The sounds of the early morning ruffled the leaves, the air thick with the scent of fresh earth. Qin Wuye sat still in the small courtyard of his clan's residence, his black abyssal eyes staring off into the distance, reflecting the quiet chaos of his mind. He had regressed, yes, but his heart still burned with the same fire that had once consumed him in his past life.
At six years old, he was a child again, but the wisdom of many lifetimes, the weight of knowledge and regret, still gnawed at him. His body was small and weak, but his thoughts were as sharp as ever. The hunger for power, for immortality, had never dulled.
A soft breeze whispered through the trees, carrying with it the memory of his former self, the demon lord who had once ruled with terror. The very thought of that life, of the glory and the despair, made him shiver.
"Power..." he murmured softly, though his voice betrayed nothing but the chilling determination of a king who had not yet claimed his throne.
He glanced toward his siblings, his two younger brothers playing near the wooden fence, and his sister, who was humming a tune as she watered the plants in the garden. There was a sense of warmth here, but it was not his. It belonged to those who were content with simplicity. His sister, the only one who had shown him true affection, was lost in her own world, unaware of the dark storm that raged in his heart.
He couldn't help but smile faintly. His sister's innocence was her greatest charm, and yet, she was but a small detail in the grand web of his life.
He stood and walked toward the quiet corner of the courtyard, where a stone bench sat under a willow tree. There, he sat, cross-legged, and closed his eyes, focusing inward.
The memories of his past life flooded his mind—his rise to power, his creation of the Insignia Sect, his betrayal, and ultimately, his demise. He could still feel the sting of his failure, the sacrifices made in vain. He had been so close, so close to breaking through the barrier of immortality. But now, all that was left was a vague echo in the winds of time.
A poem, unfinished, came to his mind, one he had started in his past life, before the flames of death had swallowed him whole. The words haunted him as he whispered them, feeling them as though they had been written for him long ago.
---
"Beneath the moon, where shadows fall,
A demon's heart beats once, then stalls.
In this world of fleeting flame,
A soul is bound, yet none to blame.
The mountain rises, the river flows,
But in my chest, only sorrow grows."
---
Qin Wuye's lips twitched, a bitter taste in his mouth. It was only half-complete, a poem that spoke of his own struggles, his ambition, and his endless search for purpose. Yet, it did not capture the whole of him—not yet.
His fingers brushed over the faint marks on the stone bench. The faintest traces of a growing ambition stirred in his chest. Yes, his path was clear now. No longer would he be content with simply surviving, merely existing as a shadow of a former self. He would rise again. This time, nothing would stand in his way. Not even the heavens.
His mind wandered to the next poem, the one that would truly capture his essence—a poem for when he broke through to rank 6, when he would surpass the limits of this fragile world and see the true expanse of his ambitions. He could see it now, etched in the very fibers of his soul:
---
"Through endless night, I climb the mountain high,
With burning eyes, I pierce the blood-red sky.
The river roars, the heavens tremble low,
For I, Qin Wuye, will carve my own road.
No chains shall bind, no fate shall sway,
I will forge my name, in blood and clay."
---
The words burned in his mind. He would leave his mark on this world, just as the venerables had in their time. One day, they would speak of Qin Wuye with reverence or fear—perhaps both. It mattered not.
But for now, he had to wait, to bide his time. His body was small, weak, and fragile, a far cry from the power he once commanded. Yet, even as a child, the seeds of greatness were already planted, and he would nurture them until they blossomed.
The wind whispered again, carrying with it the faint scent of the wild. Qin Wuye stood slowly, his black eyes narrowing. He would play the part of the innocent child, as he had in his first life. But behind that innocent facade lay the calculating mind of a future ruler. His rise was inevitable, and he would stop at nothing to see it through.
"Just wait," he whispered, barely audible, "the world will know my name again."