Darkness.

  A swirling abyss of memories, half-formed and tangled, drifted through his mind. Images of towering mountains, grand halls, and bustling markets flickered in and out of focus. He saw himself—Chen Shuren, the firstborn of the Shuren Clan—a boy raised in the prestigious but minor family of Mt. Edge, a city of a million people, barely a speck in the vast world beyond the mountains. The city thrived on its proximity to the resource-rich wilderness, attracting cultivators and adventurers seeking fortune. His family held some standing, their bloodline tied to warriors and merchants, yet they were far from the true powers of the world.

  He had been pampered as the eldest son, given the best tutors, the finest robes, and every opportunity to cultivate. But it had never been enough. No matter how hard he trained, how many techniques he memorized, or how much spiritual energy he attempted to absorb—he had never stepped onto the path of a true cultivator. While others soared, he remained shackled to his mortal limitations.

  Then, his younger brother, a year his junior, had surpassed him effortlessly.

  The memory struck like a hammer. The duel. The shame. The betrayal.

  He had challenged his brother, knowing he had no chance of winning, yet hoping—praying—that his persistence, his experience, his rage would be enough. But the moment their battle began, reality crashed down upon him. His brother, already at the third level of Qi Refinement, had not hesitated. He had struck with his full strength, sending Chen crumpling to the ground, blood spilling from his mouth. That blow had not been meant to humble him—it had been meant to end him.

  Pain. A deep, aching pain spread through his body. It burned through his ribs, pulsed in his skull. He gasped for breath, but the world spun around him. Then, the pain twisted, morphing, merging with something far more insidious.

  The Ferryman.

  A shadowed figure in a realm beyond light and dark. A voice that rippled like a stone breaking the surface of still water. "You cannot cultivate," the Ferryman had said, his words smooth, undeniable. "But I can offer you something else… something stronger."

  Had he spoken those words before or after his brother struck him? Had the pain in his chest come from the duel, or from the moment the Ferryman reached into him, pulled something out, and left him hollow?

  The wound in his chest, the one his brother had left, throbbed in the same place the Ferryman had taken his talent. The memory blurred. One moment, his brother’s fist connected, ribs cracked. The next, the Ferryman’s skeletal fingers dug into his core, extracting the essence of his potential. The sensations bled into each other, indistinguishable. Which was real? Were they both? Or had he been two different people, before and after that moment?

  He had been tricked.

  Pain.

  A deep, aching pain spread through his body like wildfire. Every breath felt like a hammer striking his ribs, every movement sent sharp jolts through his muscles. His vision blurred as he struggled to open his eyes, the dim light of the lanterns above casting flickering shadows across the ornate ceiling. The scent of medicinal herbs filled his nostrils, mixing with the overpowering metallic tang of dried blood. His tongue felt thick, the taste of copper coating his mouth, a bitter reminder of his failure. His body was broken, wrapped in tight bandages, his limbs heavy and unresponsive.

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  His head throbbed as the memories from his unconscious state collided with the present. The duel. The Ferryman. His loss. His rage.

  The room around him slowly came into focus. Ornate wooden carvings decorated the walls, their intricate patterns familiar yet foreign. A golden brazier flickered in the corner, casting elongated shadows over the silk curtains that framed his bed. The faint rustling of fabric signaled movement—servants, their presence subdued, their steps careful as they placed fresh towels and bowls of medicinal paste nearby. The room smelled of incense, herbs, and the lingering scent of blood.

  Chen tried to move. A searing pain shot through his body, forcing a sharp gasp from his lips. His arms felt like lead, his legs numb and unresponsive. Even turning his head was an effort. Weakness. He had never felt so weak.

  "Sir, you are awake," a voice broke through the haze. One of the servants stood beside his bed, bowing his head slightly.

  Not Young Master. Just Sir. The honorific was gone, a silent confirmation of his fall from grace.

  "How long… have I been unconscious?" His voice was hoarse, his throat dry.

  "Two days, sir," the servant responded, avoiding his gaze.

  Two days. Two days since his younger brother had taken everything from him.

  The door creaked open again, and this time, the air grew heavier. A tall, imposing man entered, his presence alone silencing the room. Jinn, the family patriarch. His father. His features were sharp, carved from years of discipline and power. His robes, deep crimson with golden embroidery, exuded authority. A short beard framed his stern mouth, and his piercing eyes carried both disappointment and something deeper—regret.

  Chen tried to push himself up, but his body refused. His father merely watched.

  "Leave us," Jinn commanded. The servants bowed and swiftly exited, closing the door behind them. Silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating.

  From within his sleeve, Jinn retrieved a small jade bottle and placed it on the bedside table. "Take this. It will aid your recovery," he said, his voice controlled, measured.

  Chen’s fingers trembled as he reached for it, gripping the cool jade tightly. This was not a gift, but an obligation. A silent acknowledgment that, though he had fallen, he was not yet cast aside.

  His father’s gaze bore into him. "Do not let anyone see you take it. Use it to regain your strength."

  Chen swallowed, his pride warring with his reality. His father had never believed in his talent for cultivation. This pill—it was a small act of support, but not faith.

  A long pause stretched between them before his father finally spoke again. "You have lost. Your brother is now the heir."

  The words were expected, but they still cut deep. Chen’s fingers clenched around the bottle, his body screaming in protest at the movement.

  "However," his father continued, "you have until your brother turns fifteen. If you wish to reclaim your place, you must defeat him before then. If you fail, you will be nothing more than a forgotten branch of this family."

  A deadline. One year.

  Chen looked up, meeting his father’s gaze. The disappointment was there, but beneath it, something else—an unspoken challenge.

  "I understand," Chen said, voice steady despite the weakness in his body.

  His father studied him a moment longer, then turned and left, the door shutting softly behind him.

  Left alone, Chen exhaled, his grip loosening on the jade bottle. His body was battered, broken. His title was gone. But as he lay in the dim glow of the lanterns, memories stirred within him, remnants of the former Chen’s pride and ambition.

  He would not accept failure.

  Not yet. Not ever.

  And one day, he would sink the Ferryman’s damned boat for what he had taken from him.