Rowan Black woke before the sun.
The ceiling above him was crooked pine, weathered and bowed from a decade of damp winters. Frost lined the window frame. His breath fogged faintly in the cold air as he exhaled.
He sat up slowly, as always.
His back ached. His knees popped. His muscles were lean but stiff, tough as sinew rope. Eleven years in this body—ten of them spent training relentlessly, pushing against the mortal limits of flesh and bone.
And today, it would all end.
He reached into the air with two fingers, drawing nothing. Yet the faint, dark shimmer appeared—just as it always did. A panel only he could see.
STATUS PANEL
Name: Rowan Black
Cultivation Technique: N/A
Current Realm: Postnatal (Late Stage)
Lifespan: 99 / 100 years
He stared at it.
No change.
There never was.
No alerts. Just the same dry truth he'd lived with since the day he woke in this body—gasping, lost, in the bed of a man who had died.
Rowan exhaled through his nose.
No point staring at it now.
He pushed himself up, bracing against the old wooden bedframe. His legs trembled. His hip clicked. But he stood.
One more day.
Outside, Duskmoor was stirring.
He climbed to the rooftop, pulling himself up the ladder one rung at a time. The frost bit at his fingers, but he didn't flinch. His body moved by memory—drilled into him by habit, not hope.
From the rooftop, he watched the haze of the city spread out before him.
Smoke. Timber. Mist curling over muddy lanes. Traders unfurling their carts. Children screaming somewhere in the alleys. A line of people already forming outside the apothecary, coughing into their sleeves.
He saw no cultivators.
There rarely were.
He was the only one in his clan. One of the only ones in the entire ward.
The hatch creaked behind him.
He didn't turn. The footsteps were soft. Familiar.
Yuna, the first of his three wives. Careful. Kind. Too intelligent for the life she'd been married into.
"You're up early again," she said gently. "Did you sleep at all?"
"I don't think so."
She laid a folded blanket beside him and sat, uninvited but welcome. The rooftop tiles were slick with frost, but she tucked her cloak tighter and gazed out with him.
After a moment, she tilted her head slightly, studying him.
He kept his eyes on the city.
Below them, Duskmoor grew louder—pots clanging, boots scraping cobbles, a woman cursing at her mule, the deep wet bark of an old cough.
Rowan's hands rested on his lap. Knotted with age, dry-skinned, firm.
"I know you think something's wrong with me," he said at last.
Yuna flinched just barely. Then steadied herself.
"No," she said softly. "Not wrong. Just… melancholic."
He nodded once.
She left soon after, without another word.
He was too strong to need help.
And too close to death for it to matter.
Rowan stayed on the roof, legs folded, spine straight.
He didn't cultivate. He couldn't. Not really.
He just watched the sun rise.
And waited.
Then—without warning—his heart stopped.
Just for a breath.
Then it slammed back to life.
Something inside him cracked. A pressure surged through his chest, down his spine, into his limbs. His muscles clenched against it, then buckled.
He gasped.
His knees hit the rooftop. His hands scraped tile.
His skin flushed. His breath hitched. He arched forward in pain—not sharp, but immense, like the inside of him was being remade, molded by invisible hands.
His vision blurred. His hearing dimmed.
And then the panel returned.
STATUS PANEL
Name: Rowan Black
Cultivation Technique: [Initializing...]
Realm: Prenatal (Peak Stage)
Lifespan: 100 / 200 years
His eyes widened.
Prenatal. Not just the first stage—the peak.
He hadn't sensed spiritual before. No one at Postnatal could. But now… now he could feel everything.
His blood was no longer just fluid. It thrummed, dense with energy. His bones hummed. His marrow burned. His twelve meridians unsealed, as if gates within him had burst open.
He felt his organs strengthening, healing, expanding.
His skin grew hot. His heart beat deeper, slower, heavier.
Then the stench hit.
A sour, vile odor poured off him—thick as sludge. It rolled down his back in oily streaks, dripping into the frost, steaming on contact. His pores bled filth. Black residue seeped from every inch of his skin.
He collapsed forward, panting, a black puddle gathering beneath him.
Years of mortal impurity.
All of it expelled.
He gripped the edge of the roof and pulled himself upright.