The first thing Lin Yuan heard was wind.
Not the harsh, whistling wind that screamed through broken walls and carried the smell of blood, but a softer sound—gentle, clean, almost lazy. It slipped through bamboo leaves and brushed against paper windows as if it had nowhere urgent to be.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
He lay still, eyes closed, listening.
There was a faint creak of wood somewhere nearby. A quiet shuffle of footsteps beyond the door. The distant splash of water from a courtyard fountain. A soft, steady rhythm—breathing—his own.
I'm alive.
The thought came without excitement, without disbelief. It arrived the way an experienced swordsman draws a blade: smoothly, without hesitation.
Lin Yuan opened his eyes.
Above him was a canopy of pale silk, embroidered with clouds and cranes in thread so fine it looked like the birds might lift from the fabric and fly away. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood, clean bedding, and something floral that reminded him of spring.
He blinked once. Twice.
His gaze drifted down.
Small hands.
His hands were small.
His fingers were slim, pale, unscarred. No calluses. No broken nails. No dried blood trapped beneath the skin. The veins beneath his wrists were faint blue lines, delicate as brushstrokes.
He lifted one hand slowly and watched it tremble—not from fear, but from unfamiliar lightness. His body felt like a robe that didn't quite fit. The bones were too light. The muscles too soft. The joints too flexible.
Eight.
He didn't know how he knew. He simply did.
Eight years old.
He sat up, silk blankets sliding down his chest. His breath remained calm, but inside his mind, the world was not calm at all.
Because he remembered dying.
Not the poetic kind of death storytellers liked to describe—one clean strike, a final smile, a last line spoken into the wind.
His death had been ugly.
It had been helpless.
It had been a lesson carved into bone.
He remembered the night sky painted red, the way flames climbed the Lin Clan's ancestral hall like hungry beasts. He remembered the smell of burning lacquer and charred wood, the crackling sound of pillars collapsing like the snapping of giant bones.
He remembered his mother's voice—thin, broken, calling his name once, twice, then disappearing into screams.
He remembered kneeling in the courtyard, blood on his lips, watching the righteous hero step forward.
The hero wore white.
Of course he did.
White robes that didn't stain, even as they walked through slaughter. A sword that gleamed as if it had never tasted flesh. A face so handsome and calm it made the world believe he could do no wrong.
Lin Yuan remembered looking up at him.
He remembered saying nothing.
Not because he had no words, but because words were useless.
The hero had looked down at him with pity—real pity, the kind that made the humiliation sharper.
"You should have chosen a better path," the hero said.
Then the sword fell.
Lin Yuan touched his throat now, fingers pressing gently at the skin.
No wound.
No pain.
No blood.
Only the steady pulse of life.
His gaze shifted to the window. The light outside was pale gold. Morning.
Not the morning after the massacre.
A different morning.
A morning before everything ended.
He slid off the bed and his bare feet met warm wooden flooring. The room was large, clean, and familiar in the way a dream could be familiar. On the far wall hung a painting of mountains and rivers. Beneath it stood a low table with a porcelain tea set, untouched.
He walked toward a bronze mirror near the wardrobe.
The mirror reflected a boy with neat black hair and a face that could only be described as… harmless.
Large eyes. Smooth skin. Soft features that hadn't yet sharpened into adulthood. He looked like the kind of child elders pinched on the cheek and praised without thinking.
He looked like someone who should have been protected.
Lin Yuan stared at his reflection for a long time.
Then, very slowly, he smiled.
It was a gentle smile.
A warm smile.
A smile that belonged to a child who had never known betrayal.
The boy in the mirror looked like an angel.
Inside, Lin Yuan felt nothing.
No joy. No relief. No gratitude.
Only clarity.
So I've returned.
He let the smile fade.
In the mirror, the boy's eyes changed—not in shape, not in color, but in something deeper. A stillness settled in them, like a lake freezing over.
Lin Yuan turned away from the mirror and walked to the window. He pushed it open.
Outside, the Lin Clan's inner courtyard spread beneath the morning light. Stone pathways cut through gardens of trimmed shrubs and blooming flowers. Servants moved quietly with trays of food and buckets of water, heads lowered respectfully. A few guards in black-and-gray uniforms stood near the gates, spears in hand, posture straight.
Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Lin Yuan's eyes narrowed slightly.
He knew this place.
He knew it the way one knows the taste of something once loved, now poisoned.
The Lin Clan.
His home.
His grave.
He breathed in the morning air and let it fill his lungs.
Then he whispered, so softly no one could hear:
"This time… I won't lose."
