The embrace lasted only a few seconds, but for Wei Heng, it was an eternity. When he finally let go, his mother, Su Ling, held him at arm's length, her eyes searching his face with a worry that was deeply familiar and achingly painful to witness again. The calm, almost detached expression he wore was so unlike her usually stressed but emotionally present son.
"A-Heng, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice soft but firm. "Did something happen at school? Are the exams getting to you? You can tell me."
For a fleeting moment, the Sovereign of Ten Millennia was at a loss. He could dissect the intricacies of a celestial formation or recite the histories of ten thousand fallen empires, but navigating a simple conversation with his mother felt like traversing a minefield. He accessed the memories of countless diplomats and silver-tongued orators from his inheritance, searching for the right words.
'Maintain the facade,' his mind commanded, cold and logical. 'Emotional stability of the family unit is paramount for Phase One. A plausible excuse is required.'
He manufactured a weary sigh, a perfect imitation of a stressed teenager. "It's nothing, Mom. Just tired. The pressure for the university entrance exams is intense." He even managed a slight slump of his shoulders. "I just... needed a hug."
The lie felt clumsy on his tongue, but it was effective. Su Ling's expression softened from alarm to sympathy. She pulled him toward the small, rickety dining table. "I know it's hard. Sit, sit. Dinner is ready. You need to eat well to have strength."
The meal was simple: stir-fried tomatoes and eggs, a plate of greens, and steamed rice. To Wei Heng, it was a feast more magnificent than any divine banquet he had attended in the cultivation world. The taste of home-cooked food, a flavor profile he hadn't experienced in millennia, was a sensory shock that grounded him, reinforcing the purpose that burned like a cold star in his soul. He ate slowly, methodically, savoring every grain of rice, committing the sensation to memory. This was what he was fighting for. This simple, fragile peace.
After dinner, he retreated to his small, cramped bedroom. The walls were covered in posters of forgotten pop stars and video games he barely remembered caring about. It was a shrine to a life that was no longer his. He sat before his old, slow desktop computer, the whirring of its fan a stark contrast to the silent hum of spiritual energy he was used to.
His first move was not one of power, but of pragmatism. To fight a war, one needed a war chest.
'Phase One: Secure Capital,' he thought. His eyes closed, and his mind became a sea of data. He accessed the memories of a financial magnate from his inheritance, a man who had built an empire on predicting market trends. Complex charts and cryptocurrency fluctuations appeared in his mind's eye with perfect clarity. 'The 'Crimson Wave' event. A minor, globally unnoticed pump-and-dump scheme in a niche cryptocurrency, orchestrated by a small group of European hackers. Predictable. A 350% gain in precisely 72 hours. It will be sufficient.'
He gathered his entire life savings from a tin box under his bed—a pitiful 2,137 yuan. It was the seed from which an empire would grow. Anonymity was crucial. Using his advanced knowledge, he navigated the deeper layers of the web, employing a series of layered VPNs and accessing a grey-market service to create an untraceable digital wallet and exchange account, paying the small fee with a disposable virtual card. To an outside observer, the transaction would originate from a public server in Estonia. With the precision of a surgeon, he executed the trade, setting up buy and sell orders timed to the millisecond. The seed was planted. Now, he just had to wait for it to grow.
With his financial plan in motion, he turned his attention to the pathetic vessel he inhabited. His body was weak, his meridians clogged with the impurities of a modern, sedentary life. He couldn't dare to unseal the true power of the 100,000 experts yet; the raw energy would instantly shatter this unprepared body into dust. He had to build a foundation, brick by painful brick.
He sat cross-legged on his floor and began the 'Primordial Chaos Breathing Method', the most fundamental yet profound technique for gathering ambient Qi. He focused his mind, his breathing slowing until it was almost imperceptible. He began to draw in the energy of the world around him.
It was like trying to drink from a muddy, stagnant puddle after being used to a boundless, pure ocean. The ambient Qi of this Earth was thin, polluted, and chaotic. 'Impurities... so many,' his internal monologue noted with disdain. 'But even dregs can be refined. The foundation must be flawless.'
Slowly, painstakingly, a thread of energy entered his body. It was a sluggish, difficult process. He guided the wisp of Qi through his meridians, using it as a scouring brush to clear away years of blockages. A black, foul-smelling sweat began to bead on his skin as his body underwent its first, crude purification. It was a familiar sensation, a small comfort in this alien world.
