"Roland Weiss, you have nowhere left to run! This time, it's the end for you, hand over the Butterfly of Beginning and End, and we might spare you a cleaner death!"
"You disgusting monster! You slaughtered tens of thousands just to cultivate the Butterfly of Beginning and End!"
"Old man, every righteous sect has gathered here today. There's nowhere left for you to escape!"
"Roland Weiss, you vile abomination! Two hundred years ago, you defiled me and slaughtered my entire clan! Today, I will finally bring your remains to the graves of my ancestors!"
"Roland, your entire demonic sect is already surrounded! You're finished!"
The wrinkled old man they called Roland Weiss stood perfectly upright, unmoved by his age or by the threats echoing around him, still as stone.
The tattered orange robe draped over his body fluttered in the mountain wind like a torn battle banner.
He had stood still for less than ten seconds, merely trying to steady his breathing, yet a small pool of blood had already formed beneath his feet.
It was his blood, streaming freely from dozens of wounds across his body.
His face was deathly pale, drained of color by blood loss and sheer physical exhaustion.
And yet, his eyes remained deep and unfathomable, like a bottomless well swallowed by darkness.
Roland slowly lifted his gaze, meeting the faces surrounding him from all sides, faces filled with hatred and contempt.
Some mocked him openly, convinced this was his end. Others clutched their own grievous wounds, staring at him with fear in their eyes.
A few of the more experienced cultivators watched him cautiously, waiting for the old man's next move.
Everyone present knew this was the end for him.
Roland himself knew it as well.
At that moment, a heavy crash echoed behind him, as if something massive had fallen to the ground.
Roland turned his head and saw his sharp, black-feathered wings lying motionless on the stone floor.
A closer look revealed how badly damaged they were, torn and twisted in countless places. The black feathers, once majestic and as dark as the abyss, now looked as though someone had cruelly plucked them out one by one.
As the wings hit the ground, Roland felt a sudden movement near his navel.
For a brief moment, his abdomen glowed with a violet light. Frowning, he pressed his right hand against it.
A heartbeat later, a pair of strange, miniature black wings materialized in the air above his palm.
They were a perfect, scaled-down replica of the wings now lying broken at his side.
So even you can't hold on any longer… the old man thought as he watched the tiny wings begin to crumble and wither.
Less than two seconds later, nothing remained in his hand but dry sand, the final remnants of the being that had emerged from his body.
Seeing this, the surrounding cultivators grew even more certain that Roland had truly lost all means of escape without his Myrks Wings.
Roland looked toward the sun as it dipped below the horizon. He closed his fist around the sand, then slowly let it fall, allowing the mountain wind to scatter the grains into the unknown.
"The sun sets over the azure mountains.Seasons pass like the wind, warm mornings, nights cold as snow.When you look back, success and failure lose their names."
The old man spoke softly, his voice heavy with melancholy as memories of his three-hundred-year life surfaced, memories that were about to end.
Countless moments, long buried in his heart, stirred awake and replayed in his mind.
"So… in the end, I failed," Roland Weiss sighed inwardly, yet felt no regret.
From the moment he chose his path, he had known this outcome was possible.
To be a demon meant killing, exploitation, and plunder.
He had always known the price for his sins would one day come due.
Roland stood silently, gazing at the fading sunset. Though he appeared utterly defenseless, not a single person dared to attack.
All eyes remained locked on him, waiting for his final move.
They knew today would be his end, but even a cornered beast would bare its fangs.
And Roland Weiss was infamous across the world for his despicable, treacherous tricks, tricks that had claimed thousands of lives.
When the sun finally disappeared beyond the horizon, Roland Weiss suddenly burst into mad laughter.
"Hahahahaha!"
At once, the surrounding cultivators grew even more alert.
"Be careful, he's finally lost his mind!"
"Remember to avoid damaging the Butterfly of Beginning and End when we strike!"
"Roland! Your life ends today!"
Shouting in unison, the cultivators of the righteous sects charged forward, weapons raised, intent on delivering the final blow.
At that very moment, deep within Roland's abdomen, the elegant and mystical Butterfly of Beginning and End, long asleep, opened its eyes and erupted with a brilliant orange glow.
As the first blade descended toward Roland's neck, a smile appeared on the old man's lips.
In the same instant, his body was engulfed by a blinding wave of orange energy that exploded outward with a deafening roar.
***
Spring rain fell softly over the rocky ridge of a peninsula rising above the lake's surface.
It was late into the night, yet the Valen Peninsula was far from dark.
Along its jagged shoreline and up toward its highest peaks stretched countless small lights, reflected across the calm lake like a shimmering ribbon in the darkness.
Those lights illuminated towering buildings scattered across the peninsula, thousands of them.
Here, thrust into the lake like a stone wedge, lay Valen Village, carving the mark of human civilization into the wild waters and cliffs.
At the highest terrace of the peninsula, just above the steep drop toward the blue lake below, stood the Ancestor Pavilion of the Valen Clan.
It was neither ostentatious nor gaudy, but its position alone made it loom over the entire settlement. Stone pillars, smoothed by years of wind and moisture, supported a roof with gently curved eaves, from which rain trickled softly.
Warm light spilled from within, standing in sharp contrast to the darkness of the lake, as if the pavilion were separated from the rest of the world by an invisible boundary.
Incense smoke drifted lazily through the air, mingling with the cold mist rising from the water and filling the space with a suffocating, solemn silence.
That silence was broken by the deep, dignified voice of the Valen Clan Leader, who presided over the ceremony inside the pavilion.
"Ancestors, bless us. We pray this ceremony brings forth many youths of outstanding talent and intellect, new blood that will grant their families hope and glory."
