The Cycle of Life
Life went on as normal.
If normal could even be used to describe the cold, unyielding existence I had been born into.
My father still did not love me. He tolerated me—no more, no less. I was nothing more than an extension of my mother, a burden he bore because of her presence. Were it not for the weight her name carried, for whatever sentiment he might hold for her, I knew I would have long since been cast aside.
But I had survived.
And now, the cycle of life continued once more.
My father and mother had coupled again, and soon, I would have a little brother. It was amusing, in a bleak sort of way. The cycle repeated, over and over, the endless turning of the wheel.
Birth. Growth. Struggle. Death.
And for some… rebirth.
I had lived before. I had died before. And now, I lived again. A second chance, perhaps. Or merely another turn in the great, indifferent cycle.
"Live in life and die in death."
One of the many things I remembered from my past life. A phrase that had once been spoken to me, sneered at me, as I lay in the filth of the streets—cast aside like refuse, humiliated, stripped of dignity, left to rot in the mud and pig filth.
I had been thrown away.
Torn from whatever future I had once envisioned for myself, discarded by those who deemed me too weak, too kind, too good for a world where morality was a weakness and power was law.
It was almost comical.
A man who had been thrown away by the world, only to be reborn into it once again.
But I was not the same man I had been before.
I would not be the same naïve fool who believed kindness would grant me protection.
No.
If the cycle demanded strength, then I would be strong.
If the cycle demanded cruelty, then I would be cruel.
And if the cycle demanded that I break before it…
Then I would break it first.
The Dawn of Understanding
On the 23rd of July, my little brother was born.
Yŭxuān.
A small infant, so tiny that one might mistake him for a piglet, pink and frail, barely strong enough to cry. My mother held him close, her arms a protective cage against the world. Against our father.
He did not look at Yŭxuān with a father's love, nor even a man's pride in his offspring. No, I saw it in his eyes—the calculation. The assessment. A mind already weighing the worth of this newborn against the burdens of time and effort.
Would he be strong? Would he be useful? Would he bring glory to the Huá name?
My mother, wise as she was, kept him away. As she had with me. Perhaps she had learned, after years of being bound to such a man, what happens to children who are born weak.
Yet in truth, she could not keep him hidden forever.
For in this world, there was no refuge from battle.
Battle. A truth as eternal as the sky above and the earth below.
The weak fought to survive. The strong fought to conquer.
It was the law of existence.
I had learned this long ago.
In this endless war, none were spared. Men and women, young and old, the beautiful and the wretched—all fought. If not with swords, then with words. If not with fists, then with schemes. Even the gods, who sat upon their divine thrones, had been drawn into the conflict.
No being, mortal or divine, could stop the wheel of war from turning.
And so, I understood.
I was in the Huá clan.
A name of prestige, of legacy. A name carved into history, standing upon the great peak of Mao Xing Mountain, looking down upon the lands below like an emperor gazing upon his domain.
But even the highest peaks could crumble.
I knew that my strength now was meaningless. I was a child—small, powerless, at the mercy of those around me. My hands, though filled with the memories of an old life, held no real power to shape my fate. Not yet.
But time…
Time would change that.
I had long since realized that if I wanted control—true control—I had to grow older.
Older. Stronger. More than what I was now.
I would have to wait.
In the Xuan Continent, the law dictated that training began at the age of ten. That was the earliest one could cultivate, the earliest a child could be shaped into something worthy of wielding strength. Parental consent was required, though that would not be a problem.
I had no doubt my father would allow it.
But more than that—I would allow it.
I would use these years wisely. Observe. Learn. Strengthen not only my body, but my mind. My father saw strength only in battle, only in the power of the flesh and the might of the sword.
But I had already lived once before.
I knew that strength was not merely in the body.
It was in knowledge. In patience. In the ability to see beyond the immediate, to think beyond what others allowed themselves to perceive.
I would not be a fool again.
I would not wait until I was discarded and broken before I understood what needed to be done.
This time, I would step into the storm willingly.
And when the time came, when my body had grown and my hands could finally wield power—
I would make sure that no one, not even the gods themselves, could throw me away again.
A Brother's First Meeting
And today, on the 27th of July, I met him.
My younger brother.
Yŭxuān.
For the past four days, I had only known of him through whispers, through the murmurs of servants and the idle gossip of the clan members. I had not been allowed to see him immediately. The newborn was kept under careful watch, tucked away in my mother's private chambers, shielded from the eyes of those who saw weakness as something shameful.
But I had listened.
And what I heard was amusing.
"He is as small as a piglet," they had said, voices laced with judgment and humor.
"That child was born premature, I heard. His father must be furious."
"Tsk, tsk. It is always the weakest that mothers hold onto the tightest. But what good will it do? If he does not grow strong, he will be discarded all the same."
"Perhaps he will surprise us. Perhaps."
As if fate itself would suddenly bless a frail thing with the power to rise above the strong. As if mere survival would be enough.
They did not know of my own history.
They did not know that I, too, had once been left to rot.
That I had once been considered weak.
And so, as I sat in my mother's chambers, staring down at the tiny creature in her arms, I was already familiar with the thoughts that crossed my father's mind. I had seen this before.
Yŭxuān was tiny.
His face was scrunched in sleep, his small body wrapped in delicate silks that did nothing to hide his fragility. His breathing was soft, barely a whisper against the wind.
I frowned.
This… was my brother?
This helpless, tiny thing?
The murmurs of the clan were not exaggerated. He was small, absurdly so. His fingers were thin, his skin a pale shade that lacked the healthy glow of a warrior's bloodline. He looked less like a future cultivator and more like something the gods had yet to finish shaping.
Would he even survive?
It was a cruel thought, but one I could not ignore.
"You were small too, once."
I turned my gaze to my mother. Her voice was gentle, but her eyes sharp, as if she could already hear my thoughts before I spoke them.
She held Yŭxuān closer.
"You may not remember, but when you were born, you were just as small. Just as weak. And yet, you are still here."
I did remember.
But I had also died once before.
And in that life, being weak had cost me everything.
Would Yŭxuān suffer the same fate?
Or would he be spared the cruelty I had endured?
I watched as his tiny fingers twitched, his expression shifting in his sleep. There was something unsettling about seeing a child so delicate in a world that did not tolerate weakness.
I sighed.
There was no use thinking about it now.
For now, he was simply my brother.
And for now… I would watch over him.
The Unforgiving World
Life in the Huá Clan was one of expectations.
Strength dictated status. Power dictated respect.
And those who had neither?
They were forgotten.
There was no room for sentimentality. No space for kindness without consequence. A child's worth was measured not in laughter or innocence, but in potential. In how fast they could grow, in how much they could endure.
In this world, the strong ruled.
And the weak?
They either learned to rise—
Or they were crushed beneath the weight of those who did.
I understood this better than most.
And yet, despite knowing this truth, I found myself watching my mother with Yŭxuān, something strange settling in my chest.
She was different from the rest.
Unlike my father, who saw only value in power, my mother held something else entirely. It was in the way she touched Yŭxuān's fragile hands, in the way she shielded him from the cold gaze of the world outside.
It was a softness that did not belong in a world like this.
And yet, she remained.
Perhaps that was her strength.
The ability to care, despite the cruelty of the world.
"He will be strong," my mother whispered, as if speaking it would make it so.
I said nothing.
Because I knew better.
Strength was not something gifted.
It was something earned.
And in this life, in this world—
If Yŭxuān was to survive, if I was to survive—
Then we would have to take our strength with our own hands.