Who am I?
The question hammered through Long Aotian's skull like a smith's anvil, relentless and unyielding. His consciousness drifted in a grey void where two streams of memories crashed against each other like opposing tides, each one fighting for dominance within the confined space of his mind.
In one stream, he saw himself standing atop a mountain of clouds, surrounded by disciples who knelt with reverence. Pill furnaces of gold and jade lined an enormous hall, and his hands moved with practiced precision as he refined elixirs that could resurrect the dead and extend life by ten thousand years. The Pill God. A figure whose name alone could shake the heavens.
In the other stream, he was a boy of fourteen summers, standing in the training grounds of the Xiao clan while elders nodded in approval. His spirit root had been graded as superior, his talent undeniable despite the whispers that followed him everywhere he went. The bastard child. The son his mother bore after abandoning her engagement to the current clan master, returning years later with a belly swollen with child and no explanation of who the father was.
The memories slammed together once more, and Long Aotian's head throbbed with a pain that felt like his skull was splitting apart.
However, as the pain receded, the memories began to separate like oil and water. The life of the Pill God settled into one corner of his mind, ancient and complete, while the life of Long Aotian claimed the rest. Gradually, understanding dawned. He wasn't just one or the other.
He was both.
The realization brought no comfort. Instead, Long Aotian's chest tightened as the memories of his recent past surged forward with brutal clarity.
Three years ago, he had been the pride of the Xiao clan. At eleven years old, he'd reached the third rank of the Body Refinement Realm, a feat that took most disciples twice as long to accomplish. The elders praised him in public. The young masters sought his company. Even those who whispered about his questionable birth couldn't deny his talent.
Then came the ambush.
Long Aotian's hands clenched into fists as the memory played out in vivid detail. He'd been returning from gathering spirit herbs in the Whispering Woods when five masked figures surrounded him. They hadn't spoken. They hadn't demanded anything. They'd simply attacked with techniques far beyond what any Body Refinement cultivator should possess.
The battle had been brief and utterly one-sided.
When it ended, Long Aotian lay broken in a pool of his own blood, his dantian shattered beyond repair and his meridians torn apart like shredded cloth. The masked figures left him there to die, but he'd crawled back to the clan, inch by agonizing inch, over the course of three days.
He survived.
But the boy who returned wasn't the genius everyone had praised.
Without a dantian, cultivation became impossible. His spirit root withered like a plant denied water. The elders who once smiled at him turned their faces away. The young masters who sought his friendship now looked at him with contempt or, worse, pity.
The whispers that had been mere background noise became roars.
"The bastard finally got what he deserved."
"His mother must have angered the heavens with her shamelessness."
"A cripple has no place in the Xiao clan."
Long Aotian's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. The humiliation had been one thing. He could have endured being ignored, being relegated to the position of a servant despite his mother's status as an elder. He could have swallowed the bitter medicine of his fall from grace.
What he couldn't endure was the bullying.
Xiao Feng, a young master three years his senior, had taken particular pleasure in making Long Aotian's life miserable. At first, it was small things—tripping him in the hallways, "accidentally" spilling food on him during meals, assigning him the most degrading tasks. Then it escalated. Beatings disguised as sparring sessions. Deliberate sabotage of his work that resulted in punishment from the stewards. Public humiliation in front of the entire clan.
Yesterday, Xiao Feng had gone too far.
Long Aotian's breathing quickened as rage flooded through his veins like molten iron. He'd been cleaning the outer courtyard when Xiao Feng and his followers surrounded him. They'd mocked him, called his mother a whore, claimed she'd probably spread her legs for some wandering beggar and that's why Long Aotian was so worthless.
Something inside him snapped.
He'd lunged at Xiao Feng with nothing but his bare hands and the desperate fury of a cornered animal. For a brief moment, he'd felt satisfaction as his fist connected with Xiao Feng's jaw. Then the young master's followers descended on him like a pack of wolves.
They beat him until his bones cracked. They kicked him until he coughed blood. When he tried to shield his head, they stomped on his hands. When he curled into a ball, they laughed and struck harder.
The last thing he remembered was a boot slamming into the back of his skull, and then darkness had swallowed him whole.
Now he was here, trapped in this broken body with two lifetimes of memories warring in his mind.
Long Aotian wanted to scream. He wanted to tear down the heavens themselves and demand answers. Why had the Pill God's memories awakened now? Why had fate given him this second chance only after reducing him to less than nothing? What was he supposed to do with ancient knowledge of pill refinement when he didn't even have a dantian to gather spiritual energy?
The unfairness of it all pressed down on him like a mountain.
"Aotian?"
A voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, soft and trembling with worry.
Long Aotian forced his eyes open. His eyelids felt heavy, as if weights had been attached to them, and his vision swam for several seconds before finally focusing. When it did, he found himself staring up at a ceiling made of dark wood beams. The scent of medicinal herbs filled his nostrils, sharp and bitter.
