The weight of the jade box in Shen Ye's hands felt like a mountain, a physical reminder of the three months he had spent in the Frozen Purgatory. His fingers were numb, and every breath he drew felt like he was swallowing needles. At five hundred years old, he had spent the majority of his life serving the Shen Clan as their "Righteous Sword," a title that basically meant he did the killing so the elders could keep their robes white. He was the youngest Grand Elder in their history, a man who had reached the peak of the Great Ascension stage through sheer, agonizing effort. He had given them his youth, his talent, and enough of his blood to fill a lake, all for the sake of the clan's glory.
He stood on the edge of the Sacred Altar, the cold mountain wind whipping his tattered robes around his legs. The three Ancestors of the clan—Shen Long, Shen Mo, and Shen Feng—descended from the clouds, their presence making the very air around the altar feel thick and heavy. They didn't come with smiles or words of praise. They came with the silence of an executioner.
"The task is done," Shen Ye said, his voice sounding like dry parchment. He held the box out, the gold light of the Divine Spirit Herb flickering through the jade. "This will ensure the clan's prosperity for another three centuries."
Shen Long, the oldest of the three, looked at the box with a hollow expression. "You have done more for this clan than anyone in our lineage, Shen Ye. That is precisely the problem. A disciple who outshines his master's is a shadow that eventually swallows the house. You have become too powerful, and the balance of the righteous path cannot allow a single man to hold such weight."
The betrayal didn't come as a shock so much as a cold, dull realization. Shen Ye dropped the jade box and drove a heavy punch toward Shen Feng's chest. His knuckles slammed into a golden barrier that rippled with the force of the blow, sending a shockwave back through Shen Ye's arm that cracked his own wrist. He wasn't some refined immortal in that moment; he was a cornered animal.
The retaliation was immediate and brutal. Shen Mo stepped in from his blind spot and swung a jade staff with enough force to displace the air. The staff connected with Shen Ye's side, shattering his ribs and sending shards of bone into his lungs. He coughed up a thick spray of dark blood that stained the white stone of the altar. He tried to pull his Qi to heal the damage, but his meridians felt like they were filled with molten lead. The Divine Spirit Herb's box had been coated in a suppression poison that only activated when held by someone of his cultivation level.
"For five centuries, I was your dog," Shen Ye spat, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
Shen Feng didn't waste words on a reply. He moved his hand in a sharp, horizontal arc. A blade of pure, condensed white light followed his gesture. Shen Ye tried to throw himself backward, but his legs were sluggish from the poison. The light passed through both of his shoulders with a sickening heat. For a split second, there was no pain only a strange, weightless sensation. Then, both of his arms fell to the ground, hitting the stone with a wet, heavy sound.
The agony hit him a moment later, a raw, screaming heat that made his vision turn white. He collapsed onto his knees, blood pumping out of the stumps of his shoulders and soaking into the earth. He looked at his severed hands lying in the dirt, the fingers still twitching as if trying to reach for a sword that was no longer there.
"The Shen Clan will remain the pillar of righteousness," Shen Long said, raising his palm to finish it. "And you will be remembered as a hero who died on a mission. A perfect end for a perfect tool."
Shen Ye felt a cold, black hatred swallows the last of his loyalty. He realized then that there was no such thing as good or evil in this world. There was only the hunger for immortality and the lies people told to justify the slaughter. He forced the last of his life essence into his legs and lunged forward, slamming his torso into the boundary array that surrounded the altar. The impact shattered his collarbone and tore his internal organs to pieces, but the raw explosion of his Great Ascension core caused the array to flicker and crack.
He tumbled through the gap, falling down the jagged cliffside. He hit the rocks at the base of the mountain with a series of dull thuds, finally landing in the cold mud. He lay there, staring up at the grey, uncaring sky. His blood was pouring out of him, turning the mud into a crimson slurry. His heart was skipping beats, slowing down as the cold of death took hold.
