Dawn never truly came.
Light touched the horizon, but it felt thin… fragile… as though the world itself hesitated to welcome a new day.
Xu Yan walked through that dim gray silence without slowing.
Behind him, the mountains of last night faded into mist.
Before him, the unknown stretched endlessly—quiet, patient, waiting to test whether he would survive long enough to matter.
The compass in his palm was warm.
Not burning.
Not urgent.
Just… steady.
Like a heartbeat that no longer belonged only to him.
He had not slept.
Could not.
Each time he closed his eyes, fragments stirred at the edge of memory—
a throne of broken gold,
endless war beneath collapsing stars,
a loneliness so vast it swallowed even victory.
But the images never became clear.
They remained just beyond reach.
And perhaps… that was mercy.
Because instinct told him that remembering too soon might destroy the fragile balance keeping him alive.
So he walked.
Forward was the only safe direction left.
Soft footsteps followed a short distance behind.
The golden beast moved quietly despite its weakened state, each step careful but determined.
Its radiant fur had dimmed to a pale glow, as though conserving the last embers of ancient power.
Yet its eyes remained bright.
Always watching him.
Always measuring.
Not with suspicion—
but with something far more dangerous.
Hope.
Xu Yan pretended not to notice.
Because acknowledging that hope… meant accepting a past he still could not bear to face.
By midday, the road descended into a narrow valley carved by ancient water and older violence.
Broken stone littered the ground.
Abandoned weapon fragments lay half-buried in dust.
No birds sang here.
No wind stirred.
Only silence… thick as dried blood.
Xu Yan stopped walking.
The compass had grown warmer again.
Slowly, it turned in his grip—
not toward the road ahead…
but toward the valley's heart.
Danger.
Certain. Immediate. Unavoidable.
He felt it the way prey feels a predator's gaze before the attack begins.
Xu Yan exhaled once, slow and steady.
"…Of course," he murmured.
Because destiny never guided anyone toward safety.
Only toward trials.
The first arrow struck the ground where he had stood a heartbeat earlier.
Stone shattered. Dust exploded upward.
Xu Yan was already moving.
Second arrow—deflected by instinct more than sight.
Third—missed by the width of a breath.
Then shadows rose from the broken rocks surrounding the valley.
Six figures.
All masked.
All silent.
All radiating killing intent sharpened by long experience.
Assassins.
Not common bandits.
Not wandering thieves.
Professionals sent with purpose.
And there was only one reason professionals would target a wounded outer disciple traveling alone.
He had already been found.
Xu Yan's mind became perfectly calm.
Fear wasted time.
Panic wasted breath.
Survival required only clarity.
Six enemies.
Unknown cultivation levels.
No escape path without exposing his back.
Conclusion:
Fight. End it fast. Move before reinforcements arrive.
His hand closed around his blade.
The world narrowed to motion and distance.
They attacked together.
No warning.
No wasted movement.
Steel flashed from three directions while hidden talismans ignited from the remaining assassins' sleeves—sealing space, slowing movement, cutting off retreat.
Clean. Efficient. Certain.
They had killed many before.
Xu Yan stepped forward instead of back.
Because hesitation was death.
Pain tore through his meridians as he forced spiritual energy beyond safe limits.
His blade moved once—
only once—
yet the motion carried a strange, unfamiliar precision, as though guided by instincts older than this lifetime.
The nearest assassin's weapon shattered.
A second later—
blood followed.
Shock flickered behind the attacker's mask as he collapsed without sound.
The remaining five hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
But in battle, a heartbeat was eternity.
Xu Yan was already inside their formation.
Close enough to smell iron and fear beneath cloth masks.
His movements felt… different.
Sharper.
Cleaner.
As though something sleeping deep within him had opened one eye.
Not memory.
Not power.
But echo.
An echo of a warrior who had once stood where death was constant and mercy impossible.
Steel rang again.
Another body fell.
