The contract was flawless.
Every clause was airtight, every responsibility precisely defined, every loophole sealed with cold legal logic. I had reviewed it three times already, yet I still flipped through the pages once more beneath the dim yellow light of the underground arbitration hall.
Habit.
In my line of work, habit was the difference between walking out alive and never walking out at all.
Across the long black table, the representatives of the two martial clans sat in silence. Their breathing was steady, their expressions restrained, but the faint fluctuations of inner strength around their bodies betrayed their cultivation levels. At least Dark Strength. One of them might have already stepped into Manifest Strength.
Normally, men like these wouldn't even bother disguising their killing intent.
But tonight, they behaved.
That alone told me everything.
I closed the folder and slid it forward. "The inheritance transfer will be completed within seven days. Once the ancestral hall changes ownership, neither side may retaliate,openly or secretly. Violation of Clause Twelve will activate the arbitration penalty."
My voice echoed softly in the sealed room.
One of the elders chuckled. "Lawyer Chen, as expected. Clean. Ruthless. Efficient."
I didn't respond. Praise from martial clans carried no warmth. Only calculation.
The contract was signed. Fingerprints pressed. Blood seals stamped.
The arbitration was complete.
As I stood up, a strange sense of unease brushed against my spine. It was faint—almost ignorable,but after surviving in this world for over a decade, I had learned to trust such instincts more than evidence.
I paused at the exit.
"Lawyer Chen," another elder called out slowly, "you've seen too much over the years. Aren't you afraid?"
I turned back and met his gaze. Calm. Empty.
"I'm a lawyer," I replied. "Fear is included in my service fee."
The door shut behind me.
The underground corridor was long and narrow, lit by flickering fluorescent lights. My footsteps echoed steadily against the concrete floor. Each step felt heavier than usual, as though the air itself had thickened.
That was when my phone vibrated.
No caller ID.
I stopped walking.
For three seconds, I stared at the screen. Then I locked it and slipped it back into my pocket.
I had already guessed who it was.
A soft sound sliced through the air.
Too fast. Too quiet.
Pain exploded in my chest.
I staggered forward, my back slamming into the cold wall. The sensation was sharp at first, then oddly distant, as though my nerves were struggling to keep up with reality.
I lowered my head.
A blade protruded from my chest, buried deep, angled perfectly to miss my heart by a hair's breadth.
Professional.
So even now, they didn't want a public death.
Behind me, footsteps retreated without haste. No final words. No threats. Martial assassins never wasted breath on the dead.
Blood soaked through my suit, warm and sticky. My vision blurred, yet my thoughts remained frighteningly clear.
"So… this is how it ends," I murmured.
I laughed weakly.
All those years—navigating contracts between clans, sealing disputes that could have drowned cities in blood, burying truths that could shatter the balance between law and martial power.
In the end, I died because I understood the rules too well.
That final contract…
The clause I discovered…
So that was the line they couldn't allow me to cross.
My knees gave out.
As darkness closed in, fragments of memory surfaced—my first case, my rise through the underground legal world, the faces of clients who smiled while sharpening knives behind their backs.
Regret?
No.
Only one thought lingered.
If I had another chance…
I wouldn't just survive.
I would control everything.
—
Pain came first.
Then noise.
Then the unbearable brightness of sunlight stabbing through my eyelids.
I gasped and jolted upright, my chest heaving violently. Cold sweat drenched my back, my heart pounding as if it were trying to tear free.
I instinctively reached for the wound—
Nothing.
No blood. No pain.
My hands were clean. Smooth. Unscarred.
I froze.
The room around me was small, familiar, and unbearably outdated. Peeling wallpaper. A crooked ceiling fan. A desk cluttered with old textbooks and exam papers.
My childhood bedroom.
That was impossible.
My breath grew shallow as I swung my legs off the bed. My movements were clumsy, unrefined—nothing like the body I had honed through years of cultivation.
I staggered to the mirror.
The face staring back at me was young. Too young.
Sharp eyebrows, unlined skin, eyes that hadn't yet learned to hide intent. At most, eighteen.
"No…" My voice came out hoarse.
My phone buzzed on the desk.
The sound was ordinary, yet it sent a chill through me.
I picked it up with trembling fingers.
"University admission list released."
The date burned into my vision.
Eight years ago.
Before law school.
Before the underground arbitration courts.
Before martial clans knew my name.
Before my death.
My grip tightened around the phone.
A laugh escaped my lips—soft at first, then uncontrollable. I sank onto the bed, shoulders shaking, as memories from two lifetimes collided violently in my mind.
Rebirth.
Not a dream. Not hallucination.
This was real.
Slowly, I raised my hand and clenched it. Weak. Fragile. No inner strength circulating. A body that hadn't even begun proper tempering.
Yet inside this fragile shell was a mind that had once stood at the center of law and blood.
I exhaled, forcing my breathing to steady.
This time, I wouldn't rush.
This time, I would build everything from the ground up—law, power, influence.
Martial artists feared exposure.
Authorities feared chaos.
Both feared someone who understood them equally.
I looked at the admission message once more.
University.
The starting point of all my mistakes.
A faint smile curved my lips.
"This time," I whispered, "I won't be signing my own execution contract."