Lin An awoke to a dull ache in his bones, as though the marrow itself were bruised. He lay on a thin straw mat in a cramped wooden hut, the smell of mildew clinging to every surface. Dampness crept in from gaps in the walls, and tendrils of fog pressed close against the shutters, as if searching for a way inside. He ran a hand over his face and felt the contours of a child's features—a small nose, soft cheeks, and a pointed chin. His mind belonged to someone else, someone much older. He let out a ragged breath, realizing he had been reborn in a body perhaps no older than three or four.
A weak lantern flickered overhead, casting trembling shadows. He remembered dying in his past life. He remembered the daily struggles of a cutthroat industry, scamming publishers, faking credentials, forging illusions of success that crumbled in the end. He remembered no fanfare in his final moments, no kindly goddess offering him powers or cheat abilities. And now, he was here: a child in an unknown world, a place that smelled of straw and old wood. He pressed his lips together, silently mourning all that he had lost and all he stood to gain if he could survive in this new life.
Footsteps approached outside. The door rattled open, revealing a gaunt, middle-aged woman. She eyed Lin An with distaste, wrinkling her nose as though his presence offended her. Her name, he would learn in time, was Liu Fang, a servant assigned to watch over children with no formal family in the sect's territory. She thrust a wooden bucket toward him without greeting.
"Time to fetch water," she said. "The elders want it done by dawn. Don't dawdle."
Lin An rose unsteadily to his feet, limbs shaky, and took the bucket from her hand. He suspected the original occupant of this small body had been malnourished for years, and the pain in his stomach bore that suspicion out. Liu Fang pointed him toward the door. He nodded, ignoring her harsh stare. The chill of morning fog washed over him as he stepped out of the hut. A path of stones led across a muddy yard toward an ancient well on the edge of the settlement. In the pale light, he made out a cluster of similar huts, each battered by time and neglect. A distant silhouette of towering pines loomed beyond the settlement, their upper branches lost to mist.
No one else stirred at this hour except a handful of other children or servants trudging through chores. He felt their eyes flick over him for a moment, but none of them spoke. He realized that, within these wooden walls, he was an unwanted mouth to feed, a charity case for a minor offshoot of some sect he had never heard of. The air held a hint of spiritual energy, and his new senses tingled faintly, though he was too weak to tap into anything substantial. He lowered the bucket into the well, feeling the rope strain, then hauled it up and repeated the process until the container was full. Water sloshed over the rim, drenching his bare feet.
When he returned, Liu Fang had already gone, leaving him to wonder what to do next. The entire settlement seemed built around labor, but he knew nothing about local customs or even the name of the place. He turned to see a group of similarly aged children carrying bundles of firewood or sacks of grain, escorted by an older boy who barked instructions. That older boy paused to look at Lin An, eyes flickering with contempt, and then continued leading the others away. Lin An set his bucket down and leaned against the wall, breath coming in shallow gasps. His body felt too small, too fragile, and his mind still spun with confusion.
He told himself that he had cheated death once. He could cheat it again. No miraculous system voice guided him, no divine blessings had been bestowed. But he had survived by relying on his own cunning in his previous life. Surely he could do so again. He just needed information and time. He had no illusions that a great destiny awaited him. He would have to forge it himself.
On that first day, he learned only a few scraps: this was the Three Pines Sect's outer settlement, a minor region under the nominal control of a much larger alliance. The elders in charge didn't bother with children until they reached an age where their potential could be tested. At three or four years old, Lin An was too young to interest them. They provided basic shelter and minimal food, but any true resources were locked away for disciples who demonstrated even the slightest cultivation aptitude. Until then, orphans like Lin An survived on menial tasks and the begrudging generosity of the servants.
Days bled into weeks. He performed chores with mechanical efficiency—carrying water, scrubbing floors, washing vegetables. Whenever possible, he watched the older disciples train in the distance, squinting at the flicker of Qi swirling around them. Although his new body was too weak to replicate their moves, he tried memorizing the forms anyway. He listened to gossip, gleaning that the main stronghold of the Three Pines Sect was up the mountain beyond a thick forest of pines. Occasionally, he heard references to the "Windpeak Alliance" and their even mightier cultivators in the highlands. He kept quiet and filed it all away.
One evening, while hauling water, he overheard two disciples discussing something called the Hall of Jade Scriptures. They mentioned that if one showed promise, they would be taken to that hall to study genuine cultivation manuals. Lin An paused behind a stack of crates, eavesdropping on their conversation. The older disciple bragged about having glimpsed a profound Qi technique, while the younger one complained bitterly about his low-tier spirit root. Lin An's heart pounded. Spirit root, Qi sense, cultivation manuals—he recognized the concepts from his scattered memories of popular fiction. But here, in this new reality, they were tangible pathways to power.
