In the vast, unfathomable cosmos, beyond the heavens and the realms of time and space, a profound figure stood alone in contemplation. Xuan Li, the Dao Ancestor—he who had shaped the foundations of existence, birthed the realms, and molded the very essence of the universe—now gazed at the splendor of what he had created. His mind, once sharp and bound by the limitless Dao, had drifted into a state of longing and frustration. Eternity, in all its endless beauty, had become suffocating. The immense power he wielded no longer held the same meaning, nor did his vast knowledge. The endless cycles of creation and destruction, the unending dance of existence and oblivion, had begun to feel like a cruel joke.
There was something he had long since forgotten—a feeling of yearning, the desire to experience the most fleeting and fragile of gifts: the life of a mortal.
A deep emptiness resided within his heart, and Xuan Li understood then, more than ever before, that what he craved was something beyond his comprehension—something simple, humble, and human.
In a realm where immortals soared through the sky, gods conversed with the wind, and divine forces weaved fate, there was an ache that remained in Xuan Li's heart. What did it mean to be a mortal? What was life like, truly, without the burden of infinite knowledge, boundless power, and cosmic design? How did one experience joy, sorrow, love, and loss without the knowing weight of eternity that shadowed every thought and feeling?
His time as the all-powerful Dao Ancestor had been vast and profound, but it had been devoid of one essential truth—the experience of living and growing as a mortal being. The taste of fragility, of imperfection, of the unknown. The rise and fall of hope, the fleeting passage of each moment. These were experiences Xuan Li yearned to have, to truly feel.
As he pondered this desire, a plan took root in his mind, one that would change the course of his existence forever. To experience life in its purest form, he realized, he would need to seal away the very powers that defined him. His memory, too, would need to be sealed away. For only then, in the absence of the grand awareness that had plagued him for so long, could he become what he truly longed for—a simple mortal, born into a world where every breath mattered.
Xuan Li stood before the vastness of the universe, an infinite expanse that had once been his domain, the very fabric of reality at his fingertips. His decision was made. He would take the most drastic step of all—erasing the memories of the Dao Ancestor, sealing away the vast oceans of power within him, and rebirthing himself as a mortal.
A burst of intense light surrounded him. It started as a pulse, then expanded, growing until it engulfed all that existed in his current form. The very essence of his being—his countless lives, his divine knowledge, his eternal strength—were drawn into a void within him. Xuan Li sealed himself. His immortal soul was bound by a cage of forgotten memories, rendered weak and fragile like the very mortals he sought to become.
Within that blinding light, the cosmic tides shifted. The intricate weave of fate and law distorted. As the final shreds of his divine memories faded from his being, he became just one thing: a mortal soul, devoid of all past memories, bound by the simplest of desires, and born anew.
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Rebirth as Ling Hao
A single, soft cry pierced the stillness of the morning, breaking the sacred silence that hung in the air. As Xuan Li's soul transitioned, he emerged as a child, a blank canvas for the experiences that would now shape him. He was no longer Xuan Li, the Dao Ancestor—he was Ling Hao, a simple mortal born into an ordinary family.
The small village in which Ling Hao was born could have been forgotten by the very world itself. Nestled between mist-covered mountains and expansive fields of crops, it lay on the fringes of the known world, far from the peaks where immortals roamed or the grand palaces of the gods. Here, far away from the chaos of divinity, Ling Hao would live the life he had once so longed for.
He was born to humble parents who owned a small farm and lived modestly, their days filled with toil and sweat beneath the sun. His mother, a woman of deep strength and gentleness, wrapped him tightly in a warm blanket, murmuring loving words as she gazed into his eyes. His father, a sturdy farmer with hands roughened from years of labor, sat beside them, a faint smile on his weathered face.
From the moment his tiny fingers grasped his mother's, a new beginning dawned in the quiet village. Ling Hao was a child of this world, with no recollection of who or what he had been before. He had no inkling of the vast power once dormant within him, nor did he know of the ancient knowledge he had once held. The weight of divinity was absent from his life.
