The change began without ceremony.
No visions. No thunder. No sudden surge of power.
It started as a faint warmth.
At first, he thought it was external—his mother holding him closer against the chill of the Ashen Sky night. But the sensation did not fade when her arms loosened. Instead, it sank deeper, threading through his veins with a slow, deliberate rhythm.
His blood was reacting.
Not violently.
Recognizing.
He focused inward at once, attention narrowing with surgical precision.
The blood flowing through this fragile body carried a subtle resonance—old, buried beneath generations of dilution and mediocrity. It was not a powerful bloodline by current standards, but its structure was… unusual.
Stable. Persistent. Resistant to collapse.
So this family survived by endurance, he realized. Not brilliance.
That explained much.
In his first rebirth, this bloodline would eventually rise—not because it produced geniuses, but because it endured long enough to benefit from his shadow.
Now, he was standing at its origin point.
The warmth intensified slightly, then settled.
A passive awakening.
No immediate benefits. No increase in strength.
But something fundamental had shifted.
Good, he thought calmly. Blood that remembers is better than blood that burns.
—
Three days later, the elders noticed.
Not the bloodline itself—but the effect.
"This child… he's sturdier than before," one elder murmured during a routine inspection. "Still weak, but his breathing is steadier."
"His pulse too," another added. "Almost… rhythmic."
They exchanged glances.
Such observations were meaningless to true experts—but this family had none. For them, this was unusual enough to note, not alarming enough to fear.
Exactly as he intended.
—
At night, when the household slept, he examined the change carefully.
The bloodline resonance had formed a subtle internal cycle—not a cultivation cycle, but a maintenance one. It reinforced organs, stabilized meridians, and reduced internal strain.
It would not make him stronger.
It would make him last.
This bloodline is suited for long paths, he concluded. No wonder it survived until my era.
In his first life, he had overlooked this entirely.
Back then, he had only seen results.
Now, he saw causes.
—
He did nothing to accelerate the awakening.
Forcing bloodlines was a crude practice—effective only for short-lived brilliance. True inheritance required patience.
Instead, he adapted his behavior.
He cried a little more.
Moved a little more.
Let his body appear more alive.
The elders relaxed.
His mother smiled more often.
Threads of causality adjusted subtly, invisibly.
—
Time flowed.
At one year old, he could sit upright.
At one year and three months, he began to walk—unsteadily, clumsily, like any normal child.
Inside, his control was perfect.
He let his muscles develop naturally, guided only by instinct and repetition. No spiritual energy. No cultivation.
Just flesh learning to exist.
Body Building Realm begins before cultivation, he reminded himself. Not after.
This was one of the mistakes that ruined countless talents.
—
One afternoon, while playing alone in the courtyard, he sensed an unfamiliar presence beyond the family walls.
A cultivator.
Not strong—but sharp.
A scout from a neighboring clan.
The man's spiritual sense brushed across the compound briefly, careless and arrogant.
Most would not have noticed.
He did.
And more importantly—
The bloodline reacted again.
This time, it tightened.
Not fear.
Defense.
His small body tensed reflexively, heartbeat slowing rather than accelerating.
He blinked.
Interesting.
This bloodline was not only persistent—it was wary.
It had been hunted before.
He stored that information away.
—
That evening, the elders argued quietly.
"They're probing us again," one said bitterly. "They think our resources are weakening."
"They always do," another replied. "But we can't afford conflict."
The decision was made.
Concessions.
He felt no emotion.
Weak families survive by yielding.
Strong ones survive by deciding when to stop.
His time was not yet.
—
That night, beneath a sky that never truly darkened, he made a small adjustment.
Not cultivation.
Not awakening.
Alignment.
He allowed his bloodline resonance to synchronize faintly with the Ashen Sky World's suppressive laws—just enough to hide, just enough to blend.
The warmth faded into stillness.
If higher beings looked now, they would see nothing.
A mediocre child.
A fading family.
An irrelevant bloodline.
Perfect.
—
As sleep took him, a thought surfaced—clear, cold, and absolute.
In my first life, I rose too brightly.
This time…
I will rise so slowly that even fate forgets to watch me.
Far above, beyond worlds and galaxies, invisible mechanisms of causality continued their endless rotation.
Unaware that something had already slipped quietly out of alignment.