The wind blew gently through the outer disciple quarters of the Greenleaf Sect. It carried the scent of pine, damp moss, and faint traces of spiritual herbs. Amidst the clang of wooden swords and the sharp shouts of sparring youths, a boy in gray rags moved quietly with a broom in hand.
No one looked his way.
That was how he preferred it.
They called him Lin Wuxie, a name given by the head servant. He had shown up seven years ago, barely alive on the sect's doorstep, with no parents, no background, and no spiritual roots. A useless mortal. A weed among dragon seedlings.
But none of them knew that the soul inside this body once had another name.
Amon.
The Blasphemer. The King of Angels. The God of Deceit and Paradox. A being who walked freely in the realm of mistakes, chaos, and secrets. A being who had tricked gods, danced through realities, and smiled while the universe looked away.
He remembered his last moments clearly: a betrayal that echoed even beyond the stars. A trap woven with inevitability, one he had almost unraveled—until the end. Amon had died. Or rather, he had been erased from the chaotic river that bordered reality.
Yet…
He had awakened here. In this world of cultivation, bound by spiritual roots, sects, and Dao. Stripped of all power and unable to draw qi properly, his once-great soul was forced into a mortal body.
But his mind remained intact.
So he observed.
Today, like most days, Senior Brother Yue and a few inner disciples sparred in the training yard. They displayed flashy moves, shouted as they exerted themselves, and created dull booms of clashing spiritual energy. The spectators gasped and cheered at every blow exchanged.
Lin Wuxie's gaze was cold and analytical.
"Windshadow Step, third phase incomplete, favors the left foot, shoulder tenses before each strike…"
He moved past them slowly, memorizing every pattern. Senior Brother Yue was about to enter the Foundation Establishment realm. In this world, that meant power, respect, and a new life.
But Yue was a fool. A brute with some talent and little self-restraint.
Wuxie smiled faintly, though his face stayed blank to those who walked by.
He returned to the servant dorms and entered his small, empty room. No bed. Just a mat and an old, cracked teapot.
He sat cross-legged and pulled out a tattered scroll hidden beneath a loose floor tile.
The Mirror Veil Sutra.
It was a remnant of a forbidden cultivation technique, long abandoned and considered useless. Its first line read:
"Cultivate not the body, but the world's perception of your body."
How fitting.
He lacked talent for the normal Dao paths. But he didn't need to cultivate truth. He would cultivate falsehood.
He closed his eyes and began his breathing cycle. Qi, weak and slow, flowed through his meridians. It wasn't enough to break through—not yet. But each cycle made his presence lighter, harder to notice. One day, he would vanish from the world's awareness until only his influence remained.
A knock echoed at his door. Three short, two long. The signal.
He rose and opened it slightly.
A thin girl with sharp eyes slipped inside. Her name was Mei Yao. Another servant, but smarter than most.
She handed him a folded cloth. Inside were dried herbs—leftovers from the alchemy hall.
"Same as usual," she said. "I distracted the outer disciples while you slipped in."
"You did well," Wuxie replied softly, giving her a small jade token. It was a minor protection charm he had bartered for weeks ago.
"You're getting stronger, aren't you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You've been… different lately."
Wuxie tilted his head.
"Different?"
"You don't walk like a servant anymore. You walk like someone who's already decided how this story ends."
He didn't respond.
She left.
He smiled faintly.
People like her were useful… for now.
Later that night, he stood at the edge of the mountain cliff behind the sect. The stars above looked unfamiliar—different constellations than those he once knew in his previous world. But they shone with the same indifferent light.
He took a deep breath.
"Seven years," he murmured. "Seven years of crawling, hiding, and pretending."
A gust of wind brushed against his robes.
"But now… the mask can begin to smile."
Down below, in the valley, a beast howled. In the training field, disciples continued their exercises. In the grand hall, elders meditated atop jade platforms.
None of them noticed the shadow rising among them.
None of them saw the boy with no presence—once called Amon.
And they wouldn't… until it was far too late.