The winter wind blew hard. Snow piled in the corners of the alley, turning to gray slush where boots had trampled. People hurried past with baskets and cloaks pulled tight, ignoring the small figure curled up against a wall.
The figure was a boy of perhaps ten. His hair was matted with dirt, his clothes little more than rags. His lips were pale, his hands trembling.
His name at least, the one he remembered was still Shen Kai.
But this was no longer the sect, no longer the same world.
He remembered dying. The sect trials, the Mirror in his dantian, the sudden surge of power, and then, betrayal. He had risen too fast, revealed too much. Elders had noticed. Jealousy had followed. Poison in his tea, a blade in his back.
Darkness. Then, light again.
When he opened his eyes, he was here, in the body of a starving beggar.
At first he thought it was a dream. But when he looked inward, he saw it:
The Cracked Mirror still floated in his dantian.
The same web of fractures, pulsing faintly. The same whispers of ten thousand lives.
It hadn't abandoned him. It had followed.
He clenched his fists, though his body was weak. I see. Each generation, I'll live again. Each time, the Mirror comes with me. Then I'll climb again, even from nothing.
The problem was, right now, he had nothing.
His stomach twisted with hunger. Days had passed since he last ate more than scraps from the market. Each time he begged, people turned away.
"Another street rat."
"Go die in the snow."
He heard it all.
But worse than the hunger were the dreams.
When he slept, the Mirror showed him the lives of beggars from his past incarnations. Men and women who starved, who froze, who died alone in alleys like this one.
Their despair clawed at him, whispering: Why bother? You'll end the same way.
Each morning he woke with tears on his face, though he didn't know if they were his or theirs.
One night, when his hunger was too much, he closed his eyes and reached into the Mirror.
"Show me something useful," he whispered. "If you'll curse me with these memories, then give me strength too."
The Mirror pulsed. A shard glowed.
An image appeared: a beggar in rags, the same as him, sitting cross-legged under a bridge. The beggar drew in faint traces of Qi from the air, refining it drop by drop.
No sect. No master. No resources. Yet the beggar cultivated on his own, using hunger itself as fuel to focus his will.
Kai's eyes widened. So even a beggar can condense Qi.
He copied the posture, the breathing, the flow. At first, nothing. Then—a faint warmth trickled into his dantian.
His Soul Lamp flickered weakly. But the Mirror drank it in, refining it, multiplying it.
His body shuddered. His limbs grew warmer, his heart stronger.
It was pitiful compared to the sect disciples of his last life. But to a starving beggar, it was a miracle.
The next day, when he begged at the market, something changed. His back was straighter. His eyes clearer. His voice stronger.
A merchant glanced at him, frowning. "You don't look like the others. You've got spirit. Here." He tossed him a half-eaten bun.
Kai devoured it gratefully. His dantian pulsed again, absorbing the energy.
But not all eyes were kind.
A group of older beggars cornered him in the alley that night. "You think you're special now?" one sneered. "Getting food while we starve?"
Kai's hand trembled. In the past, he would have cowered. But the Mirror pulsed. A fragment glowed.
The stance of the Sword Saint filled his mind again.
His body moved on instinct. He picked up a broken stick and slashed once. The stick cut the air with a sharp whistle, stopping inches from the leader's face.
The beggars froze, staring.
Kai's voice was cold. "Next time you come for me, I won't stop."
They backed away, muttering curses, but did not attack again.
Kai sank to his knees once they left, trembling. Even here… the Mirror protects me.
But that night, the dreams were worse.
He dreamed of starving again, not as himself, but as the beggar from the shard. He felt his ribs ache, his vision blur, his heart slow. He lived that death as if it were his own.
He woke gasping, clutching his chest.
The Mirror pulsed. A whisper came:
"Every gift carries its price. To take their strength, you must bear their hunger too."
Kai sat in silence, staring at the snow falling outside the alley. His body was weak, his heart heavy with borrowed pain.
But he clenched his fists. Then I'll bear it. Better to suffer with their hunger than die nameless.
Days turned into weeks.
He begged, scavenged, practiced the beggar's breathing technique whenever he could. Slowly, his body grew stronger. His Qi flowed smoother.
Sometimes, he tried to imitate the Sword Saint's stances too. Even with a stick, he could cut through the air sharper than any street rat.
The other beggars gave him space now. Whispers spread: "That boy's different. Don't mess with him."
Kai hid his progress carefully. He remembered the sect. He remembered what envy and suspicion had done to him.
This time, he would stay low.
One day, while scavenging near the river, he found a young girl, also a beggar, collapsed from cold. Her lips were blue, her body trembling.
The Mirror pulsed faintly. Another shard glowed. A memory: the starving beggar from before, watching others die, powerless.
The weight of that regret pressed into his chest.
Kai hesitated. He had little food, little warmth. Helping her might mean less for himself.
But he remembered the whisper: Every gift carries its price.
He tore his thin blanket in half and wrapped it around her. He shared the stale bread he'd saved.
The girl opened her eyes weakly. "…Thank you…"
That night, when he meditated, the Mirror pulsed brighter than ever. The beggar's shard dissolved, releasing a stream of Qi into his dantian. His cultivation surged, his body warming from within.
His Soul Lamp brightened a fraction.
He realized: by resolving the karma of past lives, he could inherit more of their cultivation.