A knock came at the door.
Lin Yuan didn't answer immediately. He waited one heartbeat, two—long enough to remind himself that he was eight years old, that his voice should sound young, that his movements should be small.
Then he said, lightly, "Come in."
The door opened and a maid stepped inside.
She was young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with her hair tied neatly and her clothes plain but clean. She carried a basin of warm water and a folded towel.
When she saw Lin Yuan standing by the window, her expression brightened with relief.
"Young Master," she said softly, bowing. "You're awake. The Third Elder sent me to check on you. He was worried after you fainted yesterday."
Fainted.
Lin Yuan searched his memory.
Yes.
There had been a talent awakening ceremony. A test. A stone tablet. Children lining up with excitement and fear. He had placed his hand on the tablet… and then the world had turned white.
He had fainted.
Not because the body was weak.
Because something inside him had awakened too violently.
He looked at the maid and gave her a gentle smile again, the kind that soothed people without effort.
"I'm fine, Sister Qing," he said.
The maid's cheeks flushed faintly at the polite address.
She hurried closer, setting the basin down. "Young Master, you scared everyone. The elders said your talent might be… extraordinary. But fainting like that—"
"It was just too bright," Lin Yuan said, tilting his head slightly like an innocent child. "I didn't like it."
Sister Qing laughed softly, relieved. "Of course. Our Young Master is still young. You should rest more."
Lin Yuan nodded obediently.
He sat on the edge of the bed and let her wash his hands. The warm water felt real. The towel felt real. Every small sensation confirmed what his mind already accepted.
This wasn't a dream.
This was a second life.
And he would use it.
Sister Qing finished and stood. "Breakfast will be brought soon. The Clan Head asked that you visit the main hall after you eat. The elders want to speak with you."
Lin Yuan lowered his gaze shyly, as if nervous.
Inside, he calculated.
The elders want to confirm my talent.
Yesterday's ceremony must have revealed something unusual. If his awakening was too obvious, it would draw attention—good and bad.
In the cultivation world, talent was a blessing, but it was also bait.
The stronger the bait, the bigger the predators.
He looked up again, eyes bright and innocent. "Okay."
Sister Qing bowed again and left.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Lin Yuan remained seated, staring at his hands.
Then he slowly clenched them into fists.
Extraordinary talent…
He closed his eyes and focused inward.
In his previous life, he had cultivated. Not fast. Not slow. Average. Enough to be called a genius in a small city, but nothing compared to true monsters of the higher realms.
He had always suspected something was missing.
Now he knew.
His talent in the first life had been suppressed.
Or perhaps… incomplete.
Because in this life, he could feel it.
Two distinct forces sleeping inside his body like two dragons coiled in the same abyss.
One was warm.
Gentle.
It flowed through his veins like spring sunlight, soothing and calm. It made his breathing smoother, his mind clearer. Even the air around him seemed to soften.
The other was cold.
Not the cold of winter wind, but the cold of steel submerged in deep water. It didn't soothe—it sharpened. It didn't comfort—it commanded. It carried a pressure that made his bones feel heavier, his blood feel thicker, his heartbeat feel like a drum calling soldiers to war.
Lin Yuan opened his eyes.
A faint golden glow flickered at the edge of his vision, then vanished.
He exhaled slowly.
Saintly Teacher Physique.
He didn't know the name yet, but he could feel its nature.
It was the kind of talent that made people trust you.
The kind of talent that made elders sigh and say, "This child is destined for greatness."
The kind of talent that made enemies hesitate before striking.
Then there was the other.
Unrivalled Emperor Physique.
This one didn't want trust.
It wanted obedience.
It wanted fear.
It wanted the world to bow.
Lin Yuan's lips curved slightly.
He could already see how this would work.
He would use the saintly side to gather people. To gather loyalty. To gather resources.
Then he would use the emperor side to crush anything that dared resist.
He wouldn't need to choose between them.
He would become both.
A saint in daylight.
An emperor in the dark.
Breakfast arrived shortly after.
Two servants carried trays into the room—steamed buns, rice porridge, pickled vegetables, and a small plate of sliced fruit. Simple, but far better than what commoners ate.
Lin Yuan ate slowly, quietly, like a well-raised young master.
In his mind, he wasn't tasting food.
He was tasting time.
Each bite reminded him that he had years.
Years to prepare.
Years to build.
Years to turn the Lin Clan into something that could survive the future.
He finished and wiped his mouth.
Then he stood and walked out.
The Lin Clan's inner courtyard was brighter now. Sunlight filtered through trees, casting moving shadows on stone tiles. Servants bowed as he passed.