Night fell. The city lights of Fuzhou cast a hazy orange glow against his window. His mother was asleep. It was time for the next step. To accelerate his body's tempering, he needed a catalyst. He needed the
'Spring of Restoration.'
Dressed in a simple black hoodie and dark pants, he moved through the apartment with a silence that was utterly at odds with his lanky teenage frame. It was the ingrained grace of a master who had spent thousands of years perfecting his movements. He slipped out into the humid night air and made his way towards the Nanping warehouse district, an old, decaying part of the city slated for demolition.
The district was a ghost town of crumbling brick and shattered windows. He walked past derelict buildings until he stood before a specific one, indistinguishable from the rest. But to him, it was different. He closed his eyes and extended his Spiritual Sense, a basic cultivator ability he could now barely use. It was weak, only reaching a few meters, but it was enough. He felt it—a faint, almost imperceptible distortion in space. A hidden Gate.
He pried open a rusted side door and slipped inside. The air immediately grew cold, thick with the scent of damp earth, decay, and something else... something ancient and predatory. The dungeon was a series of dark, cavernous tunnels. Soon, he heard a chittering sound. From the shadows, several Abyssal Crawlers emerged, insectoid creatures the size of large dogs, their multiple eyes glowing with malevolent red light.
In his past life, he would have incinerated them with a thought. Now, he was armed only with a sturdy lead pipe he had picked up from the floor. He didn't need more. He moved not with overwhelming power, but with overwhelming, terrifying skill. As the first crawler lunged, he took a half-step to the side, its claws scraping uselessly against the concrete where he'd been. The pipe in his hand became a blur, striking a precise point on the creature's underbelly, an unarmored joint. There was a sickening crack, and the creature collapsed, twitching. He dispatched the others with the same brutal efficiency, each movement perfect, each blow fatal. It was a grandmaster of chess clearing a board of pawns.
He delved deeper, finally reaching the heart of the dungeon. In a small, phosphorescent grotto, a pool of water glowed with a soft, ethereal light. The Spring of Restoration. Coiled before it was the dungeon's guardian: a Gorgon-Crawler, larger than the others, its carapace shimmering with a sickly green luster.
As it sensed him, it hissed and raised its head, its multifaceted eyes glowing with a petrifying energy. Wei Heng knew its gaze could cause temporary paralysis. He averted his eyes, instead watching the creature's reflection in the glowing pool. He used the environment, kicking a loose rock to create a sound to his left. The creature lunged toward the noise, and in that instant, Wei Heng moved. He darted forward, the pipe whistling through the air, and brought it down with the full force of his refined Qi, shattering the monster's head in a single, decisive blow.
He calmly collected the monster's core—a valuable energy source—and approached the spring. He pulled several empty plastic water bottles from his worn backpack. Preparation was the hallmark of a true strategist.
Just as he finished filling the last bottle, his newly-cleansed senses flared with a warning. Footsteps. A team. They were approaching the grotto. He melted into the deepest shadows, using a simple Qi-masking technique to suppress his presence.
A moment later, a team of five hunters entered, clad in professional-grade combat gear. They moved with the disciplined coordination of an elite unit. At their lead was a young woman whose presence was like a sheathed sword—sharp, focused, and radiating a quiet power that far outstripped her companions. Wei Heng recognized her instantly. Lin Xia.
"The energy signature vanished here," one of her teammates said, his device beeping uselessly.
"Captain, look. The guardian..." another pointed at the dead Gorgon-Crawler.
Lin Xia knelt, ignoring the goo, and examined the creature's remains. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk's, narrowed. She noted the single, precise wound that had killed it. This wasn't the result of a messy, desperate battle. It was an execution.
Her gaze swept the grotto, and for a heart-stopping moment, her eyes seemed to lock directly onto the shadow where Wei Heng was concealed. He felt a prickle of energy wash over him—her own nascent form of spiritual sense. She was good. Terrifyingly good for her age.
'Lin Xia,' Wei Heng thought, his calm unwavering. 'Even now, her potential is a beacon. A crucial piece for the future, but a blade that cuts both ways. I must remain a ghost for now.'
"The kill was clean. Too clean," Lin Xia said, her voice crisp and authoritative. "Whoever did this is no mere scavenger. They knew exactly where to strike. Check the district's surveillance records for the past twelve hours. I want to know who came here tonight."
As her team began to methodically scan the area, Wei Heng, a phantom in his own world, silently slipped away through a different tunnel, the precious water secured in his bag.
The first piece had been moved on the grand chessboard. And he had, unintentionally, already drawn the attention of a future queen.