Lucas Grant woke up for the second time with a start, sweat clinging to his forehead, heart pounding like war drums. For a moment, he almost believed it had all been a dream—the betrayal, the dagger, the freezing kiss of Li Xue's blade. But the sterile white ceiling and the mechanical beeping of the heart monitor told him otherwise.
He sat up slowly, muscles aching as though he had climbed ten mountains with no rest. His body felt... strange. Not weak, but unfamiliar—too soft, too small, too human.
He looked down at his hands. No calluses. No energy thrumming beneath his skin. No subtle ripple of qi waiting to be channeled. It was like staring at a blade that had forgotten how to cut.
He focused.
In his past life, even in slumber, his dantian would hum with power, qi circulating through his meridians like a river. It was the foundation of cultivation—the core of who he was.
But now? Nothing.
He tried again, closing his eyes, reaching inward like he had thousands of times before.
Emptiness.
No qi. No dantian. No meridians. Nothing.
A hollow pit formed in his chest.
"This world... doesn't have cultivation," he whispered.
It felt like a death sentence.
The days passed slowly in the hospital. Nurses came and went, mistaking his silence for trauma. They didn't know the truth. How could they? That the soul inside Lucas Grant was not some teenager who'd survived a freak car accident, but a battle-hardened warrior who'd once cleaved mountains with his spear.
He spent the hours piecing things together. Listening. Observing.
The machines. The digital screens. The glowing rectangles people held in their hands and tapped at like spell scrolls.
The television blared news about stock markets and companies, not sect wars or beast attacks. Power here came not from spirit stones or sect techniques, but from dollars and influence. The ones at the top didn't meditate in caves. They sat in boardrooms.
He understood only fragments, but it was enough to grasp the core truth:
This was a world where wealth was power.
And he had just woken up inside the body of the grandson of one of the wealthiest men in America.
The family, he learned, was fractured.
Lucas's grandfather, Maxwell Grant, was a billionaire industrialist who had built the Grant Corporation from the ground up. A tech and defense empire that influenced governments, economies, and entire industries.
Maxwell had five children. Lucas's father, Edward, was the eldest—and the outcast. Known for his idealism, he had walked away from the company years ago, refusing to play the political games of his siblings.
Edward had married a woman of humble origins, and they'd lived a quiet life away from the spotlight.
Until the accident.
Lucas's parents were now dead. The boy himself had barely survived. And now, the Grant vultures were circling—each uncle and aunt seeing opportunity in tragedy. A weakened heir. A vulnerable child. An open seat at the table.
Lucas saw it clearly: the same ruthless ambition he knew from the Jin Clan, hidden behind suits and smiles.
His own cousins had visited the hospital once.
Fake concern. Smirks hidden behind pity.
"We're family," one of them had said. "Let us know if you ever need help. Grandpa has a lot on his plate."
He wanted to crush their throats.
But he merely smiled.
That night, he sat by the window, staring out at the glittering city skyline. Neon lights painted the world in illusions, but he saw through it all.
In the old world, he had power. Respect. A future.
Now, he had a new battlefield.
He whispered to himself:
"If I can't wield qi, I'll wield influence. If I can't shatter mountains, I'll shatter markets. You took my spear. Now I'll build an empire."
His fist clenched.
"You betrayed me once, old world. This time, I bow to no one."
The next morning, the doctors declared him well enough to leave.
He dressed himself slowly, studying the uniform of this life—designer shirt, polished shoes, and an expensive blazer. A far cry from the martial robes he once wore.
He looked into the mirror.
Fourteen years old. Thin. Pale. But his eyes...
Those were not the eyes of a boy.
They were the eyes of a dragon reborn.
Lucas Grant had awakened.
And the world was not ready.