The voices echoed in Zhou Yan's mind, as if emerging from the depths of a nightmare. They came one after another, rising in fury, accusing, condemning.
"Old Demon Zhou Yan, you have slaughtered countless innocents to refine that Life-Death Pill!"
"Zhou Yan, for the lives you've taken, you deserve nothing but death!"
"Zhou Yan, your sins are beyond redemption!"
He could still see their faces, twisted with rage and hatred, their weapons glinting with killing intent. Cultivators from all sects and clans had gathered to bring him down, a sea of swords and spells closing in from all directions.
Blood splattered across the ground, staining the sky with its crimson hue. Zhou Yan had stood atop a mountain of corpses, his expression cold and unyielding, even as his body trembled from countless injuries. He had fought until the heavens themselves seemed to shake, his power unmatched yet his enemies unrelenting.
"Zhou Yan, you have defied the heavens for too long!"
"Today, the cycle of karma will claim you!"
And in the final moment, as the combined might of his enemies bore down upon him, Zhou Yan had laughed—a laugh filled with scorn, defiance, and an overwhelming sense of irony.
...
The forces of the righteous path surrounded Zhou Yan. His long black hair was matted with blood, his dark eyes gleaming with defiance. His body was riddled with wounds, yet he smiled—a smile that sent chills down their spines.
"Why are you smiling, you demon?" one of them roared.
"Old Demon Zhou Yan, if you hand over the Mystical Pill, we might consider sparing your life," another offered, their voice filled with disdain.
Zhou Yan laughed, spreading his arms wide as if embracing the heavens. "If this Life-Death Pill still works... then I shall walk the same path in my next life!"
In the next moment, his body erupted in a violent explosion, leaving nothing but destruction in his wake.
...
Qinghi Village lay cradled at the base of Huoshan Mountain, a picturesque yet unassuming settlement seemingly untouched by time. The village was surrounded by a natural embrace of towering bamboo groves and fertile green fields, which swayed gently in the night breeze. These fields stretched far into the distance, broken only by narrow, winding dirt paths that served as veins connecting the scattered homes and the central square.
The houses were modest, built with rough-hewn timber and gray stone gathered from the nearby mountain. Their roofs were thatched with dried straw, giving them a rustic appearance. Most homes had small courtyards enclosed by wooden fences, where chickens clucked and dogs lazily roamed during the day. In the faint moonlight, the worn textures of the walls and the quiet hum of the night gave the entire village a timeless, serene quality.
At the center of the village was the square, a broad, open area paved with uneven stone slabs, polished smooth over generations of use. A few simple wooden stalls stood there, vacant in the night but ready to transform into a lively marketplace during the day. A single ancient tree, its thick branches sprawling like a canopy, dominated the square. Its trunk bore marks and carvings made by generations of villagers, telling stories of celebrations, rituals, and moments long past.
Beyond the village, Huoshan Mountain loomed like a silent guardian. Its jagged silhouette cut through the night sky, with faint streaks of smoke or mist curling from its peak, giving it an otherworldly aura. The mountain was dense with vegetation—dark, towering pines and vibrant wildflowers—and crisscrossed by narrow trails, many of which were long forgotten. The villagers whispered of hidden caves and secret paths that led to mysterious ruins, but such places were shrouded in both myth and fear.
The village was bordered by a river that flowed from the mountain's depths, its crystal-clear waters glinting under the moonlight. The gentle sound of the current was a constant backdrop to life in Qinghi, offering both sustenance and tranquility to the people who lived there. Simple wooden bridges connected the village's scattered sections, their planks creaking underfoot but still standing strong after countless years.
Qinghi Village was not grand or remarkable, yet it carried a charm born from its simplicity and closeness to nature. Its air was fresh and tinged with the earthy scent of the fields, the faint smokiness of cooking fires, and the occasional hint of mountain herbs. It was a place where the mundane and the mystical intertwined, where time seemed to move slower, and the past lingered like a shadow over every stone and tree.
Under the flickering flames of the ceremonial torches, the elders of Qinghi Village gathered at the altar atop Huoshan Mountain. The air was heavy with incense smoke as the chants of the ceremony filled the night.
"Ancestors, we beseech you!" cried Elder Hu, his voice echoing through the mountain. "Grant this humble village a youth of great talent, a spark to rekindle our fading glory!"
Elder Ba, his face lined with worry, stepped forward. "For the past two years, not a single genius has emerged from our village. Our future grows bleak."
The clan head, Ba Zheng, rose from his seat, his deep voice cutting through the murmurs. "Tell me, elders, is there no one in this village with potential? No youth who stands out?"
The gathered elders exchanged glances, their expressions grim. Slowly, they shook their heads in unison.
"No, Clan Head," Elder Hu admitted reluctantly. "None among our children show promise."
Ba Zheng's brows furrowed in frustration, his fist clenching tightly. "Then what is the purpose of this ceremony if we have no one to rise for our clan?"
The silence was deafening as the flames danced in the night, their light flickering over the downcast faces of the elders.
...
In a dimly lit room, a figure sat up abruptly, his eyes gleaming with a strange light that pierced through the darkness. His breathing was heavy as his fingers trembled, tracing the contours of his youthful face. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips.
"This face… I've truly been reborn."
The figure—Zhou Yan—swung his legs off the side of the bed and stumbled toward the small, creaking window. Pushing it open, the cool night air brushed against his skin. His gaze swept over the familiar yet distant sight of Qinghi Village, shrouded in faint moonlight.
"So, it's true," Zhou Yan murmured to himself. "I've returned 700 years into the past."
Memories of his previous life flashed in his mind—countless opportunities he missed.
"This time… I will not repeat my mistakes. I will carve my own path, no matter the cost. Whoever stands in my way I will kill him in this life!"