Then a face appeared above him, and despite everything, Long Aotian felt a small measure of warmth in his chest.
His mother.
Xiao Yue looked to be no more than thirty summers old, though Long Aotian knew she was actually forty-two. Her face was smooth and unblemished, her features delicate and refined in a way that made men stare and women jealous. Long black hair fell past her shoulders like a waterfall of silk, and her eyes—dark and expressive—currently shimmered with unshed tears.
"Aotian, can you hear me?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly. Her hands hovered over him as if she wanted to touch him but was afraid of causing more pain.
Long Aotian tried to speak, but his throat felt like sandpaper. All that came out was a dry rasp.
Immediately, Xiao Yue moved to a small table beside the bed and poured water from a clay pitcher into a wooden cup. She slipped one hand behind his head, lifting it gently, and brought the cup to his lips.
The water was cool and soothing. Long Aotian drank greedily, and only after he'd emptied the cup did he manage to croak out a single word.
"Mother."
Xiao Yue's composure shattered. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she set the cup down with trembling hands before gripping his shoulder.
"You're awake. Thank the heavens, you're awake." She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, but more tears quickly replaced them. "How could you be so careless, Aotian? How could you challenge those people? The ones who put you in this condition in the first place!"
Long Aotian blinked. Challenge them? What was she talking about?
Before he could ask, Xiao Yue continued, her words tumbling out in a rush.
"Do you have any idea what could have happened? What if they'd killed you this time? What if—" Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, struggling to contain her sobs. "What if I'd lost you?"
Long Aotian's mind raced. From the fragmented memories of his recent past, he pieced together what must have happened. His mother thought he'd deliberately provoked Xiao Feng and his followers. She didn't know they'd been the ones to corner him first. She didn't know they'd pushed him past his breaking point.
He wanted to explain, but before he could gather his thoughts, the door to the room slid open with a soft creak.
An old man stepped inside.
He was thin and stooped, his white hair pulled back into a simple topknot, and his face was a map of wrinkles that spoke of many decades spent in study and practice. He wore plain grey robes with no adornment save for a small jade pendant in the shape of a pill furnace that hung from his belt.
Elder Gao, the clan's primary alchemist.
"Xiao Yue," Elder Gao said, his voice gentle but firm. "The boy needs rest. Come, let us speak outside."
Xiao Yue looked torn. Her eyes moved between Long Aotian and Elder Gao, and for a moment, it seemed she would refuse. However, the old man placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the door with surprising insistence.
"But—"
"Outside," Elder Gao repeated.
Reluctantly, Xiao Yue allowed herself to be led from the room. The door slid shut behind them, but Long Aotian could still hear their voices drifting through the thin walls.
"Alchemist Gao, why does my son seem so… listless?" Xiao Yue's voice was thick with worry. "His eyes don't look the same. It's like he's looking at me but not seeing me."
There was a pause, and then Elder Gao spoke in a low tone that he clearly intended to be soothing.
"Aotian suffered a massive blow to the back of his head. Injuries of that nature are unpredictable. At the very least, he may experience some memory loss. Confusion. Difficulty focusing." The old man paused, and when he continued, his voice had grown heavier. "At worst… well, your son is lucky to be alive, Xiao Yue. Very lucky."
Long Aotian heard his mother's sharp intake of breath, followed by a strangled sound that might have been a sob or a gasp.
"Memory loss? He might not remember…?"
"It's possible. The mind is a fragile thing, and trauma can affect it in ways we don't fully understand. Give him time. He may recover fully, or he may not. We'll have to wait and see."
The conversation continued, but Long Aotian stopped listening. He stared up at the ceiling, his vision blurring slightly as moisture gathered in his eyes.
Memory loss. They thought he might have lost parts of himself.
If only they knew the truth. He hadn't lost anything. Instead, an entire second lifetime had been shoved into his skull, and now he was stuck with the memories of a Pill God who'd reached the pinnacle of cultivation and the memories of a crippled boy who couldn't even defend himself from a few arrogant young masters.
Long Aotian's hands clenched the thin blanket covering him, his knuckles turning white. Rage simmered in his chest like a cauldron on the verge of boiling over. He wanted to break something. He wanted to scream until his throat was raw. He wanted to make Xiao Feng and everyone who'd mocked him pay for every slight, every beating, every humiliating moment.
But what could he do?
He was powerless. A cripple. A joke.
The rage drained out of him as quickly as it had come, replaced by a hollow emptiness that settled in his bones. Long Aotian closed his eyes and released a long, slow breath that sounded more like a sigh of resignation.
Maybe this was it. Maybe this was all he would ever be.
Then, without warning, a voice rang out in his head—clear, sharp, and laced with unmistakable disdain.
"So you're just going to give up."