Han Chen stepped through the doorway and into light.
Warm sunlight poured over him, bright enough to sting his eyes after a month in darkness. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of earth and blossoms. He blinked twice, his gaze sweeping the surroundings.
Before him stretched endless fields of green, speckled with flowers of every color imaginable—scarlet petals, golden stems, white blossoms fluttering like drifting clouds. A soft breeze swept across the meadow, brushing against his sleeves.
Behind him, the door creaked once more.
Creak!… He turned. The wooden frame that had been his prison shimmered faintly before turning into gray dust. It scattered into the wind like it had never existed.
"So this is it," Han Chen murmured, scanning the horizon. "The Inheritance Grounds."
The field was serene, deceptively peaceful. No landmarks, no mountains, no trees—just an ocean of flowers and grass swaying beneath a sun that hung unnaturally still.
The tranquility ended when the air vibrated with a familiar voice. "I am Heavenly Law — Wang Zhen." The tone was neither loud nor soft, but its presence filled every inch of space. The world itself seemed to pause, waiting for his words.
"The first trial," the voice said, calm yet echoing with undeniable authority, "will last one month. The trial of 'MAN'. Here, your true nature shall reveal itself. In this grassland, avoid being devoured by it, and you will pass the first trial." The voice faded, leaving behind only the whisper of the wind and the hum of unseen energy.
Han Chen exhaled slowly, his brows furrowing. "The trial of Man?" He looked at his feet, the glint of faint sunlight breaking against his black eyes. "Character, huh?" he muttered. "That's not something for a lifeform to judge." His gaze darkened.
Because Han Chen's past was not something he liked to remember. Back in his original world—before the crossing, before the endless bloodshed—character meant survival, ruthlessness, and compromise.
The things he had done to live were not meant to be judged, much less by the standards of some ancient entity long dead.
He sighed, staring into the horizon again as the petals in the air drifted like silent watchers. " 'MAN'... if that's what you want to test, Wang Zhen," he said quietly, "I guess, I have no choice but to oblige."
---
The sunlight dimmed.
A shadow rippled through the grasslands as if the world had taken a deep, shuddering breath. The fragrance of flowers vanished, replaced by the thick stench of smoke.
Han Chen looked up, eyes narrowing as the warm sky blackened. Clouds of ash swirled overhead, and the peaceful meadow twisted—grass turning brittle and dark, blossoms curling into embers. In the next instant, the scenery shattered like glass. Whoosh!
He found himself standing before a house engulfed in flames. The heat licked at his skin, nearly suffocating, as screams echoed all around. People ran frantically, trying to fetch water from the nearby well, shouting names that blurred into noise.
Han Chen's breath caught. There were two small figures crouched near the front of the burning house—a boy and a girl. The girl, no older than five, sobbed uncontrollably, her tiny face streaked with tears and soot. The boy, no more than eight, wrapped his arms tightly around her, trying to shield her from the heat.
He didn't need to ask who they were. He remembered this day. That boy was him. And the burning house—their family home. As the flames rose higher, two figures approached amidst the chaos: a man and a woman. Their clothes were fine, untouched by soot, their expressions strangely unconcerned.
Han Chen's pulse quickened. He knew them too. His parents. His mother's voice came first, smooth and theatrical even in the face of the blaze. "My, my," she said with an almost amused tone. "Look at what's happening here. It seems the house caught fire while mother and father were inside. How unfortunate." Han Chen's small hands tightened around his sister's shoulders.
His child self trembled, eyes wide with confusion and disbelief. Through the haze, he could still see his grandparents' silhouettes inside the burning structure, faintly visible against the window light—struggling, pounding faintly against the blocked door.
Then came his father's voice, colder than the night. "Looks like there's no chance of their survival," he said, lips curling. "A pity. Truly, such a pity." The false grief in his tone only made the smirk on his face sharper.
Han Chen's current self clenched his fists, though his touch met nothing—only the echo of memory made by a law.
