In the far reaches of the Yanhuang Dynasty, beyond fertile plains and bustling cities, lay a land forgotten by both heaven and men.
This region had no proper name. Maps marked it vaguely, if at all—an expanse of desolation where mountains stood stripped to the bone and rivers had long since dried into fractured scars across the earth.
The soil was pale and cracked, incapable of nurturing crops, and rain visited so rarely that the people spoke of it as legend rather than weather. It was said that the land was cursed.
As the world weakened, the balance between yin and yang grew unstable. From the fissures of reality itself, evil spirits were born—creatures that fed on flesh, fear, and souls. In places like this, where vitality was already thin, such beings thrived.
The night sky above the desolate land was unusually dark. It was not merely the absence of the moon or stars, but a suffocating darkness—thick, oppressive, as though it pressed down upon the land with deliberate malice. Even the earth seemed to hold its breath beneath it.
And yet, on this night, something stirred.
High above the land, far beyond mortal sight, a faint speck of light appeared. It flickered weakly—no brighter than a dying ember—then vanished, as if swallowed whole by the heavens.
Below, in a withered forest of dead and dying trees, a small herd of roe deer huddled together. Twenty in total. They were low-ranked spirit beasts—barely intelligent creatures that lived by instinct alone, clinging to fragile bloodlines in a world that wanted them extinct.
In this land, reaching even the Eighth Stage of Body Tempering was enough to be called extraordinary.
Among them, one female lay on the cold ground. Her breath came in short, trembling gasps. Pain rippled through her slender body as she pressed herself into a shallow hollow between broken tree roots—an instinctive attempt at shelter, though she seemed to know how meaningless it was.
Her body convulsed. A small life slid into the world. A brown roe deer.
Tiny, trembling, yet unmistakably alive. Its chest rose and fell rapidly as it sucked in air, its legs twitching as it struggled. The mother nudged it gently, licking away the blood and fluid, urging it to stand.
But her abdomen remained swollen.
A moment passed. Then she cried out again—sharp, strained, and almost desperate. Another form emerged.
White.
The forest went still.
The second newborn lay motionless for a breath—just long enough to make something twist uneasily in the watching herd. Then its chest shuddered. Blue eyes slowly opened, reflecting the oppressive night sky above. Snow-white fur. Flawless. Unbroken.
In this forest of rot and ash, such a color was not beautiful. It was wrong.
The herd shifted. Hooves scraped faintly against dry soil. Nostrils flared. Their minds were simple, incapable of thought—but instinct screamed.
White did not belong.
White meant sickness, weakness, and a burden that would invite predators.
Roe deer were prey even in gentle lands; here, standing out was no different from begging to be torn apart.
The mother stared. She looked at the brown fawn—already wobbling to its feet, alive, and normal—then at the white one lying silently beside it. Her gaze lingered longer than it should have. For an instant, something like hesitation flickered.
Then instinct crushed it. She turned away.
The herd began to move. No cries. No mourning. No backward glances. One by one, their forms dissolved into the darkness, swallowed by the forest as if they had never existed.
At that moment, the white newborn opened his eyes fully. The world slammed into him. Cold air burned his lungs. Sound crashed over him—hooves, breath, and the distant wind. Massive shapes loomed above him, with legs like pillars and eyes that were strange and unfamiliar.
Roe deer…?
The thought surfaced weakly, fragile and uncertain. Confusion followed—then panic. He tried to move. He tried to lift his hands.
Nothing felt right. His limbs were wrong—too thin, too light, and moving in directions he couldn't control. He attempted to sit up and collapsed immediately, his body betraying him.
Why… why can't I move properly?
Then he saw it. The herd was leaving.
His vision blurred—not from tears, but from something colder: a sharp, sinking dread. He watched their backs retreat and watched one deer pause briefly to glance his way. Hope flared. Then it turned away. The darkness swallowed them whole.
Silence rushed in. Cold followed.
Time stretched painfully. His body trembled, weak and fragile. Each breath felt heavier than the last. With desperate effort, he pushed himself upright. He was standing on four legs.
He looked down. White legs. Slender. Fragile. No hands.
The realization struck harder than fear. Before he could process it, a sharp cry tore through the sky. An eagle.
Terror exploded through his small body. Thought shattered. Instinct seized control. He ran.
Branches tore at his sides. Stones bruised his hooves. His lungs burned as he stumbled forward, driven by nothing but blind desperation. Not long after, his strength gave out. He collapsed, his breath ragged and his heart pounding violently.
When he lifted his head again, the forest had changed. This place was emptier. No animals. No insects. Even the wind seemed hesitant, as if afraid to disturb it. The ground was cracked and gray. Trees stood twisted and broken, their trunks resembling corpses frozen mid-scream.
And at the center—a spring.
Water flowed quietly, unnaturally clear. No grass dared grow near it. No moss clung to its stones. Even algae avoided its surface. Something about it felt… wrong. Yet thirst burned his throat like fire.
He approached slowly. When he leaned forward, the water reflected his image. A small roe deer with snow-white fur and blue eyes stared back. He stared at it for a long time.
"So… this is me now."
The thought didn't come with hysteria—just a quiet, heavy acceptance. Somewhere deep inside, he had already known.
Reincarnation.
Memories surfaced—an ordinary life, twenty-five unremarkable years, quiet routines, and unfulfilled dreams. Now he was here. A beast. A weak one. In this land, beauty was meaningless. White fur was not a blessing; it was a death sentence.
His throat burned. After a moment's hesitation, he lowered his head and drank.
The water was cold. Sweet. Too sweet.
Warmth surged through his body, turning rapidly into searing heat. His heart pounded erratically. His vision blurred violently. Something was wrong. He tried to pull back, but his legs failed. The world tilted as darkness flooded in.
"So soon…?"
A flicker of bitterness surfaced. I just arrived… and I'm already dying?
The sound of the spring stretched and faded. His thoughts slowed, sinking into numb silence. If this was the end—it was quiet.
He closed his eyes.
Silence. Absolute.
When he opened them again, there was nothing. No sky. No ground. No light. No darkness. A void.
He stood upright on two legs.
He looked down. Human hands.
"I'm… human again?"