The morning light spilled softly over Qinghe Village, touching rooftops and brushing pine needles with a golden glow. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth from last night's rain. The village stirred slowly, as if waking from a long dream.
Yan Shen awoke with a start, his breath still echoing the rhythm of last night's practice. His chest felt strangely heavy — or perhaps weightless — a stirring deep within that was both unfamiliar and profound.
The meditation. The gentle flicker of Qi. The subtle flow that had brushed against his arms…
It all now felt too easy.
Too smooth.
Like a river finally freed from its dams and barriers, flowing unblocked, unhindered, effortlessly.
His muscles relaxed in a way they never had before, as if some invisible cage had shattered in the quiet of the night, releasing years of tension and restraint.
Was this… a golden finger?
The thought flickered in his mind like a fragile flame — a hidden boon granted to a rare few reincarnators, a secret edge, a subtle but potent force that could shape destiny itself.
He sat up slowly, eyes narrowing in deep contemplation.
But before he could wrestle with this strange new hope, the memory of the dream returned, vivid and undeniable — a vision unlike any he had ever experienced.
The scene unfolded before him like a story told by a god, vast and unyielding.
A boundless expanse.
"A sector of the Omniverse long forgotten," a deep voice intoned, ancient and solemn, echoing through the void. "Lawless. Brutal. Unstable."
Beneath him, the ground cracked open, jagged obsidian veins spreading like poison across flawless white marble, fracturing the pristine calm.
"You will be reborn there."
The words thundered inside his mind, shaking the foundations of his soul.
"Not as you were — that body was useless. But something... different. Something I've pulled from the edge of your desires."
Visions flooded his mind — a comic hero's fierce eyes blazing, burning with restless fire; shattered philosophies twisting and reforming like broken shards of glass, glinting in the dark; raw, unrefined power bubbling just beneath a fragile shell, ready to erupt.
"Your comic. Your broken philosophies."
The ground trembled violently, fracturing deeper, the abyss beckoning.
"Let's see how far your rebellion takes you."
The voice softened, almost affectionate, a whispered benediction.
"Good luck, little spark."
Yan Shen blinked, the weight of the dream pressing heavily against his chest.
His eyes snapped open again, heart racing.
"Wait…"
The dream had mentioned his comics.
Not just any comics.
Something stirred deep inside — a flicker of memory, vague but persistent.
_Invincible?_
The name brushed past his thoughts like a shadow in the fog.
Was the god's cryptic message linking him to something beyond cultivation — beyond this world?
Was this the "golden finger" he'd heard of? That hidden, inexplicable advantage every reincarnator carries?
He swallowed hard.
Had his relentless focus on training and power blinded him to the truth?
That his true edge wasn't strength or technique — but something far stranger... something drawn from stories he'd lived a thousand times over?
The morning sun filtered through the window, warm and indifferent.
Yan Shen's fingers clenched the edge of his blanket.
"Oh… damn," he whispered to the silent room, "have I been so caught up chasing power that I forgot what really sets me apart?"
His eyes narrowed with fierce determination.
"If this is my golden finger… then I have to understand it. Before it's too late."
The morning sun climbed higher, casting long shafts of light into Yan Shen's small room. The weight of the dream still pressed upon him, but the world outside beckoned with a gentler call.
He rose, stretching slowly, muscles loose and calm in a way they never had been before.
His thoughts drifted to his family — figures always present but somehow distant, shadows in the background of his relentless training and hunger for strength.
His mother.
A woman of quiet strength, her hands soft yet steady, always tending to the small garden behind their home. She had a warmth that never quite reached his heart, as if she protected herself behind layers he never tried to peel away.
His father.
The village herbalist, known for his wisdom and skill with roots and leaves, but burdened by a disabled leg — a remnant of some forgotten hardship. Yan Shen had always admired his father's perseverance but never really understood the man beneath the calm exterior.
They were pillars in his life, yet strangers in many ways.
As evening approached, the family gathered around the wooden table for dinner — simple dishes fragrant with herbs and fresh vegetables. The flickering candlelight painted soft shadows on their faces.
Li Meiyan moved more slowly than usual, her face drawn but peaceful. She ladled rice into bowls, careful with each portion. Yan Bao sat across from her, eating in silence, occasionally rubbing the leg that never quite healed right.
Yan Shen ate quietly — still distant, still half-drifting through the echoes of that dream.
Then, without fanfare, Meiyan spoke.
"Shen," she said softly, "you'll need to start helping more around the house soon."
He looked up, confused. "I already do."
She smiled faintly, brushing a hand over her belly.
"I'll need help with the baby."
There was silence.
Yan Shen blinked. "...What?"
Yan Bao chuckled under his breath, the sound dry but genuine. "We were waiting to be sure."
Meiyan nodded. "You're going to have a little brother or sister."
Yan Shen didn't speak for a long moment.
He just stared at the soft flicker of the candlelight — at his mother's calm eyes, at the way her hand rested gently where new life stirred.
_A sibling._
_Someone else to protect._
He swallowed. His thoughts slowed, sharpened. The weight in his chest felt different now — not pressure from power, but responsibility.
"I understand," he said at last.
And for the first time that day,
he smiled.