He returned to his hut in the dark, carrying questions like a burden. Why had he been reborn without a shred of advantage or special bloodline? He could have easily been given a legendary spirit root or some powerful artifact. Instead, he had nothing. The more he reflected on it, the more determined he became to bend this world to his will.
When he turned five, or as best as he could count, he had already built a reputation for silent diligence. Liu Fang, who once treated him with disdain, came to rely on him for extra chores. No one suspected he could read. No one imagined he'd taught himself basic literacy by peeking into scraps of leftover manuals. In truth, reading felt like rediscovering a skill he already possessed. He practiced at night, mouth moving silently over each character, puzzling out references to Qi meridians and breathing exercises.
Sleep became a luxury. He nodded off during the day, only to dream of strange images at night—a brush suspended in darkness, intangible pages turning, lines of text shimmering with the weight of half-formed narratives. When he woke, the dream lingered at the edges of his mind. He couldn't recall the exact words, but the sensation of rewriting reality left his heart racing. He shrugged it off as a mere fancy. What good was the idea of rewriting reality with a magic brush if he still had to haul water for his next meal?
That changed one morning when a gangly boy named Tan Li marched up to him outside the storeroom, flanked by two taller friends. Tan Li was about seven or eight, a veteran at bullying the younger children. He crossed his arms and smirked.
"You think you're better than us, don't you?" Tan Li sneered.
Lin An maintained a meek expression. "I—I never said that."
"Liu Fang keeps giving you more chores. We're tired of picking up your slack."
Without warning, Tan Li shoved Lin An's shoulder, sending him staggering back against the wall. Lin An felt a flash of anger but kept it hidden, allowing fear to color his face. The two older boys snickered. One of them grabbed Lin An's water bucket and dumped its contents over his feet.
"Tell the elder you slipped," Tan Li said with a laugh. "Then maybe you won't get to eat tonight."
Lin An feigned helplessness. He bowed his head, making himself small, and watched the three boys leave. When they were gone, he gathered the overturned bucket and walked down to the well again. Inside, however, his thoughts churned with simmering rage. He recalled how, in his last life, he had survived by forging illusions—deceiving people, rewriting narratives to suit his needs. He refused to be a victim this time.
On the following day, Tan Li woke with sores on his arms. The entire settlement whispered that it must be an infection or a curse from a wandering ghost, but no cure worked. Tan Li's mother pleaded with the village caretaker, who asked the local disciples to examine the boy. They found nothing physically wrong, yet Tan Li couldn't lift his left arm without screaming. The affliction vanished after three days, as suddenly as it had come.
Lin An never told anyone he had spent those three nights dreaming about a brush in an endless darkness, writing strange sentences across blank pages:
"Tan Li cannot move his arm. Tan Li suffers for his unprovoked cruelty."
He never said a word, but soon the rumors circulated that Tan Li must have offended a spirit. After that, Tan Li and his friends avoided Lin An's hut. He did not gloat. He kept his head down. But the seed of an idea took root: the realization that he possessed a power beyond conventional cultivation, something intangible yet tied to belief and narrative. He intended to exploit it, once he understood it fully.
Months and years crawled by. The elders conducted yearly Qi examinations for children aged seven and above. On his seventh year, Lin An lined up with a dozen others in a bare courtyard. One of the elders, a thin man named Elder Mo Qin, stood with a rectangular jade tablet that glowed faintly with Qi. Each child was called forward to place a hand on the tablet. Most readings showed either negligible or mediocre talent. A few revealed moderate Qi sensitivity, enough to be groomed as outer disciples.
When it came to Lin An, Elder Mo Qin gave him a bored look. "Name?"
"Lin An," he replied softly.
"Place your hand on the stone."
Lin An obeyed. A gentle warmth spread from the stone into his palm, tingling through his meridians. The glow flickered, then stabilized at a pale green hue—signifying a low-tier wood-element root. Elder Mo Qin barely hid his disappointment.
"This one is subpar," he said, passing the result to a record keeper.
Lin An forced himself to remain calm. Subpar might be an understatement, but it was enough to remain in the sect's outer settlement, enough to avoid being cast aside as a mortal. He bowed and returned to the line, ignoring the smirks of the other children. Subpar or not, he still harbored an advantage no jade tablet could measure.
After the test, he slipped behind a storage barn to breathe. His stomach knotted with shame, but also steely resolve. Had he expected a miracle from the jade? That would have saved him some trouble, but miracles did not come unbidden. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, focusing on the faint stir of Qi within him. Over the next year, he redoubled his secret nighttime readings, learning the basics of Qi circulation from half-chewed scrolls in the library. Sometimes he practiced the movements he glimpsed from older disciples, ignoring the mocking laughter of children who wandered past.
