The Forbidden Spirit Garden lay beyond the outer disciple grounds, hidden behind a curtain of dense bamboo and ancient stone markers carved with warning sigils.
ENTRY = DEATH.
That was what the stone tablet said.
Lin Ye remembered kneeling before this place once.
Not as a disciple.
As a corpse collector.
Ten years from now, the sect would send teams here to retrieve bodies—young cultivators who had believed the rumors and paid the price.
Because the garden did awaken.
And it did kill.
Just not immediately.
Lin Ye stopped at the edge of the boundary.
The air here was different.
He could feel it even with his current weak cultivation—spiritual energy flowed unevenly, like a sleeping beast breathing beneath the soil. The grass was greener. The trees taller. The silence heavier.
In his past life, he had learned the truth far too late.
This place was not forbidden because it was evil.
It was forbidden because the sect could not control what lived inside.
Lin Ye exhaled slowly.
"Still asleep," he murmured.
Three days.
That was how long the garden would remain dormant.
Three days before the Spirit Root beneath it awakened and began devouring anyone who entered.
Three days before fate locked this place shut forever.
He stepped forward.
The moment his foot crossed the boundary—
The world shuddered.
It was subtle. Almost imperceptible.
But Lin Ye felt it.
A faint resistance. Like invisible threads brushing against his skin, tugging backward.
So you noticed, he thought calmly.
Fate was already reacting.
In his past life, this moment had never happened. He had walked past this garden dozens of times without ever feeling a thing.
Because fate had not needed to stop him then.
Now, it did.
Lin Ye smiled.
And kept walking.
Inside the garden, the air grew thick with spiritual mist.
Not dense—hungry.
Every breath felt like it was being weighed, measured, judged.
The path wound inward, lined with ancient trees whose roots clawed at the earth like skeletal fingers. At the center stood a shallow stone basin, cracked with age.
Empty.
Lin Ye approached it slowly.
"This is where you'll wake up," he said softly.
He knelt and placed his palm against the stone.
In his past life, the Spirit Root had awakened violently, killing dozens before the elders sealed it away. They had called it a disaster.
They were wrong.
It was a treasure.
A failed Heavenly Spirit Root—one that had developed a primitive will.
Not intelligent.
But not mindless either.
The elders feared it because they did not understand it.
Lin Ye did.
He closed his eyes.
And did something no one had ever done before.
He remembered.
He recalled the exact pattern of spiritual fluctuations from the day the Spirit Root awakened. The resonance. The rhythm. The hunger.
Then—
He fed it.
A thin thread of spiritual energy flowed from his dantian into the stone basin.
It was weak. Almost laughable.
But it carried something far more valuable than power.
Foreknowledge.
The garden trembled.
Leaves rustled violently as if a sudden wind had passed through, though the air remained still.
Deep underground, something shifted.
Lin Ye felt it latch onto his spiritual energy—not greedily, but cautiously. Like a wounded beast sniffing an offered hand.
"Easy," he whispered. "I'm not here to seal you."
The tremor stilled.
The resistance—the tug of fate—tightened.
Lin Ye felt pressure build behind his eyes.
Pain bloomed.
Not physical.
Conceptual.
As if the world itself was warning him: This is not how the story goes.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
He laughed softly.
"So this is what it feels like," he said. "To move off-script."
He pushed more spiritual energy into the basin.
Not much.
Just enough.
Deep beneath the earth, the Spirit Root responded.
A pulse surged upward.
Lin Ye gasped as something ancient brushed against his consciousness—not a voice, not a thought, but a sensation.
Recognition.
The Spirit Root recognized him.
Not as food.
Not as prey.
But as a variable.
The pain vanished.
The pressure receded.
The garden fell silent.
Lin Ye withdrew his hand and staggered back, breathing heavily.
His cultivation had not increased.
Not even a fraction.
But something far more important had changed.
He looked at the stone basin.
A faint crack glowed briefly—then faded.
"Good," he said quietly. "Sleep."
The Spirit Root obeyed.
Lin Ye left the garden before anyone noticed.
As he crossed the boundary again, the resistance was gone.
The threads of fate—whatever shape they took—had loosened.
Cut.
Just slightly.
But enough.
That night, Lin Ye dreamed.
In his past life, he had stopped dreaming years before his death.
Dreams were for people who still believed the future was uncertain.
This dream was different.
He stood in an endless void, golden threads stretching in all directions. Each thread pulsed with scenes—people laughing, dying, betraying, loving.
Destiny.
At the center of it all stood a crack.
Small.
Jagged.
Spreading.
Lin Ye woke with a sharp inhale.
His heart was steady.
His mind clear.
Outside, dawn was breaking.
For the first time since his rebirth, he felt something unfamiliar.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Anticipation.
The sect buzzed with rumors by midday.
"Did you feel that last night?"
"The spiritual flow was strange…"
"An elder said the formations fluctuated."
Lin Ye listened silently as he swept the outer courtyard.
He was an outer disciple now.
Lowest rank.
Invisible.
Perfect.
Zhao Ming approached him with a friendly grin.
"Brother Lin," he said warmly. "You seem tired. Didn't sleep well?"
Lin Ye met his gaze.
For a brief moment, Zhao Ming's smile faltered.
Just for a heartbeat.
Because Lin Ye's eyes were different.
Calm.
Measuring.
Like he was looking through him instead of at him.
"I slept fine," Lin Ye replied. "Just thinking about the future."
Zhao Ming laughed. "Always so ambitious. Don't worry—we'll rise together."
Together.
Lin Ye smiled back.
"Yes," he said softly. "We will."
From a distant pavilion, Elder Sun paused mid-step.
He frowned, placing a hand over his chest.
Something felt… wrong.
Like a draft through a sealed room.
He shook his head and continued walking.
He did not look back.
If he had—
He might have noticed the faint golden shimmer that lingered briefly around Lin Ye before fading into nothing.
That night, Lin Ye sat alone in his room.
He took out a small wooden token—the same one he had received at the entrance ceremony.
In his past life, this token had remained unchanged for years.
Now—
A hairline crack ran through its center.
Barely visible.
But real.
Lin Ye exhaled slowly.
"So it's confirmed," he murmured.
Fate could be damaged.
He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
"This time," he said quietly, "I won't rush."
Outside, clouds drifted across the moon.
And somewhere deep beneath the sect, the Spirit Root stirred again—
not with hunger,
but with curiosity.