Ling Li sat cross-legged in the dimly lit room, his hands resting gently on his knees as he focused on his breath. The wind outside howled through the cracks in the wooden walls, but inside, it was as if time itself had frozen. The only sound was the steady rhythm of his breathing, a sound he had grown used to over the years. It was the sound of survival.
He had long since forgotten the comfort of his past life on Earth. The memories were like fragile threads, slipping further from his mind with each passing day, until they became nothing more than whispers. Yet, there was one thing that never left him—his dreams.
The first time the dreams had come, he had been twelve years old. At first, they were nothing more than vague visions, fleeting glimpses of a world not his own. But over time, the dreams grew clearer, more intense, until he began to feel as though they were pulling him toward something.
He had never told his mentor, the old cultivator who had raised him, about the dreams. The man was wise, kind, but he was also a man of reason. The kind of man who believed only in what could be seen and touched. He would never understand the strange inheritance Ling Li had come to possess. The inheritance that had been passed down through generations, one that had come from a powerful ancestor long forgotten by the world.
Ling Li's fingers twitched as a faint pulse of energy rippled through the room. His eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he thought he saw something flicker at the edge of his vision. It was a figure—a shadow, impossibly tall and thin. The figure seemed to float in the air, its form indistinct, like smoke, yet it felt so real.
The figure reached out, its long fingers brushing against Ling Li's chest. He gasped, feeling a sudden weight settle over him. The world around him seemed to shift, the walls of the room fading away, replaced by an endless stretch of misty landscape. A vast, oppressive darkness hung in the air, thick with the scent of decay.
Ling Li's heart raced. This was no ordinary dream. It was a trial—the trial of the inheritance. He had known it would come, but nothing had prepared him for the depth of the experience. His body felt light, as though gravity itself had abandoned him. And yet, the weight of something greater pressed against his chest, suffocating him with an almost unbearable force.
He stood, his legs trembling beneath him. The shadow of the figure was still there, lingering just out of sight, guiding him forward with an almost imperceptible pull. Ling Li didn't know where he was, but he felt a deep, unshakable certainty: This was the path to his future.
The wind howled louder, and suddenly, the mist parted, revealing a familiar scene. The village where he had grown up—a place of humble houses and fields stretching to the horizon. But now, it was silent. The air was thick with an eerie calm, and the streets were empty, save for the faintest traces of blood that marred the dirt roads.
Ling Li's heart clenched. He knew what had happened here—he had seen it in his dreams before. This was Art's past, the tragedy that had befallen him. Art had been a man of power, of influence, but he had lost everything. His family, his friends, his village—all had been destroyed in a single night, torn apart by forces far beyond his understanding. And now, Ling Li was here, standing in the ruins of a life that was never his own, but one he had to understand if he was to pass the trial.
The shadow figure moved again, and Ling Li followed, his feet heavy with the burden of his purpose. The trial would not be easy. He could feel it in his bones. This was not just about survival; it was about understanding the fate that bound him to Art's story, the fate that tied him to the inheritance. To succeed, he would have to face the horrors of the past, confront the mistakes that had led to Art's downfall, and somehow find a way to change the course of history.
With every step, the village grew darker, more twisted. The memories of the people who had once lived here clung to the air, their sorrow and anger palpable. Ling Li could feel them, could hear their whispers, urging him forward.
He stopped before a burned-out building, the remnants of a home that had once been full of life. A figure stood in the doorway, watching him with hollow eyes. It was Art—or at least, a part of him. The figure was gaunt, pale, as if drained of all vitality. His eyes were empty, hollow voids, and when he spoke, it was as if his voice came from the very depths of the earth.
"Do you understand now?" Art's voice echoed, though his lips didn't move. "The path you walk is not yours to choose. You are bound to the past, to the fate that has already been written. There is no escape from it."
Ling Li took a step forward, his fists clenched. "I don't believe that," he said, his voice steady, despite the dread that gripped his heart. "I can change this. I will change this."
The shadow figure shifted, its form flickering like a flame in the wind. Ling Li felt its power, a force far greater than anything he had ever experienced. It was both a guide and a judge, its presence weighing heavily on him. The trial had begun, and Ling Li knew there would be no turning back.
But as the darkness closed in around him, one thing was clear: This was his trial, his destiny, and he would fight for his future, no matter the cost.
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