Hae Jin wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth as he stared at his half-brother, Hae Min, standing a few steps away. The two young men were surrounded by disciples of the orthodox sect, their voices buzzing like bees as they cheered for the more favored brother. The clear sky above the training grounds felt heavy, as if it sensed the tension between the siblings.

Hae Min smirked, his sword gleaming under the sunlight. "Still standing, demon spawn? You should've stayed down when you had the chance."

Hae Jin tightened his grip on his sword, his knuckles white. "You think you're righteous, but all you do is bully others. The heavens won't favor you for this."

Min laughed, his voice cold and sharp. "Heavens? The heavens don't favor someone with demon blood running through their veins. You'll always be a stain on this sect."

The crowd erupted in cheers for Min. It didn't matter that Hae Jin had worked just as hard, if not harder, to prove his worth in the sect. The moment anyone remembered his mother's lineage—the daughter of the Heavenly Demon—all his efforts were overshadowed by whispers of suspicion and disdain.

Their father, the revered leader of the Murim Alliance, had always tried to keep peace between his two sons, born of vastly different mothers. Hae Jin's mother had been the daughter of the Heavenly Demon, a figure of fear and power, while Hae Min's mother came from a prestigious orthodox sect, embodying righteousness. This difference had always been a rift between the brothers, a wound that never healed.

"Enough talk!" Min charged forward, his sword flashing as it cut through the air. Hae Jin barely managed to parry, the force sending tremors down his arms.

The fight escalated. Min's strikes were precise, each one aiming to overpower and humiliate his younger half-brother. But Hae Jin's movements were unyielding, his stance firm despite the growing weight of fatigue. He relied on the techniques his mother had secretly taught him when he was young—fluid, unpredictable movements that countered the rigid forms of orthodox swordplay.

"Why do you hate me so much?" Hae Jin shouted between heavy breaths, blocking another strike.

"Why?" Min's expression twisted with anger. "Because your very existence is an insult to my mother! To the sect! To everything righteous in this world!"

As the crowd watched, some began to notice something unusual about Min's movements. His strikes grew sharper, faster, and more precise. Hae Jin realized with a sinking heart that his brother was using a forbidden technique—one that drew power at the cost of one's vitality. It was a cheat that Hae Jin could not hope to match in his already weakened state.

The next blow came too fast. Min's sword grazed Hae Jin's side, tearing through his robes and drawing blood. Hae Jin stumbled back, clutching the wound. He was losing strength, and the crowd's jeers only made it harder to focus.

Min pressed forward. "Admit it! You'll never belong here!"

Hae Jin tried to raise his sword, but his hands were trembling. Just as Min prepared to deliver the final strike, the forbidden technique surged through his blade, its power amplifying the blow. The strike pierced straight through Hae Jin's chest.

The crowd fell silent. Hae Min froze, staring at the blood dripping from his blade. "No… I didn't mean to…"

Hae Jin's vision blurred. He felt a searing pain in his chest, but it was quickly overtaken by a cold numbness. The faces of the disciples around him faded into shadows. His thoughts drifted to his mother, her gentle smile, her words of encouragement… and then to the injustice he had suffered his entire life.

As the darkness consumed him, he heard Min's panicked voice. "Get the elders! He's… he's dying!"

But it was too late. Hae Jin's body grew cold, and his soul detached from the mortal realm.

The next thing Hae Jin felt was warmth. He opened his eyes, gasping for breath, expecting to see the familiar training grounds or the faces of his sect members. Instead, he found himself lying on a grassy hill under a vast, golden sky.

"Where… am I?" he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Memories flooded back—his death, Min's sword, and the life of torment he had endured. But this place was different. The air was thick, vibrant, and alive with energy. When he took a deep breath, he felt a strange power flow into him, invigorating his very soul.

He sat up and looked at his hands. They were smaller, softer than he remembered. Panic surged through him as he stumbled to a nearby stream to see his reflection. The face staring back at him wasn't his own. It belonged to a boy, no older than sixteen.

"What… what is this?"

Fragments of unfamiliar memories surfaced in his mind—memories of a boy named Riu Xian (日仙), a low-ranking disciple in the Azure Cloud Sect, a minor cultivation sect. This body's owner had been ridiculed for his lack of talent, barely scraping by in the sect's hierarchy.

But now, it was his. Riu Xian's lips curled into a bitter smile. "So, I died… only to be given a second chance in this strange world."

He clenched his fists, feeling the untapped energy coursing through him. The sect might have rejected him in his previous life, but this new world was teeming with possibilities. And with the knowledge of his past life, the martial techniques of the Murim world—he would carve a path to power, no matter the cost.

For the first time in years, Riu Xian felt hope.

"This time, I'll write my own destiny."