He thought he had died… but how much time had passed, he couldn't say. As his awareness slowly returned, like pulling himself out of a dense fog, he found himself staring at an unfamiliar scene.
It wasn't the dark void where he had been stabbed, nor the guest room, and certainly not his old world.
Instead, he stood in a vast garden, surrounded by towering adults dressed in elegant robes, laughing and chatting amongst themselves. Occasionally, they glanced down at him with warm, affectionate smiles, some even reaching out to pat his head, as if he were a small child.
'What's going on?'
He tried to move, but a wave of disorientation hit him. Everything felt off—the size, the scale, the way the world seemed to loom over him. When he looked down, he finally realized why.
His hands were small, tiny even, like those of a child.
Before he could even process this, the scene blurred, shifting around him. Suddenly, an unseen force yanked his hand, pulling his small body forward.
The world around him gradually became clear, and before he knew it, he was being dragged through a bustling street by a young girl with bright eyes and a cheerful laugh. She seemed to be talking to him, but her voice was muffled, distant, like he was hearing it through water.
Just as he began to piece things together, the scene flickered and faded once more.
Now, he stood in a grand stadium, facing a small cubical glass resting on a pedestal before him. In the glass's reflection, he saw a young boy's face staring back at him. And in that moment, he understood.
'These are Yang Huo's childhood memories.'
Why he was experiencing them, he didn't know. Even now, it felt like he was drifting between dreams. His thoughts sluggish, his emotions distant, as if he were merely a spectator trapped in someone else's body.
Then, he sensed the weight of countless eyes boring down on him. The audience surrounding the stadium was staring with an almost suffocating intensity as they collectively held their breath in anticipation for what he was about to do.
Even he had to admit that these gazes were too much for a kid.
And almost on instinct, his small hand reached out, pressing against the cool glass surface.
In an instant, a brilliant light burst forth, illuminating the entire stadium like a pillar reaching toward the heavens. Thunderous cheers erupted from the crowd, nearly deafening him.
The air buzzed with emotions—excitement, envy, awe, hope, disbelief—as the beam of light shattered into a radiant aurora that spread across the sky.
But even in the midst of all this, he felt nothing. No joy, no excitement. His gaze remained indifferent, almost detached.
His eyes drifted away from the spectacle, settling on a familiar young girl standing far off in the crowd. Somehow, despite being surrounded by people, she seemed utterly alone. It was as if everyone avoided her, and even those who seemed to be her family looked at her.... with contempt.
The expression on her face was one he should have understood, but somehow couldn't. Was it awe? Confusion? Sadness? He didn't have time to ponder it. Before he could blink, the world dissolved, and the scene shifted once more.
This time, darkness swallowed him whole. But unlike the previous scenes, this one felt painfully real—his senses, muddied before, now felt sharper and clearer.
He was cramped in a tight space, the scent of herbs and aged wood assaulting his nose. He could barely move within the humid confines, trapped inside what seemed to be a barrel.
Outside, muffled screams and the clash of swords echoed, chaotic and desperate. Once again, his body moved on its own, pushing the wooden lid above him just enough to glimpse the world outside.
Flames devoured the night sky, dead bodies scattered across the ground, and in the distance, a lone figure in white fought against a group of assassins, moving with a deadly grace and power.
'So this is how the Yang family fell,' he thought, his eyes drifting over the pools of blood glistening in the moonlight and the wooden beams of the estate about to collapse under the raging fire.
'Quite ordinary,' he muttered to himself.
But just in case, he etched the assassins' features into his mind—when suddenly, a chill ran down his spine. His eyes moved on their own, drawn to something amidst the flames.
As though born from the engulfing fire, stood a small, shadowy figure, watching him with an unsettling smile. It was a young boy, identical to the original Yang Huo, but with eyes that gleamed with a terrifying malice.
But before he could react, the world around him cracked. Not faded, but cracked, like a fragile mirror struck by a hammer.
The sound of shattering glass echoed in his ears as everything broke apart. He caught glimpses of countless unfamiliar memories within the fragments—a young Yang Huo training relentlessly, or him bleeding alone in an unknown dark cavern, or a red masked man whispering in his ears, and even scenes of Yang Huo killing countless people.
As he tried to make sense of these fragments, some of them drifted toward him, diffusing into his body. Brief flashes of knowledge, sensations, and emotions seeped into his mind, blurring the line between what was foreign and familiar.
And when the last of them dissolved, he finally awoke from what felt like a long, dreamless sleep.
DING!
[Body and Soul synchronization has reached 20%!]