The clan leader, a middle-aged man clad in ceremonial white robes, knelt on the brown stone floor. His posture was straight as an arrow, eyes tightly shut, hands pressed together in prayer.
Before him stood three ancestral tablets bearing similar faces, relics of the Valen forebears. Bronze incense burners flanked the tablets, white smoke curling upward.
Behind him knelt more than ten individuals, all wearing loose white ceremonial robes. They were elders of the clan, figures of authority and influence.
When the prayer ended, the clan leader bowed deeply, pressing both palms to the floor in reverence. A dull thud echoed as his forehead struck the stone.
The elders followed suit, bowing low and pressing their foreheads to the floor in respect.
Once the ceremony concluded, the group slowly rose and exited the pavilion in silence.
In the corridor outside, quiet sighs of relief spread among the elders as the tense atmosphere gradually eased, replaced by murmurs of discussion.
"Time really does fly. A whole year passed in the blink of an eye," one elder muttered.
"It feels like the last ceremony was only yesterday," another replied nostalgically, gazing at the stone floor beneath his feet.
"Tomorrow is the annual Grand Awakening Ceremony. I wonder which new clan will shine this year."
"I hope we see a few talented youths. The Valen Clan hasn't produced a genius in three years."
"I agree. Arden Village and Eldor Village have produced remarkable talents lately, especially Elric Arden. His natural aptitude is terrifying."
Unease flickered across the elders' faces at the mention of that name.
Elric Arden's qualifications were exceptional. In just two years of training, he had reached the Third Tier of Myrks Master.
Among the younger generation, he stood unrivaled.
So great was his talent that even the older generation felt immense pressure. At such a young age, he had already become a pillar of the Arden Clan.
"Still, all hope isn't lost for us," one elder said. "After all, Roland Weiss will participate in this year's ceremony."
"You're right. Roland Weiss is a young genius. He spoke at four months, walked at six. By five, he could recite poetry, and he's remarkably intelligent, even gifted with his hands."
"Indeed. That child stands far above his peers. It's a shame his parents died so early. Now he's being raised by his uncle and aunt."
The Valen Clan Leader, who had exited the pavilion last, paused as he heard the elders' conversation.
He knew at once they were discussing Roland Weiss.
As clan head, he naturally paid close attention to outstanding youths. And among all the children of Valen Village, Roland Weiss shone the brightest.
Years of experience had taught him that children with photographic memory, abnormal strength, or other innate gifts often possessed exceptional cultivation potential.
If the child reaches A-grade potential, with enough support from the clan, he could even rival Elric Arden. Even B-grade would make him a future banner of Valen… but given his intellect and abilities, A-grade is highly likely.
With those thoughts, the clan leader's lips curved into a faint smile.
He cleared his throat lightly to draw the elders' attention.
The murmurs gradually died down as they turned toward him.
"Everyone," he said calmly, "it's late. Before tomorrow's ceremony, you should rest well and conserve your energy."
The elders exchanged glances, surprise quickly giving way to caution.
They all understood what he meant.
Every year, competition for talented youths led to fierce disputes among the elders, arguments that often turned red-faced and bloody.
They needed rest for what awaited them tomorrow.
Especially this year, with Roland Weiss, a child with an extremely high chance of A-grade potential. Orphaned, and one of the last two heirs of the Weiss lineage. Whoever secured him could guarantee a century of prosperity.
Seeing the excitement barely contained on their aged faces, the clan leader sighed.
"I'll say this clearly," he said sternly. "Compete fairly. No schemes, no plots, nothing that would harm the unity of the clan. Remember that."
"We wouldn't dare."
"We understand."
"The good of the clan comes first."
Hearing their responses, the clan leader nodded.
"Then I wish you all a good night. Take care."
Lost in their own thoughts, the elders slowly dispersed.
Before long, silence returned to the long corridor.
A spring breeze drifted through an open window as the clan leader approached it. He drew in several deep breaths of cool, damp air scented with rain and lake water, letting the freshness ease his body.
Looking down, he took in the entire Valen Village. Terraced buildings gleamed in the night, thousands of lights reflected across the lake's surface, making the settlement appear as though it floated on water.
Beyond the lights lay the dark expanse of the lake, where the faint outlines of clan islands loomed, distant, silent, and nearly swallowed by darkness.
Despite the late hour, most homes were still lit, an unusual sight.
Tomorrow's Awakening Ceremony will affect everyone's fate. Excitement and tension grip the clan. No wonder they can't sleep, he thought.
"The future of the clan rests on their shoulders," he murmured, lifting his gaze to the stars reflected faintly in the lake.
**
At that same moment, a pair of bright eyes calmly gazed upon the same lake, its surface mirroring the starlit sky, eyes filled with complex emotions.
"Isn't that… Valen Village? But this was over three hundred years ago?! It seems the Butterfly of Beginning and End truly worked…"
Roland Weiss stood quietly by a window, letting the cool spring wind brush against his body.
The Butterfly of Beginning and End possessed the power to reverse time. Among the Ten Great Mystical Myrks, it ranked sixth, clearly no ordinary existence.
After all, its ability was rebirth.
"Thanks to the Butterfly of Beginning and End, I've been reborn… sent back three hundred years!"
Roland spoke excitedly to himself as he raised his hand, staring at his young, soft, pale fingers.
He clenched and unclenched them several times, trying to understand whether this was truly his body, or merely another dream.
Slowly, he closed his eyes, standing in silence for several minutes as the spring wind and lake breeze brushed against his delicate skin.
At last, Roland Weiss opened his eyes and sighed.
"Three hundred years of experience… it really sounds like a dream."
But he knew one thing for certain.
This was no dream.
Roland Weiss had been reborn three hundred years into the past, at the very beginning of his journey as a Myrks Master.