The acceptance came not with a blinding flash, but with the quiet finality of a closing door. Rayan, the lonely orphan who had died on a city bridge, was gone. He was now An Qin, a son of royalty in the world of Murim. He had spent his first two years in a fog of disbelief, but the persistent reality of his swaddled existence, the constant presence of attendants, and the distinct, powerful auras of the King and Queen finally broke through his denial. He had died, and he had been given a second chance, a second life. He had spent his old life wanting a family, and now, in a cruel twist of fate, he had one—a strange, opulent, and dangerously political one. He decided, with the weary pragmatism of a man who had faced death, to embrace it. He wouldn't just survive; he would live this life.
The world of Murim, he discovered, was not just about grand palaces and silk robes. It was a world where cultivation was the true currency of power, where warriors could leap across rooftops and split boulders with their bare hands. He would overhear hushed conversations about qi meridians, about the struggle to break through to the next cultivation realm. He was in a world where magic and martial arts were not myths but tangible forces, and he, a mere baby, was at the very beginning of understanding it.
His mother, the Queen, was not the distant, sorrowful figure of his initial, hazy impressions. Her name was Yan Qin, and her love for him was a quiet, profound force that radiated from her even through the thick curtain of royal duties. She couldn't dote on him publicly, couldn't hold him close in the presence of the court, but her love was in the way she would personally adjust his silk blanket, the subtle, possessive gleam in her eyes when she was told of his health, and the small, gentle smile she reserved just for him when no one else was looking. He had never known such affection, and its quiet, steady presence was more intoxicating than any of the palace's treasures.
His father, King Jian Qin, was a man of immense power, a stern and demanding ruler who held the fate of millions in his hands. He rarely spoke to An Qin directly, but An Qin would often see him in the palace gardens, watching from a distance as the younger prince played. There was a yearning in his father's eyes, a desire to be a simple father, a desire that was constantly at war with his duty as king. His affection was shown through grand, protective gestures: the best tutors, the finest foods, the strictest guards. His love was a shield, not a warmth, but for an orphan who had known only a world of exposed vulnerability, that shield was a gift beyond measure.
An Qin also had an elder brother from the same mother, Prince Lie Qin. Lie Qin was a boy of twelve, his face a perfect blend of his parents' stern features and quiet warmth. He was An Qin's first true friend and an unwavering protector. He would sneak into An Qin's chambers after his lessons, bringing him small, carved wooden animals or telling him stories of the outside world—stories of sword fights and brave knights that were, in this world, not just legends but reality. He would sit by An Qin's crib, his presence a comforting weight in the otherwise silent room, his kindness a clear, simple truth in a world of complexity.
But there were others. The two arrogant half-brothers and their sister, all born to one of the King's favored consorts. Prince Jie Qin was the eldest of the three, a boy of ten, with a sneer that seemed permanently etched on his face. He possessed a raw, untamed power that made him a favorite of some of the court's more ambitious officials. His younger brother, Prince Li Qin, was a shadow to Jie Qin, his every action a desperate attempt to emulate his elder sibling. The sister, Princess Yue Qin, was a preening girl of seven, her eyes filled with a petty, malicious envy. Their living quarters were comfortable, but a world away from the lavishness of the Queen's children. Their clothes, while beautiful, lacked the shimmering gold thread. Their toys, while expertly crafted, were not made of precious jade and rare woods. Their resentment for An Qin was not political; it was personal, a festering jealousy born of unequal affection and unequal privilege.
The "children's chambers" of the Sapphire Palace were a misnomer, a collection of rooms so vast and opulent they rivaled the homes of noble lords. An Qin's own chamber was a study in gilded excess: a bed carved from fragrant redwood, its curtains woven with threads of shimmering gold; a sprawling play area carpeted with plush silks; and walls adorned with tapestries depicting the glorious battles of the Qin family. It was, in every sense of the word, a gilded cage. He spent his days in this sterile luxury, attended by a quiet, unobtrusive servant named Han. Today, Han was attempting to teach him the proper way to hold a jade rattle, an instrument so valuable it felt more like a scepter than a toy. An Qin, his mind preoccupied with the intricacies of Murim politics as explained by Lie Qin, feigned interest with a gurgle. He had mastered the art of playing the baby, and it was his most effective camouflage.