'I built that throne,' he thought, his mind becoming a haze of bitterness. 'I gave them everything. If I ever breathe again... if there is any justice in the void... I won't stop at the Shen Clan. I'll kill them all. Righteous, evil, it doesn't matter. I'll burn the whole world down just to see them scream.'
His vision went dark. The last thing he felt was the silence of the forest.
"Brother Ye! Wake up! If you're late for the morning drills again, I'm not the one who's going to take the blame!"
The voice was high-pitched, loud, and incredibly annoying. It felt like a hammer striking the inside of Shen Ye's skull.
Shen Ye's eyes snapped open, but he didn't see the gray sky or the blood-soaked mud of the mountain base. He was staring at a ceiling made of rough, unfinished pine. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard it made his chest ache. He instinctively tried to move his arms to push himself up, expecting the white-hot agony of severed nerves.
Instead, his hands pressed firmly against a thin, straw mattress.
He froze. He pulled his hands in front of his face, staring at them in the dim morning light. They were whole. The skin was tan, dusted with the light calluses of a beginner, and free of the deep, jagged scars that had defined his five centuries of war. There was no blood. No shredded muscle.
"Finally! I thought you'd died in your sleep!"
The voice was high and sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. Shen Ye bolted upright, his head spinning. A girl stood in the doorway; her hands planted firmly on her hips. She looked to be about sixteen, dressed in the simple, light blue robes of a Shen Clan outer-circle disciple. Her black hair was a disaster tied into two lopsided buns that looked like they had been done in total darkness, with stray strands sticking out in every direction. Her round face was flushed with annoyance, and a smudge of black ink ran across her chin.
Shen Ye stared at her, his mouth hanging open. "Lin... Xiao?"
"Who else would it be? Your fairy godmother?" she huffed, stepping into the cramped room. She kicked the edge of his bed with a blunt leather boot. "Get up! Elder Ma is already at the training grounds. If we're late one more time, he's going to make us haul water from the Spirit Spring for a month. Move it!"
Shen Ye didn't move. He crawled off the mattress and stumbled toward a small, cracked bronze mirror hanging on the wall. He looked at the reflection and felt the air leave his lungs.
He was fourteen years old.
His face was lean and youthful, lacking the hard, cynical lines of a 500-year-old Grand Elder. His black hair was short and messy, falling over a pair of wide, startled eyes. He looked at his reflection, then back at his hands, then at the girl who had been dead for four centuries.
'I'm back,' he thought. The shock was a cold weight in his stomach. 'This isn't the afterlife. I'm really fourteen again.'
He reached inward, trying to feel for his Great Ascension core, but he found nothing but a shallow, flickering pool of Qi. His cultivation was pathetic third level of Qi Condensation. He felt like a giant forced into the body of an ant. The sheer weakness of his current state made his head swim, but under the shock, a spark of realization began to glow.
He had the memories. He knew every secret technique, every hidden treasure, and every face that would eventually turn on him.
"Brother Ye? Hello? Are you still dreaming?" Lin Xiao asked, her voice softening slightly as she noticed his pale face. She reached out and waved a hand in front of his eyes. "You're acting really weird. Did you hit your head?"
Shen Ye looked at her, and for a split second, the warmth of seeing an old friend almost made him smile. But then he remembered the Shen Clan Ancestors' faces as they cut his arms off. He remembered the 500 years of being used as a tool for "righteousness."
"I'm fine," Shen Ye said. His voice was higher and cracked slightly the voice of a boy, but he couldn't hide the sudden, sharp focus in his eyes.
'I have to get out of here,' he thought. The shock was fading, replaced by a frantic need for distance. 'The Shen Clan is a cage. If I stay, they'll just mold me into their weapon again. I need to leave before I show too much talent. I need to disappear before the elders even know I've changed.'
"I'm coming," he told her, grabbing his boots from the floor.
'I won't be your hero this time,' he thought, his heart cooling as he looked toward the door.