"Heh! You worthless trash, and yet you dare oppose me!"
The mocking voice tore through the marketplace square like a stone hurled across still water—rippling, echoing, and drawing every gaze in its wake.
"Hahaha! Boss Mo, you're merciless!"
The laughter of his lackeys followed in rolling waves, loud and triumphant. The sound was like a peal of bells announcing supremacy, each note a reminder of who stood above and who lay beneath.
"Hey, hey… isn't this going too far? If the Third Elder finds out, won't we be punished for this?"
The crowd's attention converged on the scene at the square's center: three young men pressing their boots mercilessly onto the body of another.
This was the Ling Clan's territory—one of the strongest clans in the Sea Breeze Province. The clan had entered a golden age. Their younger generation shone brighter than their rivals, each youth brimming with extraordinary talent.
Rows of stone and timber buildings lined the square, their intricate carvings and towering gates radiating the clan's prestige. Crimson-stitched banners swayed gently in the wind, while the clan's sigils glimmered faintly in the afternoon light. Where the younger generation flourished, the clan's name swept outward like wind itself—leaving traces of dominance wherever it blew. That golden pride was a double-edged sword: it fueled unity within, but also fanned envy from beyond.
Among those bright stars of the Ling Clan was Ling Mo, son of the Sixth Elder—one of the clan's most formidable pillars.
Ling Mo stood tall, broad-shouldered, arrogance gleaming in his eyes. An aura of confidence clung to him, commanding respect from some and stirring envy in others.
"What are you worrying about?" one of his followers said flatly. "Boss Mo's father holds enormous sway."
"You're right. Even if Qin Shan is the Third Elder's son, he's still useless."
The words dropped like stones, smashing what little sympathy might have lingered. Birthright was no shield here—worth was judged in strength alone.
Qin Shan lay on the ground, blood and dust smearing his face. His body seemed frail, broken. Yet within his silence, in those eyes that smoldered faintly like embers under ash, there was something unyielding—something not yet extinguished.
Their gazes locked. Ling Mo's expression darkened, turning predatory.
"Ling Yuexue is mine. If you dare go near her again, I'll make you suffer far worse than this!" Ling Mo snarled. He yanked Qin Shan up by the collar and flung him back. Qin Shan's body slammed into the stone wall two meters away with a sickening thud.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Ling Mo's strength was undeniable.
"Core Formation—late stage!" someone whispered.
A murmur swept the crowd, reverent and fearful. The words "late-stage Core Formation" were more than labels—they carried weight, dictating status, deference, and fear.
"Amazing! Young Master Ling Mo reached that realm in just a month!" one exclaimed.
Speculation immediately bloomed. Was it secret techniques? Rare elixirs? Special resources? Rapid advancement always bred questions, and in small towns, rumors spread like wildfire.
"Well, of course," another said. "He's the Sixth Elder's son. Naturally, he's received more resources than the rest of us."
The crowd thickened, buzzing with commentary. Some craned their necks for a better view, others whispered in awe. Even clan elders passing by observed with practiced neutrality—faces calm, but eyes sharp, weighing implications.
Most assumed Qin Shan's end was sealed. Yet, against expectation, he staggered back to his feet, battered but not broken.
Every movement was labored. His left arm hung awkwardly as though dislocated, and he clutched at it with his other hand. His steps were uneven, swaying, but his eyes burned as he forced himself forward.
"Late-stage Core Formation…" His voice was hoarse but steady. "That's still far from what a true cultivator should be."
The words struck like flint on steel, sparking immediate attention. Even Ling Mo's gaze sharpened, his pride pricked by the challenge.
"Heh. Still daring to provoke me?" Ling Mo sneered coldly. He gestured with a flick of his hand, and two of his henchmen stepped forward.
The pair's eyes gleamed with cruelty. This wasn't merely obedience—it was an opportunity to prove loyalty, to revel in sanctioned violence.
They were mid-stage Core Formation—stronger than most peers, though below Ling Mo himself. Against Qin Shan, whose cultivation barely lingered in the early stage, their strength was overwhelming.
Qin Shan clenched his teeth, bracing himself. Pain seared through every limb, yet behind the agony was a quiet steel—a resolve refusing to fracture.
