The morning mist still clung to the mountains when Arion stepped beyond the Valeheart gates for the first time since his regression. The guards nodded as he passed; they saw only a young heir eager to train outside the walls. None could guess that the calm in his stride came from another lifetime's weight.
He carried a small pack, a plain sword, and an old bronze cauldron strapped across his back. In this life, he would start early—no longer waiting for the clan's tutors or elders to dictate his path. He needed power, not titles. He needed to awaken his spirit energy, and for that, he would begin with the simplest thing every cultivator required: an Ade to cook into a foundation pill.
In the Valeheart lands, Ade was a rare mountain herb known for binding spiritual energy to the body when cooked properly. In his past life, Arion hadn't touched cultivation until his mid-twenties, long after others had already broken into the Spirit Realm. Now, he wouldn't make that mistake.
---
The Search
The slopes north of the Valeheart estate were filled with low fog and the song of insects. Between rocks and roots grew the Ade plant — small, silver-veined leaves with a faint red glow at the tips. They bloomed only where sunlight met the mist.
Arion remembered this place vividly. Years ago, his mother had once gathered these herbs for medicine. Back then, he hadn't known their value. Now, each leaf was a key to his rebirth.
He moved carefully through the brush, mind replaying old lessons. Ade thrives where Spirit Qi flows naturally. Look for soil that hums beneath your steps.
He crouched and pressed his palm to the ground. Warm. A pulse, faint but steady, beat beneath the earth. A small smile tugged at his lips. "Found it."
With a wooden knife, he unearthed the plant carefully. One. Two. Three. By midday, he had gathered twelve Ade leaves, each one glowing softly in his pouch.
That would be enough for three low-grade pills—if he could refine them properly.
---
The Cooking Trial
By evening, he reached an abandoned hunter's hut near the river. Smoke from his small fire curled into the twilight. The cauldron sat steady on the stones.
He poured in water from the stream, added powdered bone ash for heat balance, and dropped the Ade leaves in one by one. The scent that rose was sharp and herbal, mixed with the tang of metal.
In his past life, he had refined hundreds of elixirs. But now, his hands trembled slightly. His body was weaker, his spiritual veins still dormant. Even so, he focused—controlling the fire with patience, not speed.
Each bubble that surfaced seemed to echo his heartbeat. He guided his breath, remembering his mother's old advice: "The flame outside must match the calm inside. If one wavers, both fail."
After an hour, the mixture thickened into a glowing golden paste. He smiled faintly. "Not bad for a beginner's hand."
He shaped the mixture into small beads and set them to cool. Three faintly glowing pearls—his first Spirit Foundation Pills.
When the fire dimmed, he sat cross-legged and swallowed one whole. The taste was bitter, almost metallic. The real test began inside.
---
Awakening the Spirit Veins
The warmth spread through his chest like sunlight through cracked glass. Then came pain. His body shook as if struck by lightning; his heart hammered so hard it hurt. He could feel the Spirit Qi seeping through his meridians, scraping away the dormant dust of years.
He clenched his fists, forcing his breathing steady. Endure it. Mold it. Own it.
The energy swirled and then settled. When he opened his eyes, sweat rolled down his temples—but his vision was sharper, colors more alive, the world humming faintly with hidden energy.
"Spirit Initiate…" he breathed. "At last."
It was the lowest rank in the Spirit Realm, but to him it meant everything. It was proof that his second life was real—that his strength could rise again, slowly but surely.
---
A Shadow in the Forest
Just as he began to pack up, a sound broke the quiet—leaves shifting, branches snapping.
He turned, eyes narrowing.
A small figure stumbled from the shadows—a girl, no older than twelve, dressed in the colors of the Valeheart outer disciples. Her arm was bleeding. Behind her, two men in dark green cloaks moved swiftly, their blades drawn.
Thornshade assassins.
Arion's blood ran cold. In his first life, Thornshade had begun testing the Valeheart borders about a year before the clan's fall. History was repeating itself—too soon.
The girl gasped when she saw him. "Young Master Arion! Help!"
Arion's grip tightened around his sword. He wasn't ready for battle—not yet. But he couldn't turn away.
"Hide behind me," he said calmly.
The assassins laughed. "Didn't expect to see the Valeheart whelp out here. Hand over the girl and maybe we'll let you live."
Arion's stance lowered, mind racing. He didn't have the strength of his past life, but he still had skill. Timing, precision, patience—these didn't vanish with power.
The first assassin lunged. Arion stepped aside, let the blade whistle past his chest, and struck the man's wrist with the flat of his sword. The clang of metal on bone echoed in the trees. The man dropped his weapon, howling.
The second came faster, sharper. Arion blocked, sparks flaring, then swept the man's leg with a precise kick. His movements were economical—every strike deliberate.
But his body was still young, still untrained. His arm trembled from the clash. He couldn't keep this up for long.
Then an idea struck. He kicked the cauldron, sending the last of the Ade residue into the fire. A burst of smoke exploded outward, bright gold and blinding.
The assassins cursed, retreating into the shadows.
When the air cleared, they were gone.
Arion fell to one knee, panting, sword trembling in his grip. The girl rushed forward. "You saved me, Young Master!"
He smiled weakly. "Just… doing my duty."
In truth, his arms burned and his vision swam, but inside, something else glowed—a spark of pride. For the first time since returning, he had changed the future, however slightly.
---
The Path Forward
As the night deepened, he looked up at the moon and whispered, "This is only the beginning."
He thought of his family, his clan, and the storm that would one day come. He thought of the enemies—Drakar, Thornshade, Celestine—and the long climb ahead.
The road to power was long, but tonight he had taken his first step, forged his first pill, awakened his first vein, and protected a life that would have been lost.
Slowly, steadily, he would rise again.
Not through miracles.
Not through destiny.
But through will.
And when the time came, even the gods would remember the name—Arion Vale, the Broken Sword reborn.