It was lonely. He had no friends, by design—anyone who got close might question how he managed the subtle oddities in the settlement. He needed no allies, only a path forward. He sensed that his power to manipulate reality wasn't classical cultivation. Instead, it came from shaping stories: illusions of disease, illusions of misfortune, illusions of success. If enough people believed in them, they took on a semblance of truth. Over time, he learned to refine these illusions.
When he turned eight, an incident triggered his first brush with real sect politics. A traveling disciple from the main stronghold, a haughty young man named Gan Xi, arrived to inspect the harvest of spirit herbs. Gan Xi strutted through the settlement, complaining about the muddy paths and the lowly peasants, until he stumbled upon Lin An carrying a heavy stack of firewood. Gan Xi sneered at the boy's tattered clothes and demanded an apology for crossing his path. Lin An bowed, too tired to argue. Gan Xi kicked the firewood from his arms, scattering it across the ground. Lin An clenched his teeth, swallowing his anger.
That night, Lin An dreamed once more. He saw Gan Xi lost in the mountains, cowering from wolves. When Lin An awoke, rumors spread that Gan Xi had vanished from the settlement after bragging he would gather a rare herb. Search parties scoured the foothills for two days before finding Gan Xi trembling in a cave, clothes torn. The man babbled about vicious beasts that may or may not have existed. Lin An said nothing, feigning innocence. He realized, though, that Elder Mo Qin was growing suspicious. The old man's watchful gaze lingered on Lin An far too often.
By the time Lin An was nine, he had progressed a small step in Qi Refining, albeit at a snail's pace compared to true disciples. He had also honed his subtle art of rewriting narratives. Nothing dramatic, just enough to keep bullies away or punish those who abused their power. He preferred to remain quiet, in the background, adjusting the pieces of fate with invisible hands. It gave him a sense of control he had lacked in his past life.
Then came the day Elder Mo Qin summoned him. The messenger found Lin An sweeping the courtyard, an unremarkable chore among many. The messenger's tight smile suggested a hint of pity. Lin An placed his broom aside and followed the messenger into a small chamber near the foot of the mountain. The walls of the room were lined with faded tapestries depicting the sect's founder. Elder Mo Qin stood waiting by a low table. A single teapot steamed beside him, though there was no cup for Lin An.
"Sit," Mo Qin said, voice clipped. Lin An obeyed, folding his legs beneath him. The elder studied him as though searching for secrets behind his eyes. Finally, Mo Qin released a soft sigh. "You've caused no major trouble these past years, but trouble has a way of forming around you, does it not?"
Lin An bowed his head. "I've done my best to fulfill chores, Elder."
"Indeed," Mo Qin said, narrowing his gaze. "Yet I've noticed odd coincidences. Do you deny it?" Lin An carefully shook his head, neither admitting nor lying outright. Mo Qin's thin lips pressed together. "I won't pry into rumors. The Three Pines Sect needs every cultivator it can train, even one with a meager root. However, there is a recruitment test soon. Pass it, and you become an outer disciple with official standing. Fail, and I will no longer waste resources on you."
Lin An swallowed. "I understand, Elder."
Mo Qin's eyes darkened. "I suggest you tread carefully. Sometimes I feel there is a presence around you, something shifting fate. Perhaps it's simply my imagination." He dismissed Lin An with a slight wave of his hand. "Go. Prepare for the test. Remember, there are no second chances."
Outside, Lin An let out a shaky breath. Mo Qin's words confirmed his suspicion: the elder sensed something unusual about him. This was a critical turning point. If Lin An could not pass the test, the elder would cast him out or worse. He paused beneath the tall pines that gave the settlement its name, letting the cool mountain breeze brush against his face. He might have only one shot at this. Fortunately, he had a way to tilt the odds in his favor.
That night, he feigned exhaustion and went to bed early. Once the settlement fell into a hush, he slipped out of his hut and crept to a secluded grove near the boundary fences. The moonlight shimmered on the pine needles overhead. He knelt on damp grass, closed his eyes, and reached into the part of his mind that housed the brush and endless pages. The dreamlike realm hovered at the fringes of his consciousness.
He pictured himself in a black void, a lone brush floating before him. With trembling mental fingers, he grasped it and pressed it to an invisible surface. Whispering each sentence, he wrote:
"Lin An demonstrates sufficient Qi control to pass the sect's trial.""Lin An's final demonstration impresses the examiners.""Elder Mo Qin is forced to acknowledge Lin An's potential."