To his parents, he was simply their son, their joy, their hope. To the village, he was another child growing up among many, one of countless souls that came and went without fanfare. Ling Hao, now mortal in every way, was destined to live his life as all mortals did—working the land, tending the animals, and experiencing the bittersweet passage of time.
But there was something unsettling about this life for Ling Hao. It wasn't the life of a child that troubled him—it was a strange sense of emptiness, a lack of purpose. Sometimes, late at night, when the stars dotted the sky in quiet, shimmering constellations, he would stare into the vast expanse above, feeling as though there were something important missing. But no matter how much he searched, no matter how hard he tried to understand it, the answer eluded him, just beyond his reach.
Every time he looked at his parents, a strange tug in his heart made him wonder why they felt so familiar to him. His mother's smile was warm and comforting, but it held a hidden sorrow, as if she bore the weight of an unspeakable truth. His father, though kind and strong, held an intensity in his gaze that Ling Hao couldn't quite comprehend. Their love for him was undeniable, yet there was always an invisible distance, a veiled grief that surrounded their lives.
As the years passed, Ling Hao grew in both stature and maturity. At the age of sixteen, he was a strapping young man, tall and lean, with piercing eyes that held a quiet strength beneath their calm exterior. Though still part of the village's humble life, something had begun to stir deep within him. The sensations he'd once had, the flashes of memory he'd experienced as a child, had gradually faded into the background. Yet there was an undeniable connection between him and something greater, something beyond the simple life he now led. Each step he took, every task he performed, had a strange resonance—like he was playing a role written long ago, though he had no idea of its significance.
Ling Hao's connection to the world around him was growing deeper, though he couldn't quite understand why. At night, he would find himself staring at the stars, not in wonderment as others did, but in search of something elusive. There was an undeniable feeling that he was more than what the world saw.
It was a feeling that gnawed at him—a desire to understand his true nature.
One afternoon, as he worked with his father in the fields, Ling Hao's thoughts wandered. His hands moved instinctively, tilling the soil with the precision of someone who had done this thousands of times before, but there was something haunting about it. The breeze rustled the long grass, and for a brief moment, he heard a faint hum—a voice, gentle and almost imperceptible. His father looked at him curiously as Ling Hao paused, his senses momentarily stretched, reaching beyond what his mortal eyes could see.
"Are you alright, Hao?" his father asked, his voice filled with concern.
Ling Hao nodded, though his gaze remained distant. "I was just... thinking."
His father's brow furrowed slightly, but he did not press the matter. Instead, they continued working together in silence, though Ling Hao's mind refused to quiet. It was as if a veil had been lifted slightly—just enough to catch glimpses of something vast, something unnameable that lurked beneath the surface of his thoughts.
Later that evening, Ling Hao was alone in his small room, sitting near the window and watching the sunset as the sky transformed into shades of deep orange and purple. It was in this moment of solitude that the flickering memories began to return, but not in any specific form. They came in disjointed bursts—a fleeting image of great vastness, ancient symbols that seemed to beckon him, fleeting words that could not form properly.
As he closed his eyes, something deep within stirred. His hands, once steady, trembled slightly. His heart raced. Without warning, an overwhelming surge of power—or was it an echo of power—exploded within him, only to disappear as quickly as it arrived, leaving nothing behind but confusion. What was that? It was as if a part of him had momentarily awakened, only to be drowned out by the flood of his mortal existence.
He had no answers. He had no understanding.
Ling Hao's life continued on, but he was now conflicted. Deep in his soul, a knowledge existed that he could not yet comprehend. A call lingered within him, like an unspoken truth, pushing him forward. What if he was meant for something greater? What if, even in his mortal shell, something divine remained?
For now, however, Ling Hao was destined to live his life the only way a mortal could—with hard work, laughter, heartache, and fleeting moments of clarity. Yet, the whispers of his former self and the uncharted path ahead would not be so easily erased. Even though he had sealed away his memories, even though he walked the path of mortality, destiny would never let him rest.
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End of Chapter 3
Ling Hao stood on the cusp of an unspoken truth, knowing that his life would not always be as it seemed. The power of the past was bound within him, and one day it would call upon him, whether he was ready or not.