Shen Yue sat motionless on the narrow cot, his uncle's words reverberating through him like a distant drum. The dim flicker of an oil lamp cast shadows across the stone walls of his small chamber, their jagged edges mirroring the turmoil within. Outwardly, he was a statue of calm, his face betraying no hint of the storm raging inside. But his heart churned, a maelstrom of grief, anger, and resolve colliding in relentless waves. The man they spoke of—his father in this life—was not his by blood, yet the memories of his predecessor had woven themselves into Shen Yue's soul. Every fleeting moment of warmth, every quiet sacrifice, every stern yet tender glance from that man now felt as real as if Shen Yue had lived them himself. That man had raised him, shielded him, and, in the end, died for him.
Peng Lei stood by the bedside, his weathered face etched with lines of battles fought and losses endured. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, caught the subtle tightening of Shen Yue's jaw, the faint tremor in his hands as they rested on the thin blanket. He said nothing, offering only the weight of his presence, a silent anchor in the boy's chaos. Peng Lei knew loss too well—comrades fallen in the clash of swords, innocence eroded by the world's cruelty. Words could not mend what had been broken, so he stood vigil, his silence a shield.
Minutes stretched into an eternity, the only sound the faint howl of wind through the mountain pass outside. Shen Yue's chest rose and fell with a slow, heavy sigh, as if exhaling the weight of a thousand unspoken questions. His uncle's gaze softened, the lines around his eyes deepening with concern.
Are you alright, lad? Peng Lei's voice was low, a gentle rumble like distant thunder.
Shen Yue nodded faintly, his throat tight. I'm fine.
Peng Lei wasn't fooled. How could he be? He had seen boys forced to become men before their time, their hearts hardened by the unrelenting grind of fate. At fourteen, when most children chased laughter under open skies, Shen Yue had tasted blood and betrayal. This was the lot of those born without power, without privilege, at the mercy of forces far greater than themselves. Peng Lei's heart ached for the boy, but pity was a luxury neither could afford. Strength was the only currency that mattered in this world.
Shen Yue's thoughts swirled, a torrent of fragmented memories. His father's calloused hand ruffling his hair. A quiet promise to return from a missipon. A lifeless body, blood pooling on cold stone. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms until they stung. The pain grounded him, sharpening his focus. Grief was a tide that could drown him if he let it. He needed clarity, not rage. Not yet.
He lifted his gaze to meet his uncle's, his voice steady despite the fire in his chest. Uncle… what really happened to my father?
Peng Lei's expression darkened, his eyes glinting with unspoken truths. He hesitated, as if weighing whether the boy could bear the answer, his weathered hands tightening briefly at his sides.
There's no proof, he said at last, his voice low and measured, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. But your father's death… it wasn't an accident. We suspect someone above him—a superior—had a hand in it. It was too clean, too sudden. A blade in the dark, no witnesses, no trace. But suspicion isn't evidence.
Shen Yue's heart pounded, a coal of fury igniting deep within. A superior. The word burned, promising vengeance he wasn't yet strong enough to claim. He forced his face to remain impassive, but his pulse thrummed in his ears, loud as a war drum. Peng Lei's jaw tightened, his gaze heavy with resolve.
I'll investigate, he added, his voice sharp with determination. I owe your father that much. And you.
Shen Yue's throat tightened, a lump he couldn't swallow. He nodded, unable to trust his voice. The thought of his father's death being a betrayal gnawed at him, a wound that refused to close. He saw it again—the blood, the stillness, the finality. His hands trembled, and he pressed them against the cot to steady himself.
Peng Lei's gaze softened, and he forced a chuckle, though it carried a bitter edge. You stubborn brat. Don't carry this burden now. Even if you knew the truth, what could you do? You're still a fledgling, wings barely grown.
His tone grew tender, almost pleading, as he placed a hand on Shen Yue's shoulder, its weight both grounding and heavy. If you want to honor your father, live. Grow strong. Stay sharp and walk your path with care. That's what he'd want. That's what he died for.
Peng Lei turned away briefly, his eyes glinting with something unreadable—regret, perhaps, or a flicker of fear for the boy's future. When he spoke again, his voice was firm, weighted with the wisdom of a man who had seen the world's cruelty firsthand.
In this world, only the strong carve their own fates. The weak… we can only watch, powerless.
The words struck Shen Yue like a blade, sinking deep into his heart. They were a truth, cold and unyielding, a mantle he wasn't sure he was ready to bear. But he would. He had to. The alternative was to remain a pawn, a victim of the world's whims.
The conversation shifted to lighter matters—daily routines, the state of the sects, the endless jostling for power among cultivators. Peng Lei spoke of the Azure Cloud Sect's growing influence, their new patriarch rumored to wield power that could shatter mountains. There were whispers, too, of a relic hidden in the Crimson Wastes, a prize that could shift the balance of the cultivation world. Shen Yue listened intently, filing away every detail. Knowledge was a weapon, one he intended to wield.
A thought crystallized, sharp and clear. Uncle, he said, his voice steady. Could you arrange some books for me? I want to understand this world—the sects, the powers, the factions.
Peng Lei raised an eyebrow, a flicker of approval in his eyes. Smart boy. He nodded, his rough hand ruffling Shen Yue's hair. I'll have them sent to your room. You've got one month to recover—use it well.
With a final pat on Shen Yue's shoulder and a gruff farewell, Peng Lei left, his silhouette framed briefly by the fading daylight. The door clicked shut, and the room fell silent, the weight of the day settling over Shen Yue like a shroud. He exhaled, the air hissing through his teeth. The day had been a spark—not just of pain, but of purpose. He shifted on the cot, wincing at the dull ache in his injuries, and began to sort through the chaos of his thoughts. Grief could wait. Vengeance could wait. What he needed now was a plan. A path to power.
