Firecrackers popped and crackled under the ink-black sky, their echoes weaving through the chill of late winter. It was the eve of the Lunar New Year—just a few hours more, and the calendar would flip. The era of Qianyuan (Thousand Origins) would draw to a close, and Kaiyuan (Opening Origin), a new epoch spanning sixteen hundred years, would begin.
In a cramped side chamber of the Governor's Mansion in Qingliang Prefecture, Zhao Xunan stared at his slender, pale hands, still reeling from the impossibility of it all. I'm really reborn?
His thoughts shattered as three earth-shattering booms tore through the air, followed by a voice that shook the heavens:
"The end of Qianyuan, the dawn of Kaiyuan—sixteen centuries of cycles renew. Let the New Year's celebration begin!"
The thunderous proclamation jolted Zhao awake. Outside, a tide of cheers crashed against the walls, and his breath hitched. Qianyuan's end… Kaiyuan's start. He had returned, back to the once-in-sixteen-centuries calendric shift that had defined his tragic past.
He exhaled shakily, fingers brushing the base of his neck—where a sword wound had once festered. Memories flooded in: the bitter taste of humiliation, the agony of losing his arm to an inner sect disciple's blade, the sneer of his sect leader as he dismissed Zhao's plea for justice. "A nobody like you? Even if you'd gotten the Dragon Blood Elixir, you'd waste it. Wang Sang—now there's talent worth nurturing."
Then, the final humiliation: "Decades of cultivation, and you still don't understand the ways of the world? A broken-arm nobody like you doesn't deserve respect."
Weeks later, at a sect gathering, Wang Sang had taunted him again. Enraged, Zhao had fought back—and died under the sneer of the man who'd stolen everything. "This hatred… it burns worse than death itself," Zhao hissed, gritting his teeth.
But then—a laugh escaped him. What a fool I was. Now, with decades of hard-won knowledge and the chance to rewrite his fate, he held the ultimate advantage.
A shrill voice cut through his thoughts: "Third Steward, you're being cruel! Master Li said my young master's provisions are to match the Li family's heir—so why treat him like a lowborn servant?!"
Zhao recognized the voice: Miss Zhao Ping'er, the frail girl who'd served him loyally in his past life. Her words were drowned out by a gruff, sneering retort: "The Li family's 'heir'? More like a good-for-nothing drifter. You think the Li mansion's going to waste resources on a nobody? Even if you want to marry our Miss Li, you're nothing but a frog lusting after a swan!"
The second steward—Pao, a hulking man with a face like a bulldog—laughed, flanked by smirking servants. Zhao Ping'er's lips trembled, tears pricking her eyes. Pathetic, Zhao thought, recalling how he'd once cowered under such insults, too weak to fight back.
But not anymore.
"Master Zhao is awake?!" Ping'er cried, rushing to his side as he pushed aside the cotton curtain. Her face was pale with worry, but Zhao only smiled, patting her hair pinned with a wooden hairpin. Then he turned to Pao—and slammed his palm across the steward's face.
CRACK!
The sound cut through the firecrackers. Zhao's hand throbbed—his body was still too frail—but the sting was worth it. Pao staggered, clutching his cheek, eyes wide with shock. The servants gaped, frozen. This wasn't the meek, sickly Zhao Xunan they knew.
"Master…?" Ping'er whispered, panic rising.
Zhao didn't answer. He stepped closer to Pao, the cold air doing little to soothe his fury. "You dare mock a scholar with a title? I could have your head for this—and the magistrate wouldn't bat an eye. Governor Li is my uncle; do you really think he'd side with a lowborn thug over his own flesh and blood?"
Pao paled, sweat beading on his forehead even in the winter chill. He fumbled for the rattan whip at his belt, but Zhao's sword—cold steel glinting in the firelight—pressed against his throat first.
"Three more inches," Zhao murmured, voice sweet as poison, "and your head would roll. Governor Li might fine me a few taels… but would he risk his reputation for a worm like you?"
Pao swallowed hard, tears of fear mixing with sweat. Zhao's gaze hardened. "Now. My provisions. And the respect I'm owed."
Pao nodded frantically, waving the servants to drop the supplies and flee. Zhao Ping'er stared at the six taels of silver and the baskets of goods, a rare smile breaking through her tears. "Master… you've changed."
"Change is long overdue," Zhao said, brushing snow from her hair. "Come on. The Kaiyuan celebration only happens once every sixteen hundred years—we can't miss it."
As they stepped into the night, fireworks painted the sky in gold and crimson. Zhao's eyes lingered on the sparks, a flicker of memory in his gaze. In his past life, he'd been too weak to leave his sickbed until after the celebration… and had missed his chance to secure a rare cultivation manual.
Not this time.
Back in his room, he retrieved a tattered booklet—Fuyao Manual (Manual of Soaring Clouds), its pages smudged with ink. Zhao's hands trembled as he traced the characters. This was the key: the complete cultivation method he'd once only glimpsed, the foundation to climb from mortal to immortal.
"Thank you, Heaven," he whispered, kowtowing deeply. "I won't waste this gift."
Ping'er bustled in, carrying firewood. "Master, let's light the stove—" She paused, staring at the booklet. "What's this? It's full of weird symbols!"
Before Zhao could stop her, she tore it in half, preparing to toss it into the flames. He lunged, snatching it back. "No!"
Her eyes widened. "Master…?"
Zhao clutched the manual to his chest, a rare vulnerability in his smile. "It's… important."
That night, huddled under thick quilts, Zhao pored over the Fuyao Manual. Its pages held not just cultivation techniques—from Foundation Establishment to Nascent Soul—but a path to power beyond anything he'd imagined.
"If I reach that realm…" He laughed softly, though his chest ached with the effort of holding back emotion. "Even death would be sweet."
But weakness dogged him. His frail body, once a prison, now a reminder of how far he had to go. "No more delays," he vowed. "Not this lifetime."
Outside, the New Year's bells rang. Somewhere, a child laughed. Zhao closed the manual, his resolve hardening.
This time, he thought, I'll soar higher than the clouds.