"Good morning, Young Master."
"Young Master Lin."
"May you grow stronger every day."
Lin Yuan nodded politely, returning greetings with a gentle smile.
He could feel their affection.
Not forced. Not fearful.
Real.
They liked him.
They wanted him to be safe.
He wondered, briefly, how many of them had died screaming in his previous life.
He didn't let it show.
He kept walking.
The main hall stood at the center of the clan compound, built with dark wood and carved pillars. A plaque above the entrance bore two characters in bold strokes:
LIN CLAN
Inside, elders sat in a semi-circle, robes neat, expressions varied. At the highest seat sat the Clan Head—a middle-aged man with sharp eyebrows and calm eyes.
Lin Yuan's father.
Lin Tianhao.
In his previous life, Lin Tianhao had died protecting the clan's escape route. He had fought until his arms were broken and his blood ran dry. He had died standing.
Lin Yuan's steps slowed slightly.
His chest tightened for half a breath.
Then the emperor inside him pressed that emotion down like a hand flattening a flame.
Lin Yuan walked forward and bowed properly.
"Father. Elders."
Lin Tianhao's gaze softened. "Yuan'er, you're awake. Good."
The Third Elder leaned forward, beard trembling slightly with excitement. "Young Master, how do you feel? Any discomfort? Any pain in your meridians?"
Lin Yuan shook his head. "No, Third Elder. I feel… light."
The elders exchanged glances.
The Second Elder spoke, voice measured. "Yesterday, the talent stone reacted violently. It hasn't done that in fifty years. Even when the clan's top geniuses were tested, it only glowed faintly."
The Fourth Elder snorted. "And he fainted. That means the talent was too strong for his body to handle."
The Third Elder smiled broadly. "A good problem to have."
Lin Tianhao raised a hand, silencing them.
He looked at Lin Yuan. "Yuan'er, do you remember what you saw when your hand touched the stone?"
Lin Yuan lowered his gaze, acting shy. "It was… bright. Like the sun was inside it."
The elders' breathing quickened.
Lin Tianhao's eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. "Bright like the sun…"
The Second Elder's voice grew quiet. "Saint-grade talent?"
The Fourth Elder scoffed, but even he sounded uncertain. "Saint-grade? In our small Canglan Prefecture?"
The Third Elder slapped his knee. "Why not? Heaven does not only bless the great clans. Sometimes, it drops a dragon egg into a chicken coop."
Lin Yuan remained silent, face calm.
Inside, he thought:
Saint-grade…
He didn't know what grade his talent truly was. But if they believed it was saint-grade, it would raise his value.
It would also raise the danger.
Lin Tianhao spoke again. "We will not announce anything publicly. Not yet."
The elders nodded, some reluctantly.
Lin Tianhao continued, "Yuan'er, starting today, you will receive the best resources the clan can provide. Pills, spirit stones, manuals. The clan will protect you."
Lin Yuan bowed again. "Thank you, Father."
The Third Elder smiled. "Young Master, you must cultivate diligently. The Lin Clan's future may rest on your shoulders."
Lin Yuan lifted his head and gave a bright, innocent smile.
"I will."
The elders looked satisfied.
Lin Tianhao dismissed him with a gentle wave. "Go. Train lightly today. Don't push yourself."
Lin Yuan turned to leave.
As he stepped out of the hall, the sunlight hit his face.
He smiled again, warm and harmless.
But in his mind, he heard the crackling of fire.
And he thought:
Protection is not enough.
This clan doesn't need protection.
It needs teeth.
He walked toward the training courtyard.
Children his age were already there, practicing basic stances under the watchful eyes of instructors. Wooden swords swung clumsily. Feet shuffled. Sweat glistened on foreheads.
When Lin Yuan entered, the courtyard quieted.
Some children stared at him with admiration.
Some with jealousy.
Some with fear.
Because rumors moved faster than wind.
"Is that Lin Yuan? The one who made the talent stone shine?"
"He fainted though."
"Maybe his talent is too strong."
"He's the Clan Head's son. Of course he's special."
Lin Yuan ignored the whispers.
He walked calmly to the edge of the courtyard and picked up a wooden sword.
It felt light.
Too light.
In his previous life, he had wielded real blades. Heavy ones. Ones that cut flesh and bone.
This was a toy.
Still, he held it properly.
An instructor approached, bowing. "Young Master, would you like to train separately? We can arrange—"
"No," Lin Yuan said softly. "I want to train with everyone."
The instructor hesitated, then nodded. "As you wish."
Lin Yuan joined the line.