With each phrase, a faint spark of warmth ignited in Lin An's chest. He did not rely on a mystical system; this was an art of pure will, deception made manifest. He breathed slowly, not certain how much effect it would have in reality. As he wrote, he vowed to back up the illusions with real preparation. If he had to sabotage the tests, he would. If he had to stage events, he would. Whatever it took.
When the day of the sect recruitment test arrived, Lin An stood in line beside older children, most around eleven or twelve. They dwarfed his small frame. The test took place in an open courtyard below the main stronghold, with thick fog swirling around the edges. A bored elder in pale green robes announced the rules: each candidate had to perform a basic Qi demonstration. The elder, flanked by two senior disciples, would evaluate technique, control, and potential.
A handful of hopefuls took the stage in turn. Some displayed flickering Qi, shaping it into faint lights or feeble gusts of wind. A few excelled, drawing murmurs from the crowd. Most passed in the sense that they could remain as outer disciples, though few showed brilliance. Lin An's name was called when half the group had finished. He stepped forward, heart pounding. He felt all eyes on him: the short boy with dark hair and an unreadable expression. Mo Qin stood off to the side, arms folded tightly. Lin An drew a slow breath, pulling forth every scrap of Qi he had cultivated. The tingling in his meridians was slight, but he coaxed the threads of energy to gather in his hands.
A faint swirl of greenish-white light flickered around his palms. He bent his knees and exhaled, shaping a wisp of Qi into the form of a tiny blade. It lasted only a second before dispersing into sparkles. The demonstration was unimpressive by normal standards—childlike and incomplete. Some in the crowd snickered. Lin An kept his face emotionless, forcing himself not to tremble.
The elder in pale green robes frowned, lips curling. "Your Qi is weak," he said. "But I see a certain steadiness. Could you attempt it again?"
Lin An nodded and repeated the motion. This time, the blade took a sharper outline, humming faintly. The sparkles flared before vanishing. A few watchers went silent, realizing that although Lin An's cultivation was low, his control was surprisingly precise. The elder tapped his chin, leaning forward as though reassessing Lin An.
Elder Mo Qin stepped to the side, giving a stern glare. Lin An caught the subtle movement, saw the lines of disapproval in Mo Qin's brow, and realized Mo Qin had hoped Lin An would fail cleanly, removing any suspicion about the anomalies that surrounded him. Instead, this demonstration raised a question: how could a weak child shape Qi with such precision?
The elder in green robes made a note on his scroll. He glanced at Mo Qin, who gave a reluctant nod. Turning back to Lin An, the elder spoke more neutrally. "You have potential. Not enough for an inner disciple recommendation, but you can remain as an outer disciple in training. Work hard, or else you'll fall behind."
Lin An bowed deeply. Relief and triumph roiled in his chest. The illusions alone wouldn't have carried him through—he had spent many nights practicing that exact Qi blade. Still, he suspected his subtle rewriting had softened the judges' hearts just enough. The test concluded after more candidates took their turn, and the elder dismissed everyone. As the crowd dispersed, Mo Qin strode up to Lin An, expression guarded.
"I see you've hidden some diligence," Mo Qin said. "But do not think that alone guarantees success. Outer disciple life is harsh. Prove yourself further, or you'll be pushed out. Understood?"
Lin An bowed again. "I understand, Elder."
Mo Qin lingered a moment, studying Lin An's face, then turned on his heel and left. The cold mountain air nipped at Lin An's cheeks. He stood there until the courtyard emptied, letting the reality of his new status sink in. He had carved a foothold in the sect, however small. From here, perhaps he could access better resources, or at least gather more knowledge. He touched his palms together, recalling the comforting pulse of Qi from his blade demonstration.
At nine years old, he had come far, but the path ahead stretched infinitely. He would continue to hone this strange ability to rewrite events. He would lie, manipulate, and scheme, because no one else would lift him from these dregs. And if fate tried to stand in his way, he would simply edit fate itself, word by word, until it bowed to him.
With the courtyard empty at last, Lin An walked back toward the settlement, passing the huts where he had spent his earliest days in this new body. A handful of younger children peered out from doorways, wide-eyed, curious about where he had been. He thought of the brush hovering in the darkness of his dreams, its tip loaded with invisible ink. One day, he would script an entirely new destiny for himself, ignoring the scorn of spirit root ranks and the judgments of minor elders. In a world where only power mattered, a world without mercy, he would craft his own advantage.
He paused by the well, gazing at his faint reflection in the water. The child's face stared back, but the eyes held the resolve of a man who had once cheated death itself. He allowed himself a small smile. Let them call him subpar. Let them see only a weak child. He would show them the truth—or, rather, the lies more powerful than any truth they had ever known.