A sudden, sharp knock on the chamber door shattered the quiet. Before Han could even move to answer, the door swung open, and the three vipers of the court sauntered in. Jie Qin, Li Qin, and Yue Qin formed a loose circle around him, their movements subtle, their smiles sharp. The servant, terrified of creating a scene, simply stood by, wringing her hands.
"Look," Jie Qin began, his voice a mocking coo. "The little prince lives in his own castle. How precious." He picked up a small, exquisitely carved wooden horse and held it up. "My chamber is for two. He has a whole chamber to himself. Do you know why? Because he's the Queen's pet."
Li Qin snickered, a high, thin sound. "He hasn't even learned to speak properly, yet he gets better tutors than us."
Their taunts were all focused on the opulence around them. The silk sheets, the jade rattle, the golden threads woven into An Qin's clothes. They moved around the room, their fingers tracing the carved details of the furniture, their eyes filled with a greedy, resentful hunger.
"Do you even know what this is?" Yue Qin whispered, holding up a small, amber trinket. "It's worth more than our entire year's allowance. And you just chew on it." Her eyes narrowed. "You don't deserve any of this. It belongs to the children of the King, not just the Queen."
An Qin, with the mind of a man who had faced far worse than a trio of spoiled children, simply stared. He saw through their performance, their cheap attempts to provoke a reaction. He had been hurt by far more than words. He had been abandoned, left to fend for himself, and had died alone. Their words were hollow, their malice a clumsy, theatrical display. He had known true pain, and this was not it. He understood their envy. He had lived it, but he saw the shallowness of their rage. It was directed at an object, a toy, a blanket, not at a person.
Jie Qin, sensing An Qin's lack of reaction, grew frustrated. He knelt down, his face inches from An Qin's, his smile a cold sneer. "What's wrong, little prince? Can't you understand me? You're nothing but a worthless lump of flesh that gets everything handed to you."
His face remained impassive, a blank slate. Li Qin, exasperated by An Qin's lack of response, picked up An Qin's favorite, brightly painted wooden horse and, with a vicious snap, broke it in half. He held up the pieces, a triumphant, malicious grin on his face. "This is what happens when you get things you don't deserve."
An Qin looked at the broken horse. A small part of him, the part that was still a child, felt a flicker of sadness. But the man within him saw it for what it was: a desperate act from a desperate boy. The arrogance, the taunts, the petty vandalism—it was all a mask for their own insecurity, their fear of being forgotten. He was no longer that boy. He was a survivor.
Just then, a voice, firm and commanding, cut through the tense air. "Get out of his chambers."
Prince Lie Qin stood at the entrance, his fists clenched, his face a mask of furious indignation. "He is our brother. You will not speak to him or treat his possessions like that. This is the last warning. Leave."
Jie Qin's sneer faltered, and his arrogance seemed to deflate in the face of Lie Qin's quiet fury. Jie Qin was physically stronger, yes, but Lie Qin, as the acknowledged heir of the Queen, held a certain authority. He had a shield that Jie Qin and his siblings could not pierce.
With a final, venomous glare, Jie Qin, Li Qin, and Yue Qin retreated, their game ruined. Lie Qin rushed to An Qin's side, scooping him into his arms, his touch as gentle as their mother's. "Are you alright, little brother? Do not listen to them. They are jealous and cruel." He held An Qin close, and in that simple, protective embrace, An Qin felt it. He was not just a prince. He was not a burden. He was loved, and for the first time in either of his lives, he had someone who would fight for him. He was a survivor, yes, but he was no longer alone. The game had changed, and he now had a new motivation to win it