The last thing Jin Mu remembered was the cold bite of steel at his throat, the blade driven there by the traitor he once called brother. The taste of iron filled his mouth as his lifeblood poured over the steps of the altar. Above him, the great statue of the Black Emperor loomed, its obsidian gaze pitiless as ever. All around, the world burned—sect halls crumbling in roaring flames, disciples screaming in the night. In those final seconds, Jin Mu felt no rage, no despair—only the tired ache of a man who had lived too many lifetimes, who had failed one final time.
Yet as his vision narrowed to darkness, a whisper threaded the void:
You are not done.
His heart stopped. His breath fled. And then, impossibly, everything reversed. Time itself unwound in a flood of sensations—pain becoming numbness, heat turning to chill, noise collapsing into a ringing emptiness.
When he awoke, Jin Mu was kneeling on cold stone.
The flames were gone. The air was clean. The Black Emperor's statue was intact, looming above the unbroken altar.
He touched his throat—smooth skin, no wound.
His heart began to hammer as realization struck.
He had returned.
Regression, he thought, hands trembling. How many years has it been since I last saw this place unbroken?
The shrine doors groaned as he pushed them open. Beyond, dawn light spilled across the courtyard, revealing the early bustle of the sect—novices sweeping the steps, elders drifting in meditation. For a moment, he stood in the threshold, stunned by the sheer ordinariness of it all.
To them, this was just another morning.
To him, it was the first breath after drowning.
He turned his gaze inward, sifting through the strata of memory. Thousands of lifetimes—the faces he had loved, betrayed, killed. Each cycle had carved another scar on his spirit, until he no longer believed in redemption or change.
And yet...here he was.
Given one more chance.
His jaw clenched.
No more hesitation. If the heavens grant me this return, I will tear the chains from my fate with my own hands.
Jin Mu stepped down into the courtyard, feeling the familiar crunch of gravel beneath his sandals. He walked past the training grounds, the archive towers, the reflecting pools—every corner held echoes of who he had once been.
In this life, he was still a junior disciple, seventeen years old. His cultivation was shallow—barely a foundation—but his spirit held knowledge that spanned eons.
At the edge of the training ground, he paused, watching a circle of disciples practicing basic forms. Their strikes were clumsy, lacking flow and intent. Once, he would have sneered at them.
Now, he felt a strange tenderness.
How young we all were, he thought. How blind.
He closed his eyes and exhaled, feeling the quiet bloom of his ancient understanding. Techniques that had taken lifetimes to master stirred in his bones.
I will not squander this.
Later, he stood at the cliff's edge, overlooking the valley. Morning mist drifted over terraced fields and winding rivers. For a while, he simply watched the wind stir the grass, listening to the quiet heartbeat of the world.
Once, he had believed power alone would grant him freedom. He had clawed his way to the apex, only to be betrayed by those he trusted most.
No more, he thought. This time, I will build something worth defending.
He set his hand to his chest.
I swear it.
The vow sank into him like a brand.
By the time the sun rose fully, Jin Mu had gathered the necessities—a plain robe, a travel satchel, a sheaf of blank talismans. His mind raced with plans: the hidden legacies he knew were buried in remote tombs, the sect secrets concealed in forbidden archives, the alliances he must forge before rivals grew too powerful.
As he left the shrine, a familiar voice called out.
"Jin Mu! You're up early."
He turned. A young man approached—broad-shouldered, with an easy grin. Shen Yan, his old friend.
Or so he had thought.
Jin Mu felt the old bitterness rising. Shen Yan, whose hand had held the blade that ended him.
But not yet, he reminded himself. He does not know the path he will walk. Not in this life.
He forced a smile.
"Couldn't sleep," he lied.
Shen clapped him on the shoulder. "Come spar with us. We'll be elders in no time if we keep training."
Jin Mu nodded absently. Perhaps, he thought, if fate can be unwound, so can hatred.
As he walked away, he let the facade fall. His expression turned cold, calculating.
Time was already moving again. His enemies were alive, gathering strength. The calamities that had devoured the continent still waited in their long slumber.
I must not squander even a day.
And beneath all his plans, one quiet truth.
I am alive.
He lifted his eyes to the rising sun, feeling its warmth on his skin, and for the first time in countless ages, Jin Mu allowed himself to hope.