The two lackeys struck without mercy. Fists and kicks landed in rapid succession, a storm of blows that left no room for breath, no space to counter.
"Pffft!" Blood burst from Qin Shan's mouth as he was hurled skyward by a vicious strike, his body colliding once again with the wall. His vision blurred. The world spun, edged with black.
Ling Mo and his lackeys laughed, smug and merciless, while Qin Shan's body sagged limply to the ground.
But they failed to see the shift stirring within him.
As his consciousness wavered, memories surged—unfamiliar to this life, yet deeply his own. They flooded him like spring rain breaking winter's grip.
He saw himself born into a vast world, rising as a blood-soaked cultivator. He remembered climbing through trials, battling monstrous foes, conquering realms. He remembered ascending to the Heaven Realm, claiming his place among the hundred Immortal Overlords.
The torrent of memory was more than mere recollection; it was awakening. Ambition, triumph, forbidden techniques, alliances with beings of unfathomable might—all of it came crashing back.
His eyes snapped open. The dim, wavering light within them sharpened, blazing with renewed clarity. His aura, once scattered and frail, now pulsed with an ancient strength. His latent talent surged upward as though rocket-fueled.
"So this… is reincarnation?" he murmured, astonished.
A thousand emotions tangled in his chest—marvel, fury, sorrow, and iron resolve. His voice carried them all, like the sharp whistle of a blade cutting through air.
In his first life, Qin Shan had been one of the Immortal Overlords, a sovereign among the hundred eternal rulers of the Heaven Realm. Yet he had fallen, undone by his own forbidden technique—an attempt to carve a path of reincarnation. That gamble had cost him everything, only to cast him into this new world, a chance at rebirth.
The memory of that sacrifice seared into him. Reincarnation wasn't a miracle—it was proof of his defiance, his refusal to bow to Heaven's laws. But it was also a reminder: such defiance carried scars that could never fully heal.
Qin Shan's gaze hardened. His body lay broken, but his spirit was aflame.
Cold light flickered in his eyes. "Who dares do this to me? I am Qin Shan—Immortal Overlord of the Heavens!"
He rose once more. This time, there was no trace of fear or pain on his face. Only hatred—burning, absolute. His words cracked across the square like thunder.
The onlookers exchanged uneasy glances. Sympathy crept in, tinged with dread. To rise again after such a beating was lunacy; surely Ling Mo would crush him for good. None understood what truly stirred within Qin Shan.
Silence fell. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"Has he lost his mind?" someone whispered.
"Boss Mo, I think he's gone insane from the beating," one of Ling Mo's lackeys muttered, their own discomfort soothed by the excuse.
"Tch. Troublesome. Let's go before someone reports this," Ling Mo said dismissively. With a wave, he and his lackeys turned to leave, convinced the matter was done.
But Qin Shan's fury ignited. To be ignored—to have his words dismissed—was an insult he had never endured in his previous life.
"I asked you once already—was it you who dared wound me?!"
His roar reverberated across the square, snapping every head back toward him. Even Ling Mo, already some distance away, froze as the defiant voice rang out.
"This kid's gone mad," someone whispered nervously.
"Boss Mo, just ignore him. Let's leave."
The two lackeys exchanged uncertain looks, but Ling Mo's face twisted in anger. That roar had pierced his pride like a blade.
"Crazy brat," Ling Mo growled, turning back. "I should break your arms and legs before I go!"
He charged forward, fury fueling every stride. His fist drew back, brimming with raw power. "Die!"
The air trembled as his punch descended, carrying the weight of fifty kilograms of force. Dust stirred, the ground cracked. The crowd collectively flinched, many shutting their eyes—expecting Qin Shan's body to crumple once and for all.
But then—impossible.
Qin Shan's hand shot up and caught Ling Mo's fist with ease. The attack halted midair, stopped dead.
Shock exploded through the square. Gasps, cries, and stunned silence collided into a cacophony.
The once-broken youth, the boy smeared with blood and dirt, now stood firm—his hand clamped tightly around Ling Mo's, his eyes gleaming with a cold, unstoppable fire.