Then another.
A talisman detonated against his shoulder.
Fire tore through flesh.
Force hurled him across broken stone.
Pain exploded white across his vision.
He tasted blood.
Heard the golden beast roar somewhere distant—furious, helpless, restrained by weakness.
Xu Yan forced himself upright before darkness could claim him.
Because falling meant dying.
And dying… meant everything waiting for him would vanish forever.
Three assassins remained.
No hesitation now.
Only cold determination.
They advanced slowly, certain the battle was already won.
Xu Yan wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
His breathing steadied.
His gaze hardened.
"…You chose the wrong prey," he said quietly.
Then he stepped forward again.
What followed was no longer a fight.
It was will against certainty.
Blade against inevitability.
Life refusing to kneel.
Xu Yan moved through pain as if it belonged to someone else.
Every strike carried reckless precision—trading safety for speed, defense for finality.
One assassin fell clutching a shattered throat.
Another lost an arm before realizing the battle had shifted.
The last turned to flee.
Xu Yan's blade reached him first.
Silence returned to the valley.
Broken only by slow, uneven breathing.
Xu Yan stood alone among the dead.
Blood soaked his robes.
His vision trembled at the edges.
Victory… but barely.
Too barely.
If stronger enemies came now—
he would not survive.
The truth settled heavily in his chest.
He was still too weak.
Far too weak to face the destiny already moving toward him.
Warmth touched his hand.
The compass.
Its needle spun wildly for a moment…
then locked onto a point beneath shattered stone near the valley wall.
Xu Yan stared.
"…Now?" he whispered hoarsely.
Because only fate would demand treasure hunting while he bled to death.
Yet he walked toward it anyway.
Because every instinct he possessed screamed the same truth:
This mattered.
He pushed aside broken rock with trembling hands until cold metal touched his fingers.
A small chest.
Ancient. Sealed. Hidden with deliberate care.
Xu Yan hesitated only a moment before opening it.
Inside lay three objects:
A jade vial filled with swirling silver liquid.
A folded talisman inscribed with patterns too profound for his current realm.
And a thin, black token marked with a symbol that seemed to swallow surrounding light.
The moment he saw the token—
a chill ran through his soul.
Not danger.
Recognition.
The kind that comes from paths walked in forgotten lives.
Behind him, the golden beast stepped closer, eyes shining with quiet certainty.
As if to say:
Take it.
This is only the beginning.
Xu Yan closed his fingers around the token.
Far away… something unseen shifted.
Threads of fate tightening.
Pieces moving into place.
He swallowed the silver liquid from the jade vial.
Power exploded through his meridians like rising thunder—violent, purifying, agonizing.
Broken flesh knit together.
Spiritual energy surged stronger than before.
Not enough to make him safe.
But enough…
to keep walking.
Xu Yan exhaled slowly as strength returned in fragile waves.
"…So this is how it begins," he murmured.
Treasure.
Blood.
Survival bought one step at a time.
He turned toward the road once more.
The valley of corpses lay silent behind him.
The unknown stretched endlessly ahead.
The golden beast followed without hesitation.
And somewhere deep within the storage ring…
the ancient spirit watched quietly—
eyes filled not with relief…
but with the heavy knowledge of storms still waiting beyond the horizon.
High above the mortal sky,
beyond sight, beyond prayer, beyond fate's fragile veil—
a crack spread across an ancient seal that had not moved in countless ages.
Light seeped through the fracture.
Cold. Watching. Awake.
And a distant voice, filled with rising certainty, whispered into the endless dark:
"He walks again."
On the road below,
unaware of the terror his footsteps awakened,
Xu Yan continued forward—
toward power,
toward war,
toward a destiny written long before his rebirth.
The compass pulsed softly in his hand.
Steady.
Patient.
Pointing not toward safety…
but toward the place
where the next river of blood
would decide
whether he remained prey—
or finally began
to become
king