He could see the villagers in the background, their desperation real as they tried to douse the flames with buckets of water. None of them noticed the quiet cruelty in the eyes of the two standing before them—the calm couple who watched their elders die without lifting a hand.
The boy in the vision—young Han Chen—held his crying sister tighter, his small voice trembling as he said, "It's okay… don't look, Yun'er… don't look." The heat was unbearable, and the sound of collapsing beams filled the air.
Crack—boom. The house caved in on itself, swallowing the last traces of movement inside. And still, his parents watched. Still smirking. Han Chen's expression shifted—not pain, not anger, but something hollow.
The kind of emptiness that came from remembering too much. He whispered to himself, "So this is what you want to show me, Wang Zhen? My origins? Or the moment I became truly 'me'?" The fire roared, consuming everything else.
The flames howled, twisting into shapes that clawed toward the sky. The crowd's panic filled the air as smoke blurred the borders between sky and earth. But amid the chaos—A sound.
A thud of shifting timber.
Then another. From the collapsing ruin of what had once been the family house, a figure emerged. Han Chen's eyes widened instinctively. "That's…"Through the curtain of smoke, his grandfather stumbled forward, half‑naked, half‑burned, every inch of skin scorched and blistered.
His once‑snow‑white hair was now blackened ash, only a few streaks of silver clinging faintly to his scalp. In his arms, he carried a woman's limp body—Han Chen's grandmother. Her breathing had already stopped, her face pale beneath the soot.
The sight froze everyone around the burning wreck. His parents' composure cracked for the first time. Shock flashed across their faces, followed by something darker. Clenched jaws, tight fists, and a glint of disbelief that soon soured into spite. "How is he still alive?" his mother muttered under her breath, teeth gritted.
His father's gaze turned cold as frost, his whisper lost in the roar of flames. "Undying old man… just die already." Han Chen's child self stood beside his younger sister, both staring at the motionless figures stumbling from the fire. The girl's crying stopped as she gasped softly. "Grandfather!" the two siblings shouted together, voices trembling.
The old man staggered forward, the skin on his arms still smoldering. Several villagers rushed toward him, throwing buckets of water over his body until the smoke vanished from his clothes. Steam hissed into the air, a sound of agony and relief entwined.
He sank to one knee, his arms trembling as he gently placed his wife's body onto the ground. His gaze lingered on her face for a brief moment, sorrow flickering deep within his scorched eyes.
Then, he turned—just as two small figures came running, their bare feet crunching over ash and charcoal. Han Chen's sister was the first to reach him. Her tiny face twisted with fear, confusion, and grief as she dropped to her knees before him. "Grandfather, are you alright? W‑what happened to Grandmother?" she asked, her voice shaking.
The old man coughed, blood and smoke staining his lips. But his eyes still held that same steady warmth."What could happen to your grandfather?" he said hoarsely, forcing a faint smile through the pain. "Your grandfather has the strength of ten men. The person who can make me suffer… is not born yet." His words wavered but his tone remained proud.
The little girl burst into tears again, this time clinging around his burnt arm despite the smell of ash and blood. The old man's eyes trembled faintly as he looked down at her. His free hand rose slowly, resting on the top of her head."Your grandmother…" he said softly, turning his gaze toward the smoke‑filled sky, "…she's become a star now. Look above, do you see? She's watching over you."
The child stared upward with sobbing hiccups, her tears glimmering under the flickering firelight.
Beside her, young Han Chen stood silent, the boy's small fists locked tight by his sides. His lips trembled, but he didn't let the tears fall. The old man reached out his hand again, rough from burns but still steady, and gently patted Han Chen's head."You always hold it in," he said quietly. "It's alright to cry, Chen'er. Cry if you must. Grandfather is still here."
In the distance, Han Chen's parents turned away, their faces twisting in resentment that no one noticed. The villagers, oblivious to the rot in their smiles, gathered to help the old man. Han Chen watched the scene unfold—every sound, every expression, carved deep into memory.
