Ashen's fingers curled tightly around the edges of the tarnished mirror, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. The reflection staring back at him was unrecognizable—alien, yet his. When he had first entered Eren's body, it had been a shell of its former self: gaunt, malnourished, and riddled with the scars of betrayal and neglect.
He vividly recalled the sight of ribs protruding like a grotesque cage beneath stretched skin, the skeletal limbs trembling under even the slightest exertion. His consciousness had mapped every broken bone, every fracture left to mend poorly, every sinew hanging on by a thread.
But now, all of that has been erased, replaced by something extraordinary.
He stepped closer to the mirror, his breath still shallow with disbelief. Where once there had been a body wasted by suffering, there now stood a figure of strength and vitality.
Muscles rippled across his chest and arms, their contours sharp and well-defined, as though they had been forged by a master sculptor. His ribs, once stark reminders of Eren's past torment, were now hidden beneath firm, healthy flesh.
His abdomen bore the unmistakable ridges of a six-pack, each muscle perfectly symmetrical and hinting at the explosive power that lay dormant within.
Ashen ran a hand across his chest, his fingertips brushing the warm, taut skin. The sensation was both foreign and exhilarating. Beneath his palm, he could feel the steady thrum of a robust heart, pumping blood with an intensity that sent a tingling warmth coursing through his veins.
"This body…" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, "...it's been reforged."
He couldn't help but marvel at the transformation, though a part of him remained wary. The Heavenly Yang Constitution was a blessing, yes, but one that came with its own set of dangers.
Its regenerative capabilities had worked wonders, repairing every broken piece of Eren's body and even fortifying it beyond its original state. Yet, Ashen knew better than to let his guard down. The very power that had rebuilt him could just as easily destroy him if left unchecked.
Ashen's chuckle faded, leaving only the quiet hum of his breathing in the dim room. Slowly, he raised a hand to his face, his fingers brushing against the unfamiliar contours.
The jawline was sharper, the cheeks fuller, the skin smoother than he remembered. His fingertips lingered on the faint curve of his lips, then traced up to his brow, feeling the warmth of the flesh beneath.
This was Eren's face—no, his face now.
He stared into the mirror once more, his expression unreadable as his hand fell away. The man looking back at him was a stranger, yet not entirely foreign.
There were no remnants of Ashen's former visage here, no trace of the fearsome Demon Lord who had once commanded legions and struck terror into the hearts of men. That face, that identity, was gone.
"This is who I am now," he whispered, his voice low and resolute. "Not Ashen. Not a relic of a forgotten realm. I am Eren. This body, this life—it's mine."
The words felt strange on his tongue, but as he spoke them aloud, they carried a weight that anchored him to the present. Ashen—the Demon Lord—was a specter of the past, a memory that had no place in this world. Eren, however, was real, tangible, a name tied to flesh and blood.
"I can't let Ashen's shadow define me anymore," he thought, his jaw tightening. "Whatever I was, whatever I've done—it doesn't matter. This is my second chance, and I'll use it to settle the debts left behind. But I'll do it as Eren."
With that, he straightened his posture, his chest rising with a deep inhale. For the first time since his rebirth, Ashen allowed himself to let go of the name, the identity, the weight of his past self. What mattered now was the man reflected in the mirror—the man who would carve his own path forward.
His gaze shifted downward, and a wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Even in its flaccid state, his phallus was impressive—long, thick, and undeniably healthy. He chuckled softly, the sound a mix of amusement and exasperation.
"Well, at least this body wasn't completely ruined," he muttered to himself. "Though I doubt most men would find solace in this particular comparison."
The lingering hunger in his stomach pulled him from his musings. Turning back to the small bedside table, he eyed the bowl of soup Lin Yue had prepared for him. The steam had long since dissipated, but the aroma still hung in the air, tantalizing his heightened senses.
With deliberate care, he picked up the bowl, its warmth seeping into his palms. The first spoonful sent a cascade of flavors across his tongue—a harmonious blend of herbs, spices, and something intangible, something that felt... comforting.
"Handmade with care," he thought, his mind briefly wandering to Lin Yue. The memory of her frustration during the phone call lingered, but he brushed it aside. For now, he allowed himself the simple pleasure of eating, savoring every bite.
By the time he emptied the bowl, his hunger and thirst had been sated, and he felt a newfound clarity settle over him. Setting the empty bowl aside, Ashen exhaled deeply and closed his eyes, letting his consciousness delve inward.
The tri-dantian energy system within Eren's body was unlike anything Ashen had ever encountered. The Heavenly Yang energy flowed through it in a steady, powerful stream, radiating a heat that was almost overwhelming.
The three dantians—upper, middle, and lower—acted as reservoirs, storing and distributing the energy with precision. Yet, the flow was not without its flaws.
Ashen's spiritual perception honed in on the meridians, the pathways through which the energy traveled. While the majority had been healed by the Constitution's regenerative power, a few remained twisted and distorted, remnants of Eren's poisoned past. These twisted meridians disrupted the energy flow, causing occasional surges that threatened to spiral out of control.
"I can't let this go unchecked," Ashen thought. "If I don't stabilize the flow, this body could self-destruct the next time the energy surges."
He rifled through the vast library of martial arts techniques stored in his mind, searching for a method that could untangle the mess of his meridians. Techniques for healing, cultivation, and even combat flashed through his thoughts, each discarded as inadequate for the task at hand.
Then, his mental search came to an abrupt halt as he stumbled upon a memory—a technique as brutal as it was effective.
"The Crimson Impact Reformation Technique..."