… but the world needs balance."
Balance…
Heh. A bitter laugh rattles in my new, childish throat. The world never cared about balance. Only power.
I blink and realize tears have gathered at the corners of my eyes. I raise my hand to wipe them away.
And pause.
Tiny fingers. Pale skin. Smooth and delicate where once there were calluses, scars, the hardened proof of countless battles.
I stare at my palm, flexing my fingers. The bones beneath the skin feel fragile as twigs.
Is this… truly me?
I sit up slowly. The wooden bed creaks beneath my slight weight. The room is small, walls patched with yellowing talismans. A single candle flickers on a low table, casting shadows that dance like restless spirits.
That's when a shimmer of blue light blooms before my eyes.
[ Status Panel ]
[Name: ???]
[Age: 5]]
[Race: Human (Mortal Realm)
[Cultivation: None]
[Potential: ???]
[Affiliation: Cloudveil Sect – Outer Region]
[Father: Deceased]
[Mother: Alive]
[System Access: [Granted]]
Rows of glowing characters drift like mist across my vision. The letters pulse faintly as though alive.
A system…? Some celestial artifact? Or perhaps… a curse?
Back in my former life, even the oldest demon scholars spoke in hushed tones of worlds where destiny manifested as scripts of light. Where cultivators wielded knowledge itself as a weapon.
Could this be one of those worlds? Or has the Dao finally decided to toy with me for amusement?
My lips twist into a smirk despite myself.
So… from Demon Sovereign… to this.
Yet somehow… I don't feel despair.
This body might be weak… but my soul still remembers how to devour the heavens.
A sound interrupts my thoughts—voices murmuring outside.
"Poor Mei… she's barely twenty-five. And now her husband gone, left with a child…"
"Chen'er hasn't spoken since the funeral. Poor thing doesn't even cry."
Another voice, softer: "Sect Leader said no aid. 'Servants are not the sect's concern.'"
I clench my tiny fists. The familiar burn of anger sizzles in my veins.
So nothing has changed. The strong still trample the weak. The sects still value only power.
A memory not my own flickers—a man in plain robes, coughing blood, whispering to a small boy: "Chen'er… take care of your mother…"
So… that's the father of this body. A servant. Dead.
A strange tightness grips my chest. Guilt? Grief?
Emotions I should not feel.
And yet…
I hear footsteps. Light. Hesitant. The paper door slides open, spilling pale lantern light into the room.
A young woman stands there, eyes rimmed red, hair pinned back hastily. Her robe sleeves are patched and fraying. She carries a steaming bowl, her hands trembling slightly.
She looks at me as though I'm her entire world.
"Chen'er…" Her voice breaks. "You're awake."
I open my mouth to speak. No words come.
Instead, I stare at her—this stranger whose tears glisten like morning dew.
I am not your son.
I should tell her that.
But…
The scent of the congee drifts to me. Warm. Comforting.
Maybe… for now… I'll play along.
She kneels beside me and gently sets the bowl on the table.
"I made your favorite," she whispers. "Eat, Chen'er… so you'll grow strong."
Strong.
I will, I think, wrapping trembling fingers around the bowl. Stronger than anyone. Stronger than the heavens themselves.
Because the world may have killed me once… but this time—
This time, I'll carve my name into the skies.