And within the living grasslands of the inheritance trial, the adult Han Chen stood unmoving, staring at the echo of his past self. Each flicker of flame in the illusion felt sharper than any blade.
-----
The fire froze. Every crackle, every swirl of smoke halted mid‑air, the world stopping as if sealed in glass. The villagers stood still, their faces frozen in half‑motions of panic, the light from the burning house frozen like a painting in the air. Even the tears on the young Han Chen's sister's cheek hung suspended mid‑fall.
Only adult Han Chen could move. He blinked once, bewildered, turning his head slowly. The silence was absolute. Then, a cold gust swept across the still world, cutting like invisible blades. The grass and flames around him flickered—not with movement, but with the distortion of something forcing its way into reality.
From the center of the air, darkness crawled. A mass of black smoke coiled together, twisting and spiraling until it took on the shape of a humanoid figure—faceless, tall, with wisps of shadow rising from every inch of its body. Two pale white orbs glowed faintly where eyes should have been.
The pressure from its presence alone made Han Chen's skin tighten. He felt a chill pierce down his spine, instinct screaming danger.
His fists clenched.
Then, the thing spoke."Han Chen, ah… Han Chen." The voice was soft—not thunderous, not monstrous—but mocking, carrying the tone of someone who knew every scar of his soul. "You were too weak to save your grandparents," the shadow murmured. "You couldn't protect them… couldn't even stand when fire consumed them before your very eyes."The words struck deep.
Han Chen's jaw tightened. "Shut—"
But the shadow didn't stop. Its voice slithered into his mind, every syllable cutting deeper. "And then your sister," it continued, tone turning colder. "She vanished, didn't she? You never found her. You don't even know what became of her. Was she sold to a brothel, perhaps? Or enslaved by some wandering cultivator? Maybe she cried, calling your name until her voice gave out… and you never came."Han Chen's breath hitched.
His composure trembled. His head dropped slightly as the air around him thickened, heavy with unseen pressure. The Law's influence was unmistakable now—THE FRAGMENT OF THE THREAD OF EMOTIONS. It gnawed at the edges of his restraint, forcing buried memories and guilt to resurface all at once. Every breath grew harder, every second longer.
The smoke's grin widened—though no mouth was visible."And yet," it whispered, "you took your parents' lives with your own hands. The very ones who gave you breath. You burned their flesh in vengeance, did you not? Tell me, Han Chen… do you regret it?" The world rippled faintly, the frozen flames bending and warping as if feeding on his turmoil.
Han Chen stood rigid, his eyes darkened with shadow. For the first time in years, his emotions swirled uncontrollably—rage, pain, loss, doubt—all clawing to devour his reason. The Law's influence dug deeper, pulling him into sharp fragments of illusion."What if…" the voice pressed, "you had been stronger? What if you had saved them all? Your grandparents, your sister… even your parents. Wouldn't that have been better?"
Visions flickered around him—familiar, impossible scenes. His grandmother smiling under the morning sun, his sister running through the courtyard, his parents looking peaceful, laughing at the table.
Han Chen's heart clenched. The shadow whispered, "If you hadn't killed them… you could still be a family. Living comfortably. Laughing under this same sky."
Han Chen fists shook violently as he muttered through his teeth, "Enough…"
The shadow leaned close, white eyes glimmering inches from his face. "Admit it," it whispered. "You regret it all." The sound of his heartbeat grew deafening.
His mind shuddered under the weight of the Law's pressure. Logic bled into memory, anger turned into ache, and all he could see behind his eyelids were the flames reflected in his sister's tears. Han Chen's voice cracked—a whisper half to himself, half to the air. "What… would have happened… if I didn't kill them…"
The whisper lingered in the silence as the field of illusion trembled in anticipation. The Law was testing more than his strength—it was dissecting his soul.
-----TO BE CONTINUED-----