The morning sun cast its golden light over the small village, the shadows of simple homes stretching across the bustling square. The usual hum of daily life was replaced by a buzz of excitement, a rare occasion for this quiet place.
Arya stood at the doorway of his home, his small hands gripping the frame as he peered at the crowd gathering in the village square. Though he looked like any other curious five-year-old, his gaze held a calmness and depth far beyond his years. This was no ordinary day—it was the day his potential as a cultivator would be revealed.
Inside the house, his father, Bryan, prepared for the ceremony with quiet efficiency. Tall and broad-shouldered, Bryan carried himself with the weight of a leader, his movements deliberate and powerful. Arya observed him from the corner of his eye, noting the faint tension in his father's jaw. Bryan was a man of few words, but the way he paused occasionally to glance at Arya betrayed his anticipation.
"Are you ready, son?" Bryan asked, his voice steady yet soft.
Arya nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I think so, Father."
The truth was, Arya wasn't just ready—he had been waiting for this moment for what felt like lifetimes.
In his previous lives, Arya had been a mortal every time. Whether as a farmer struggling to feed his family, a scholar seeking knowledge but lacking power, or a soldier dying on the battlefield without making a mark, his lives had always been bound by the limitations of mortality. He had memories of longing, of staring up at the stars and wishing for a chance to break free from the mundane.
But now, in this life, he was in a world where mortals were the exception, not the rule. Cultivators, individuals who could harness the energy of the heavens and the earth, dominated this land. Arya's heart burned with the hope that he could finally be more than ordinary.
Outside, the villagers gathered, their faces alight with anticipation. As the son of the village chief and its strongest cultivator, Arya carried the hopes of the entire village on his small shoulders. Here, where strong cultivators were few, every promising individual was cherished like a diamond among stones.
Leaving aside the hopes and anticipation of his parents and the village people, Arya, who had lived as a mortal for nine lives—even though he only retained memories of his last life—had always hoped that he possessed abilities unique to him. He longed for the power to change his ordinary and uneventful existence as a mortal and to etch his name into history.
This dream could only become a reality if he had the ability or affinity for cultivation. His fighter's heart yearned to battle his way to the peak of the world and to have his name written in golden letters in history. But all these desires hinged on discovering whether he had any affinity for cultivation or if the universe would once again deny him the chance to prove himself, leaving his luck as miserable as ever.