Evening cloaked the world in shadow, the wind's mournful howl softening to a whisper. A soft knock broke the stillness, sharp against the quiet.
Enter, Shen Yue called, his voice steady despite his fatigue.
A young servant slipped inside, no older than Shen Yue, his arms laden with a stack of leather-bound tomes. His eyes remained lowered, his hands trembling slightly as he placed the books in the corner, the faint scent of ink and sweat clinging to him. Shen Yue nodded in thanks, but the boy scurried out, as if lingering might invite the sect's wrath. The hierarchy here was clear—servants moved like ghosts, unseen unless needed. Shen Yue's gaze lingered on the books, a strange excitement stirring in his chest. Knowledge was power, and these tomes were his first step toward it.
He rose, ignoring the protest of his battered body, and crossed to the stack. His fingers brushed the embossed cover of the top volume, *Annals of Cultivation History*, its leather cool and worn under his touch. He opened it, the scent of aged parchment filling his senses, mingling with the faint tang of the oil lamp's smoke. The script was dense, its characters sharp and angular, but his predecessor's memories made them decipherable. He began to read slowly, adjusting to the rhythm of the prose. Soon, he found his flow, the words pulling him into a river of lore—tales of ancient cultivators who defied the heavens, of sects rising on the bones of the fallen, of bloodlines that could reshape destinies.
Hours melted away, unnoticed. Moonlight crept through the narrow window, silvering the stone floor and casting long shadows that danced with each turn of the page. His eyes burned, but he couldn't stop. A passage caught his attention—a warning of a coming storm in the cultivation world, where relics and forgotten bloodlines could shift the balance of power. His Flame Scorpion Bloodline stirred faintly, a warmth pulsing in his veins, as if answering the call. He paused, his breath catching. Was this a coincidence, or something more?
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Another servant entered, a girl with downcast eyes, bearing a tray of steamed buns, braised vegetables, and a small bowl of steaming broth. She placed it on the rough wooden table, its surface scarred from years of use, and left as silently as she'd come. Only then did Shen Yue feel the hunger gnawing at him, sharp and insistent. He sat and ate, his movements swift and ravenous, devouring the meal as if fueling a furnace. The broth's warmth spread through him, chasing away the chill that had settled in his bones since his uncle's words. He gripped the wooden spoon, its handle worn smooth, and let the simple act of eating ground him.
Sated, he leaned back, a deep sigh escaping him. The weight of the day—its revelations, its promises—pressed against his mind. Then, a sudden impulse stirred, sharp and clear.
**System.**
A golden panel flickered into existence, its runes pulsing like a heartbeat in the dim light. Shen Yue's lips curved in a faint smile, but a flicker of unease stirred. Why did it feel alive, as if it watched him? This system—his secret, his edge—was his greatest mystery, a gift from his transmigrated life. Yet its silence unnerved him, as if it held secrets it wasn't ready to share.
[System Interface]
Name: Shen Yue
Age: 14
Physique*: High-Level Iron-Copper Molting Physique
Bloodline: Mid-Level Flame Scorpion Bloodline
Cultivation: Uninitiated
Skills:
- Literacy and Knowledge (Entry) (10%)
Spiritual Root: Low-Level Fire Spiritual Root (Mixed) (0%)
Talent: Extraction
- Mid-Level Sword Talent (0%)
- Low-Level Archery Talent (0%)
- Low-Level Spear Talent (0%)
- Mid-Level Comprehension (0%)
Unique Traits:
- Clones: 0 (Locked)
Stats:
- Strength: 10
- Dexterity: 8
- Wisdom: 2.1
- Spirit: 0.9
His eyes narrowed. A new skill—**Literacy and Knowledge**—had appeared, and his wisdom stat had ticked up by 0.1. Curiosity flared, sharp and insistent. How had he gained it? He mentally queried the system, but as always, it remained silent, offering no answers unless danger loomed. Undeterred, he focused on the skill. A pulse of clarity flowed through him, sharp as a blade, revealing its purpose: enhanced reading speed, comprehension, and retention. A tool for scholars—and for those who sought power through understanding.
A smile tugged at his lips, but the unease lingered. How did it know what he needed? Was it guiding him, or was he merely a pawn in its design? In his old life, this would've made exams trivial. Here, it was a lifeline. He could take the Scholar Exams, earn titles, and gain influence—not just through martial might, but through intellect. The sects valued strength, but the courts valued cunning.
He recalled the world's skill ranks: Entry, Beginner, Master, Small Success, Great Success, Perfection. He was at the starting line, but the path to mastery stretched before him, vast and daunting. Yet the spark of anticipation burned brighter than his doubts.
---
Dawn crept in, soft and pale, painting the room in hues of gray. Shen Yue blinked, his eyes sore from hours of reading. He had devoured nearly four books, each one a window into this world's secrets—sects, bloodlines, and the relentless pursuit of power. Exhaustion tugged at him, but satisfaction burned brighter. He leaned back, the cot creaking under his weight, and stared at the dawn breaking outside. His father's death was a wound, but the system was a blade. He just needed to learn how to wield it.
He checked the system one last time. His **Literacy and Knowledge** skill had risen to 12%, and his wisdom stat now read 2.2. Small steps, but each one felt like a triumph. He rose, stretching his stiff muscles, and glanced at the remaining books. The path ahead was long, treacherous, and shadowed by betrayal. But for the first time since his father's death, he felt a flicker of hope. He would grow strong. He would uncover the truth. And one day, he would carve his own fate.