Long Aotian's eyes snapped open. His heart hammered against his ribs as he jerked upright in bed, the thin blanket sliding off his chest. Pain lanced through his body at the sudden movement, but he barely noticed. His gaze swept the small room, searching every shadow and corner.
Empty.
No one stood by the door. No one lurked near the window. The room contained nothing but the simple wooden furniture and the lingering scent of medicinal herbs.
Yet the voice had been clear. Real. Not a dream or hallucination brought on by his injuries.
"Who's there?" Long Aotian's voice came out hoarse and rough. He swallowed, wincing at the soreness in his throat, and tried again. "Show yourself!"
Silence answered him.
Then, cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk, the voice returned. It resonated inside his skull, cold and sharp and dripping with unmistakable disdain.
"While I expected to be awakened in a bad state, I didn't expect my host to be hopeless trash."
Long Aotian froze. The shock that had gripped him moments ago evaporated like morning mist under the sun, replaced by something hotter and far more violent. Rage surged through his veins, turning his vision red at the edges. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood.
Trash. That word again. The same word Xiao Feng and his followers had thrown at him. The same word the clan members whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. And now this—this thing—dared to call him that too?
Who the—
"It's not your fault if you're weak."
The voice cut through Long Aotian's rising fury like a whip crack. He gritted his teeth, preparing to lash out, to curse this disembodied presence into oblivion. But the voice didn't give him the chance.
"Even the supremes of creation once started as weaklings. However—" The tone shifted, growing heavier, darker. "—to accept weakness, to wallow in it while blaming the heavens? PATHETIC!"
The final word thundered through Long Aotian's mind with such force that he flinched. His rage sputtered and died like a candle flame caught in a gale. The sound reverberated inside his skull, shaking something loose in his chest. His breathing came faster, shallower.
Long Aotian's fists slowly unclenched. His hands fell to rest on the blanket, trembling slightly. The room seemed to tilt around him, and he found himself staring down at his palms without really seeing them.
Have I really accepted weakness?
The question whispered through his thoughts, quiet but insistent.
Memories surged forward unbidden, crashing over him like waves against a cliff.
He saw himself kneeling in the outer courtyard, scrubbing stone tiles while young masters walked past and spat at his feet. He saw himself cowering in the corner of the servants' quarters while Xiao Feng and his followers surrounded him, their laughter echoing off the walls as they rained blows down on his defenseless body. He saw himself standing silent and still while an elder publicly berated his mother, calling her a disgrace to the clan, and he'd done nothing because he was too weak to defend her honor.
Each memory struck like a physical blow. Long Aotian's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His face twisted with frustration, with helplessness, with self-loathing that tasted bitter as bile.
When had he stopped fighting back? When had he accepted this as his fate?
Three years ago, he would have never tolerated such treatment. Three years ago, he would have met their insults with pride and their challenges with action. But somewhere along the way, between the broken dantian and the endless humiliation, he'd stopped resisting. He'd bent his neck and learned to endure.
The realization hit him like a fist to the gut.
"Anger without power is nothing but a fool prancing around."
The voice returned, but this time it lacked the earlier venom. The tone had shifted to something almost… conversational. Still cold, still sharp, but without the cutting edge of contempt.
Long Aotian exhaled slowly. His shoulders sagged, and some of the tension drained from his body. The voice was right. All his rage, all his hatred, all his desire for revenge—what did any of it matter if he couldn't back it up with strength? He could curse the heavens until his throat bled, and nothing would change. He could plot and scheme and dream of making his enemies pay, but at the end of the day, he was still a cripple.
Still powerless.
Still trash.
The thought should have crushed him. Instead, it kindled something small and stubborn in the center of his chest. A tiny ember of defiance that refused to be smothered.
Silence fell over the room. Long Aotian waited, his heart beating steadily in his ears. The voice didn't speak again immediately, and the quiet stretched out until it felt almost oppressive.
Then, after what seemed like an eternity, the voice returned with a heavy sigh that somehow carried the weight of centuries.
"While you're not up to my standards, I have no choice."
Long Aotian's head snapped up. His eyes widened slightly, and his pulse quickened. Not up to standards? What did that mean? And more importantly—a choice for what?
Another beat of silence.
"Kid, listen good." The voice lost its earlier coldness, replaced by something harder and more serious. "You only have one chance to prove yourself. Are you willing to take that step to stop being—"
"Yes."
The word burst from Long Aotian's lips before the voice could finish. He didn't think about it. Didn't hesitate or weigh the consequences. His hands gripped the edge of the bed hard enough to make the wood creak, and his eyes blazed with sudden, fierce determination.
"I'll do anything."
The declaration hung in the air between them—or rather, inside Long Aotian's mind—absolute and unshakeable. He didn't know what the voice wanted from him. Didn't know what proving himself would entail or what price he might have to pay. None of that mattered.
For the first time since his dantian shattered three years ago, someone—or something—was offering him a path forward. A chance to reclaim what had been stolen from him. A possibility of power.
He would be damned if he let it slip through his fingers.
A low sound echoed in his mind. It took Long Aotian a moment to recognize it as laughter. Not mocking laughter, but something darker. Something satisfied.
"Then, boy," the voice said, and Long Aotian could almost see the cruel smile that must accompany those words, "show me your resolve."
The room seemed to grow colder. The shadows in the corners deepened, and Long Aotian felt something shift in the air around him—subtle but undeniable. His skin prickled with awareness, and the small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. He simply sat there on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the frame, eyes fixed on nothing and everything at once.
Whatever came next, he would face it.
He had no other choice.