Chapter 1: Fifth Time's the Charm
The first thing Luo Chen felt was the ache.
It was a dull, persistent throb behind his eyes, the kind that came from too many memories trying to occupy too small a space. Not the glorious pain of divine tribulation, not the searing agony of a shattered dantian, not the cold numbness of royal poison—just a mundane, mortal headache.
How… disappointing.
He opened his eyes.
Sunlight streamed through the cracks of a rickety wooden shutter, illuminating dancing dust motes. The air smelled of old paper, dried herbs, and the faint, ever-present scent of mildew. He knew this room. He knew the exact number of floorboards that creaked (seven), the exact spot where the roof leaked when it rained (above the foot of the bed), the exact feeling of the thin, scratchy blanket under his fingers.
The attic storage room of the Verdant Cloud Sect's outer disciple quarters.
His "home" in this life. For now.
A slow, deep breath filled his lungs. The spiritual energy here was thin, stale. Like drinking muddy water after a lifetime of fine wine. He sat up, joints protesting. Sixteen years old. A body weakened by poor nutrition and latent meridians clogged with the dregs of cheap spirit grains. A talent assessment that had branded him "low-grade, suitable for menial tasks."
Luo Chen, the waste.
A smile touched his lips. Not a smile of joy, nor of bitterness. It was the smile of a master painter looking at a blank, cheap canvas, already seeing the masterpiece he would force upon it.
Fifth life.
The memories settled into place, not as a chaotic storm, but as files in a meticulously organized archive.
Life One: Luo Chen, the Saint. The righteous prodigy. He'd believed in honor, in justice, in protecting the weak. He'd died on his knees, his core ripped out by the very "righteous" alliance he'd bled for, his name slandered for centuries after. His final thought had been pure, bewildered betrayal.
Life Two: Luo Chen, the Demon Elder. Consumed by the rage of his first death, he'd embraced the demonic path. He'd schemed, poisoned, and massacred his way to power, only to be torn apart by his own favorite disciple, hungry for his position. His final thought had been cynical amusement.
Life Three: Luo Chen, the Wandering Cultivator. Tired of grand narratives, he'd sought freedom. He'd roamed the earth, collecting secrets, avoiding attachments. He'd died alone in a forgotten ruin, crushed by a collapsing ceiling during an earthquake. His final thought had been a profound sense of irony.
Life Four: Luo Chen, the Mortal Prince. Born into luxury, no cultivation, just politics and pleasure. He'd been poisoned by a jealous concubine over a meaningless inheritance. His final thought had been regret for a particularly fine vintage he'd never finish.
And now. Life Five.
He swung his legs off the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold, rough wood. The familiar timeline clicked into place. Today was the Bi-Annual Outer Disciple Review. More importantly, it was the day his "fiancée," Lin Xueyi, would publicly renounce their childhood engagement and pledge herself to the rising star of the inner sect, Zhao Feng.
In his first life, this had shattered him. He'd raged, made a scene, and been beaten for "disrupting sect harmony," his reputation destroyed before it began.
In his second life, he'd preemptively tried to kill Zhao Feng. He'd failed, been caught, and executed as a jealous lunatic.
In his third life, he'd simply left before the ceremony, abandoning the sect entirely.
In his fourth life… he'd been a prince elsewhere, unaware this farce was even happening.
Now, he had four lifetimes of perspective. And four lifetimes of information.
"Lin Xueyi," he murmured, testing the name. In Life One, she'd been his first love. In Life Two, he'd used her as a pawn to infiltrate a rival sect before discarding her. In Life Three, he'd heard she'd died in a minor border skirmish. In Life Four, they'd never met.
He felt nothing for her now. Just data. A piece on the board.
He stood, walking to a cracked mirror propped against the wall. The face that stared back was youthful, pale, with features that could be called delicate if not for the shadows under the eyes. The face of a victim. A background character.
"Not anymore," Luo Chen said to his reflection. His eyes, which had been wide and nervous in every previous first iteration of this day, now held a flat, calculating depth. The eyes of a man who had seen empires rise and fall, who had been both saint and monster, who had died screaming and died bored.
He dressed in the standard rough-spun grey outer disciple robes. He didn't bother trying to look impressive. He needed to look harmless. Forgettable.
As he fastened his belt, his mind was already racing, cross-referencing memories.
Zhao Feng. Inner Disciple. Fire affinity. Arrogant. Ambitious. Hidden weakness: a flawed cultivation technique borrowed from a forbidden side branch, causing a subtle instability in his lower dantian that flares every full moon. A secret he guards fiercely. A secret Luo Chen learned in Life Two when he'd considered recruiting him.
Lin Xueyi. Water affinity. Pragmatic to the point of ruthlessness. Currently infatuated with Zhao Feng's status. Secret shame: her family's wealth comes from a secretly monopolized, cursed spirit herb trade that causes slow soul-rot in consumers. A fact Luo Chen uncovered in Life Three while tracking a poison.
Elder Hong, presiding over the review. Greedy. Loves flattery and spirit wine. Has a hidden cache of stolen sect resources buried near the back hill. Its location was confessed by a drunken subordinate in Life One.
A plan, cold, elegant, and supremely shameless, solidified in Luo Chen's mind. He wouldn't avoid the humiliation. He would weaponize it. He wouldn't fight Zhao Feng. He would own him before he even knew they were at war.
He reached under his thin mattress and pulled out a small, non-descript pouch—his meager savings: twelve low-grade spirit stones and a few copper coins. Then, his fingers probed a loose floorboard near the wall. From the hollow space beneath, he retrieved two objects:
A small, poorly carved wooden amulet. A childhood trinket from Lin Xueyi, given when they were both naive children. Sentimental leverage.
A single, dried, dark-purple berry. Ghost-Weep Berry. Harmless, flavorless, but when ingested, it caused a temporary, faint chilling of the fingertips and a slight metallic taste in the mouth—symptoms uncannily similar to the early stages of the rare "Frost-Soul Imbalance," a serious, hard-to-diagnose condition.
He'd collected the berry weeks ago on a herb-gathering mission, knowing this day would come. In Life Two, he'd used it to fake an illness and avoid a deadly assignment.
Now, he popped the berry into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. The effect would begin in an hour, peak during the review, and fade by nightfall. Perfect.
He tucked the amulet into his sleeve. The stage was set.
The sound of a bell tolled through the sect, deep and resonant, calling all outer disciples to the main practice square.
Luo Chen took one last look in the cracked mirror. The shadows under his eyes seemed a little darker. His skin a shade paler. A faint, unnatural chill was already beginning to seep into his fingers.
He let his shoulders slump slightly. Allowed a hint of nervous vulnerability to soften his expression. The mask of Luo Chen the Waste settled into place.
Behind it, the minds of a Saint, a Demon, a Wanderer, and a Prince watched, analyzed, and plotted.
He walked to the door, a slight, unassuming figure in grey.
Time to go to my own funeral, he thought, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. And see what flowers I can steal from the graveside.