Xaio Li awoke with a gasp, his eyes snapping open to a gray, mist-laden morning. The first sensation was alien: his body felt fragile, unfamiliar, and painfully weak. Muscles he remembered as iron now trembled as if they were made of paper. Memories surged through his mind, chaotic and overwhelming—memories of countless centuries spent as the Immortal Emperor. He had walked the heavens, battled the gods, tamed the impossible, and commanded armies that spanned worlds. He had been untouchable, omnipotent… and then he had fallen.
The betrayal still burned in his mind. Every lord, every sect, every tribulation of heaven had united against him, each strike a carefully planned assault on the one being they could never hope to understand. He remembered the shock of mortality, the final moments of his supreme form shattering like crystal. And yet, here he lay again—reborn, fragile, mortal, a mere boy sprawled in a field that reeked of damp soil and decayed grass. The body was his, but it was weak, untested, and almost laughably inadequate for the power contained in his mind.
Villagers walked past, some casting curious glances, others ignoring him entirely. Xaio Li could feel their suspicion, their ignorance, and it amused him. They had no idea that the trembling child on the ground was, in his soul, the most powerful being to ever exist. Even in this new, feeble vessel, the memories of techniques, energy flows, and combat strategies he had honed over millennia burned brightly. He could almost sense the weak pulse of energy in his veins, faint and struggling, but it was there. It would grow. It had to.
He slowly pushed himself to his feet. The effort left him panting, each muscle screaming with fatigue. The sky above was gray, shrouded in a thin mist that blurred the distant hills. The morning was cold, but there was life everywhere: grass trembling in the wind, birds hopping between stalks, villagers beginning their daily toil. Every movement, every sound, every small shift in the environment was a lesson waiting to be observed. Xaio Li's mind raced, analyzing, calculating, storing. Even this small patch of mortal existence held patterns, weaknesses, and potential energy he could one day harness.
He scanned the horizon. The crops in the field were sparse, their green muted by frost, but the distant village seemed peaceful. Yet Xaio Li knew better. Peace was always deceptive. Even now, threats lurked unseen. Bandits could strike, minor beasts could roam, and even mortal cultivators could harbor ambitions that would imperil a boy so vulnerable. This body was a weakness, yes, but a weakness could be a mask. A mask could hide power. And he would use it.
A farmer's cart rattled along the dirt path, spilling grain as it tipped slightly to one side. Xaio Li's fingers twitched, almost instinctively, as if to snatch a weapon, though none lay nearby. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he barely felt it. His mind was elsewhere, planning, considering, calculating. This body may be fragile, but it is mine. Every weakness here is an opportunity. Every struggle is a lesson.
He knelt in the dirt, pressing his hands into the soil. Energy flowed faintly beneath his skin, weak but persistent. He focused, attempting to sense it, to call upon the remnants of the immortal techniques he remembered. Nothing happened at first—only a tingling in his fingers, a faint warmth along his veins. He smiled inwardly. Patience. Even the greatest mountains are carved one grain at a time.
Hours passed. The villagers' tasks carried on around him, the mundane rhythm of mortal life uninterrupted by the silent storm rising within the boy. Xaio Li observed them, memorizing the flow of movement, the patterns of labor, even the conversations that drifted to him in fragmented tones. They spoke of harvests, minor disputes, and the usual petty concerns of mortals. It was laughable to him, almost unbearably so, but he allowed it. Knowledge was power, even the simplest knowledge, and he would absorb every detail.
By mid-morning, Xaio Li had begun walking along the edges of the field, testing his legs, focusing on balance, on coordination, on drawing the faint energy within him into a usable form. He practiced simple movements—punches, stances, breathing exercises. Each was awkward, crude, but progress came. Slowly. The energy in his body flickered, responding to his intent. Not fully, not yet, but it would. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach: the spark of life that would ignite into a flame.
By midday, he rested beneath the shade of a small tree, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky. Memories of his past life gnawed at him—not as despair, but as a challenge. They thought they could erase me. They thought the world could forget my name. They were wrong. His voice, low and quiet, whispered to no one but himself, "I will rise again. This time, the world will tremble, and none shall oppose me."
Even now, weak, mortal, vulnerable, there was a subtle aura about him. A faint, undetectable pressure in the air, a sense of something restrained yet infinitely potent. Xaio Li smiled again, a small curve of satisfaction. The villagers could not sense it. They would not sense it for years, perhaps decades. And that was fine. Patience was a tool, and he had mastered patience beyond mortal comprehension.
The sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the field in muted gold. Xaio Li rose once more, his body aching but his mind sharper than ever. The path ahead would be long, fraught with struggle, enemies, and countless trials. But for the first time since rebirth, he felt a thrill. The world had forgotten him, but he had not forgotten the world. And as the first stars began to pierce the twilight sky, Xaio Li's eyes glimmered with unyielding determination.
This was the beginning. The beginning of his reclamation, the rebirth of the Immortal Emperor, and the day the world would once again bow to the name Xaio Li.