A boy stepped forward and blocked his path.
He was slightly taller, broader, with a smug expression. His robe was more expensive than the others, his belt embroidered with silver thread.
Lin Yuan recognized him instantly.
Zhao Ming.
The son of the Zhao Family's branch line that had married into the Lin Clan years ago. In his previous life, Zhao Ming had become one of the clan's internal traitors. He had opened a gate during the massacre.
Lin Yuan looked at him calmly.
Zhao Ming sneered. "So you're awake. I heard you fainted like a girl yesterday."
A few children snickered nervously.
Lin Yuan tilted his head slightly, expression gentle. "Did I?"
Zhao Ming's smile widened. "You think you're special because the elders praise you? You're still just a kid."
Lin Yuan's eyes remained soft. "We're all kids."
Zhao Ming stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Listen. Don't get arrogant. If you want to survive in this clan, you need to know your place."
Lin Yuan looked at him for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
It was warm.
Kind.
Almost grateful.
"Thank you for teaching me," Lin Yuan said.
Zhao Ming blinked, thrown off. "Huh?"
Lin Yuan bowed slightly, as if truly respectful. "You're right. I should know my place."
Zhao Ming's chest puffed up. "Good. At least you're not completely stupid."
Lin Yuan straightened.
His eyes were still gentle.
But his voice lowered just a fraction.
"And your place…"
Zhao Ming frowned. "What?"
Lin Yuan's smile didn't change.
"…is not in my way."
Before Zhao Ming could react, Lin Yuan moved.
To the watching children, it looked like a simple step forward.
But Zhao Ming felt something different.
A pressure.
A sudden heaviness in the air, like the world had tilted.
His breath caught.
Lin Yuan's wooden sword tapped Zhao Ming's wrist—not hard, not brutal, just precise.
Crack.
The sound was small.
But Zhao Ming screamed.
His wooden sword fell from numb fingers.
He staggered back, clutching his wrist, face pale. "Ah—! You—!"
The instructor's eyes widened. "Young Master!"
The courtyard erupted.
"He broke Zhao Ming's wrist!"
"With one move?!"
"That was… that was a basic stance!"
Lin Yuan lowered his sword and looked at Zhao Ming with concern.
His expression was pure innocence.
"I'm sorry," Lin Yuan said softly. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just… lost balance."
Zhao Ming's face twisted with humiliation.
He wanted to shout.
He wanted to accuse Lin Yuan of doing it on purpose.
But when he looked into Lin Yuan's eyes, he saw only gentleness.
Only apology.
Only sincerity.
And that made it worse.
Because it made Zhao Ming look like the bully.
The instructor rushed forward, checking Zhao Ming's wrist. His expression darkened.
"This is a fracture," the instructor said.
Zhao Ming's eyes widened. "He did it! He—!"
Lin Yuan bowed again, voice trembling slightly like a scared child. "Please don't punish him. It's my fault."
The children watching began whispering.
"Lin Yuan is so kind…"
"He even apologized…"
"Zhao Ming was bullying him first."
Zhao Ming's face turned red, then white.
He wanted to vomit.
Lin Yuan looked at him quietly.
And inside his mind, the emperor smiled.
This is how it starts.
Not with killing.
With control.
With humiliation.
With everyone watching you fall and believing you deserved it.
Zhao Ming was escorted away.
The instructor looked at Lin Yuan with a complicated expression. "Young Master… you must be careful. Your strength is unusual."
Lin Yuan nodded meekly. "I will be careful."
He returned to the line.
And as he lifted the wooden sword again, he felt it—faint, almost imperceptible.
A presence in his mind.
Not a voice.
Not a person.
Something colder than thought.
Something ancient.
Then, for the first time in this life, words appeared before his eyes—transparent, pale gold, floating like mist.
[Topworld War Archive — Activated]
Lin Yuan's breathing didn't change.
His expression didn't change.
Only his grip on the wooden sword tightened slightly.
Another line appeared.
[Clan Foundation Mission Unlocked][Objective: Strengthen the Lin Clan's Roots][Reward: Iron Blood Guard Blueprint (Incomplete)]
Lin Yuan stared at the words.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
Not the warm smile he showed the world.
A different one.
A thin smile that belonged to someone who had already died once.
"Good," he whispered.
No one heard him.
The children continued training.
The wind continued moving through bamboo leaves.
The Lin Clan remained peaceful.
And somewhere in the unseen threads of fate, something shifted—quietly, dangerously.
Because Lin Yuan had just taken his first step.
And Heaven, still asleep, had no idea what kind of clan was about to be born.