Chapter-9
After months of healing and quiet days tucked within the safety of the mountains, I could finally walk properly again. My steps were steady, if a bit light, and though my body still felt too skinny—like a reed swaying in the breeze—it didn't really matter. I could eat without struggling now, breathe without pain, and most importantly, I could sleep as long as I wanted. Which I did. Often.
My strength had returned little by little, and my skills were sharpening again, though not without consequence. Every now and then, a cough would bring up blood, staining handkerchiefs and alarming Chae Ryun to no end. No matter how many times I told him I was fine, he'd hover, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like an overprotective hen. Honestly, it was kind of touching. Annoying—but touching.
Eventually, Master Hwa Ryeon had accepted me as a disciple once again. Earlier than he had in my past life, but I wasn't exactly in a position to protest. Apparently, being a descendant of the Flower God was enough of a reason this time around. Not that I liked it. A peaceful, lazy life? Shattered. I could already hear fate sharpening its blade somewhere beyond the horizon.
But fine. If I had to get involved again, I'd do it my way. Quietly. Strategically. I needed allies—good ones—so that when the time came, we'd be prepared. Wars were better prevented before they started, after all.
A few days ago, Master returned my belongings. They had been salvaged from that unfortunate demonic bandit incident, and as I sat on my futon, I went through them carefully.
1. A rather impressive pouch of money and jewels—scammed from a few overly confident merchants, mind you—check.
2. Some of my clothes—just enough to get by without looking like a wandering ghost—check.
3. And most importantly... my stack of novels. Because boredom was the greatest enemy of all—check.
I let out a long, satisfied sigh and placed everything into the wooden chest at the foot of my bed—the very same one Chae Ryun had gifted me when I first moved in. The room we shared was simple: two beds, a desk, and the soft golden glow of paper lanterns swinging gently by the window. It smelled like pine, ink, and a faint hint of the herbal soap Master insisted we use.
Chae Ryun was already asleep, snoring lightly, one arm draped off the bed in a way that made him look like a child who'd trained too hard. I glanced at him, the corners of my lips twitching.
I had lived a long, war-torn life before this. Full of regrets, of partings, of blood and vows. But somehow, in this quiet moment, in this shared space of warmth and wood and soft breathing, I felt something loosen in my chest.
It wasn't peace.
But maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of it.
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((Lee Cheon-Hwa's POV)
As the days blurred together beneath the lazy golden sun, I, Lee Cheon-Hwa—future legendary strategist and present full-time slacker—spent my serene mountain life exactly how any reincarnated genius should: reading no less than 400 novels (purely for tactical analysis, of course), strolling around the mountain to "collect good fortunes" (which may or may not include looting hidden offering boxes), and making Chae Ryun carry me like a royal burden whenever my legs decided they had fulfilled their monthly quota of steps. At thirteen, poor Chae Ryun still hadn't built up immunity to my particular brand of quiet manipulation—give him a soft smile here, a fake cough there, a comment like "my legs feel a little cold today" in a voice so pitiful it could make a grown man cry—and voilà, I'd have myself a personal butler with emotional baggage. I say it with love, of course. The boy is loyal, bright, and far too trusting for his own good. But that worked in my favor, and I had long since accepted the fact that morality was a luxury I didn't plan on unpacking in this life either.
In between my restful afternoons and passive extortion of kind merchants who had too much coin and not enough common sense, I had officially reached the mastery level of the Flower God Technique—yes, the very same legendary technique capable of reducing mountains to dust and, more importantly, getting me out of doing chores. Meanwhile, Chae Ryun had unlocked the full potential of the Wind Goddess' power, which was good because now he could run errands twice as fast. My strategic mind was already working several steps ahead, not just around the mountain but across kingdoms and time. My hair, I noticed (only after Chae Ryun pointed it out in a nervous mumble), had grown longer—perhaps an omen of divine awakening, or more likely, a sign that I'd been too lazy to get it trimmed. Either way, I allowed it. Long hair made me look wiser, more tragic. Strategists need an aesthetic, after all.
But none of this daily tedium—these naps, these theatrics, these subtle acts of psychological domination—were for nothing. I was preparing. Preparing for her.
Ariana de Gloria.
In my previous life, she had been many things: heir to the Archduke of De Gloria, the pride of the Western Continent, a misunderstood villainess, a rebel Empress, and—by the end—a tragic martyr. Her family had been her everything, and when they were taken from her—her mother and siblings killed, her father missing during that cursed hero expedition—it broke something in her. Society called her cruel, cold, calculating. But I had seen her truth. She was justice incarnate in silk gloves. She rose from grief and commanded a rebellion, not to destroy, but to restore. She became Emperor without allies, without guidance, without affection. And then, just as the empire stood tall again, she was cut down by Elias, the Black Mage—the second hand of the Blood Tyrant, that bastard.
This time, I will rewrite that ending.
I will intercept her fall, change her beginning. When she appears—around my fifteenth year, if my memory still serves—I'll be ready. I'll be waiting in Xi'an, where fate twists quietly under the surface. I'll extend my hand—not with pity, but with purpose. I'll save her mother and her siblings before their tragedy is set in stone. I will earn her favor not through fake smiles, but through real power. Because if she is a sword, I will be the sheath. If she is an empire, I will be the shadow behind the throne.
After all, I don't need to be seen to control the board.
So for now, I read. I plan. I smile politely at Chae Ryun when he nervously brings tea and pretends not to notice I forged another merchant's token of "charitable donation." I keep my head down. I act the innocent, recovering disciple. And when the time comes… when Ariana arrives, lost and full of rage, I'll give her direction, hope—and more importantly, a reason to stand beside me.
Because in this life, I will not die as a bystander.
I will survive.
Quietly. Strategically. Preferably… while still living a very lazy life.
Cheon-Hwa smirked, his eyes glinting beneath the dusk-light shadows, already three steps ahead as he went to sleep.
As the days slipped quietly into months and seasons shifted like whispers in the wind, I found myself thirteen—no longer just a child recovering under warm sunlit mornings, but a disciple slowly stepping into the shadow of the legacy left behind. Under Master Hwa Ryeon's careful gaze and stern correction, I began to learn more than just the art of movement—I began to understand how my mother once fought, how her every strike bore both elegance and weight, how her path was carved not by talent alone but by enduring pain and sacrifice. My stance, once unsure and cracked at the base, was adjusted, refined, and molded with his guidance, and soon I started to feel it—my body remembering something it had never lived but perhaps once knew. Though blood still found its way to my lips after long training sessions, staining my sleeves and worrying Chae Ryun beyond measure, the pain had dulled into something bearable—no longer sharp, just a dull echo that reminded me I was alive, and more importantly, growing.
Master Hwa Ryeon had spoken of it—how my mother, too, had suffered the same burdens when she awakened her power, how the Flower God's technique was as heavy as it was beautiful, and how pushing it too far before its time could tear the body from within. But he also said this was only the beginning. That as I grew stronger, as I aged and tempered both body and soul, more of the technique would awaken—layer by layer, memory by memory—until I could wield it not just with strength, but with meaning.
And so I endured.
For her legacy.
And for the version of myself yet to bloom.