Years passed within the ancient walls of the House of Valerius. Valerius Ren grew, a quiet, observant child, his outward demeanor belying the storm of ancient memories and burning ambition that raged within his soul. To his parents, Lord Alaric and Lady Seraphina, he was a child of unusual intellect, often lost in thought, his eyes holding a depth far beyond his tender years. They saw his quiet nature as a sign of thoughtfulness, his occasional bouts of fatigue as the delicate constitution of a noble-born child. They did not, could not, fathom the cosmic struggle unfolding within their son.
From the moment of his rebirth, Kaelen had been acutely aware of the vast chasm between his past might and his present frailty. The spiritual energy of Xylos, this Lower Realm, was akin to thin mist compared to the torrential rivers of qi he had once commanded. It was a constant, maddening frustration. He, who had once absorbed the essence of entire spirit mountains with a mere thought, now struggled to draw in enough to sustain a flicker of warmth in his nascent dantian.
His days were spent navigating the mundane realities of a declining noble house. He learned the history of the Valerius family, a tale of past glories and present struggles, of alliances broken and territories lost. He saw the subtle contempt in the eyes of visiting envoys from more prosperous families, the thinly veiled pity from distant relatives. Lord Alaric, his new father, would often speak of restoring the family's honor, his voice tinged with a desperation that Kaelen, the former Demonic Sovereign, found both pathetic and, strangely, relatable. He, too, sought to restore what was lost.
His nights, however, were his own. As the manor fell silent, and the last flickering oil lamps were extinguished, Ren would slip from his bed. He found solace and purpose in the secluded corners of the decaying estate: a forgotten alcove in the library, a hidden grotto by a trickling spring in the overgrown gardens, or the dusty, rarely used ancestral meditation chamber.
Here, under the cloak of darkness, he would begin the arduous process of cultivation. He couldn't use the grand, realm-shattering techniques of his past. Those would simply tear his fragile body apart. Instead, he delved into the most fundamental principles of cultivation, the very bedrock upon which all higher arts were built. He recalled the rudimentary body-tempering exercises, the basic qi circulation paths, the simplest methods of drawing in and refining spiritual energy – knowledge he had dismissed as trivial millennia ago.
It was excruciatingly slow. He would sit for hours, his small body aching, his mind straining, trying to coax the wisps of spiritual energy into his meridians. A single breath might draw in a microscopic amount, barely enough to warm his internal organs. He would then attempt to guide this minuscule qi, tracing the simplest circulation routes, strengthening his meridians by inches, by millimeters.
There were moments of profound despair. He would recall the ease with which he had once cultivated, the sheer power that had coursed through his veins, and the stark reality of his current weakness would crash down upon him. He was a god trapped in the body of a worm, a roaring inferno reduced to a dying ember. The memories of Lyra's suffering, of his own defeat, would resurface, sharp and agonizing, threatening to overwhelm him.
But then, the cold fury would return, a steel-hard resolve that had defined him even in his past life. He was Kaelen. He had defied the heavens, conquered realms, and faced down armies. This, this meager existence, this fragile body, these thin spiritual energies – they were merely obstacles. And obstacles, to Kaelen, were meant to be overcome.
By the time he was five years old, Ren had made his first, almost imperceptible, breakthrough. After countless nights of relentless effort, he finally felt a faint, persistent warmth coalesce in his dantian – a true seed of spiritual energy. It was no larger than a grain of sand, but it was there. It was a true qi seed, the first step on the path of cultivation in this realm.
The feeling was exhilarating, a tiny spark of triumph in the vast ocean of his ambition. It was a testament to his unyielding will, to his ability to adapt even the most profound knowledge to the most restrictive circumstances. He knew this was just the beginning, a single step on a journey that would span years, perhaps decades, in this Lower Realm. But it was a step forward.
He continued his secret cultivation, his progress painstakingly slow but steady. He observed the Valerius family's attempts at cultivation, their reliance on outdated scrolls and their limited understanding of true spiritual principles. He saw their desperation, their clinging to a fading past. He knew he could not reveal his true nature, not yet. He needed to grow, to gather strength, to understand the intricacies of this realm before he could even dream of returning to the Upper Realm and exacting his revenge. The seed of vengeance had been planted, and Kaelen, now Valerius Ren, would nurture it with every ounce of his reborn will.