Han Yun's soaked boots slapped softly against the stone path, each wet footstep echoing far too loudly in the silence.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
The air was cold. Damp. Heavy like it was holding its breath.
His fire talisman floated above him, casting long, twitching shadows against the walls. The water in the pool beside him was still—too still. Not even a ripple.
And yet… every few steps, a chill ran up his spine.
His arm hair stood on end.
He kept walking, jaw tight, glancing over his shoulder every so often—just in case. But all he saw was darkness. Just his footsteps and the echo of his own breathing.
"...What kind of creepy-ass inheritance am I trying to steal?" he muttered.
The path ahead twisted deeper, the architecture becoming more obvious—ancient engravings on the walls, faint grooves on the floor, worn statues of faceless figures lined up in rows, their heads bowed low like they were praying… or warning.
None of this felt like some noble cultivation legacy. This wasn't a place where righteous sword arts were passed down by kindly ancestors in white robes.
This was the kind of place where you learned to survive, not shine.
Han Yun clenched his jaw, wiping the blood from his palm against his robe.
"…I swear if this is some cursed demon sect's leftover storage room, I'm robbing it blind and leaving a bad review."
Still, he kept walking.
Because what else could he do?
He'd already fallen too far to turn back.
Han Yun kept walking, every step slower than the last, the firelight casting twisted shadows across the carved stone walls.
Then he saw it.
A massive stone gate stood at the end of the path—embedded into the far wall like it had been sleeping there for centuries. It was tall, at least twice his height, with faded carvings spiraling across its surface like coiling serpents. The stone was cracked in places, worn by time, but still intact—still sealed.
And most importantly… it wasn't ordinary.
Not even close.
The air here had changed. No more stale dampness.
Instead, the space in front of the gate was soaked in Yin Qi—cold, oppressive, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones and made your breath catch. His skin prickled. His already wounded hands ached even more, reacting to the spiritual pressure pressing down around him.
"…Yup," Han Yun muttered, staring up at it, "this is definitely not where some jolly sword fairy left his inheritance."
Whatever was behind this gate—it wasn't normal.
He could feel it. The Qi didn't flow here—it stagnated, dense and heavy like spiritual fog. The carvings themselves looked less decorative and more... ritualistic. He couldn't even tell what they meant.
Han Yun stood still for a long moment, the flame above him flickering slightly.
"This… might actually be a bad idea," he said out loud, voice almost a whisper.
But deep down?
A twisted, anxious part of him was curious.
'If the system called this an opportunity for Feng Yiran...
What the hell was this guy supposed to awaken in here?'
Han Yun took one final breath—part courage, part resignation—then placed both hands against the cold stone and pushed.
The gate let out a low, grinding groan, stone scraping against stone as it slowly creaked open.
Fwooooosh—!
A gust of Yin-filled wind burst out from the dark chamber beyond, slamming into him like a wave. It was sharp, wet, and freezing to the bone—like a winter storm had been sealed inside for centuries just waiting to be let loose.
His fire talisman flickered wildly, almost extinguishing.
Han Yun squinted through the sudden darkness, shielding his face from the cold—but his feet didn't move. His breath hitched slightly as his eyes adjusted to what lay beyond.
At the center of the vast chamber, illuminated only by his unsteady flame, was a massive black throne.
It sat at the far end of the room, built from dark stone and etched with unfamiliar runes that pulsed faintly with cold light. But the throne wasn't empty.
On it, slumped like a king long forgotten by time, was a figure—
A skeleton.
But not a normal one.
Its bones were charcoal black, as if scorched or corrupted by something unnatural. Its skull bore cracks and jagged edges, its ribcage twisted in a way that didn't look entirely human. Despite being long dead, the air around it was heavier, colder, almost sentient.
And draped over its frame was a jet-black robe, pristine and untouched by time, despite the decay all around it.
The moment Han Yun's eyes met that skeleton—his body locked up.
A cold shiver shot down his spine, and for a moment he couldn't move, couldn't even breathe. It felt like the skeleton was looking back, despite having no eyes. Like it had been waiting.
And now it knew he was there.
Han Yun's heartbeat spiked, his legs screaming to turn and run
Han Yun's entire body froze.
Then—it came.
A voice.
Not from the shadows. Not from behind the throne.
But inside his head.
Raspy, ancient, and laced with a weight that pressed into his mind like a cold hand curling around his thoughts.
"...After a thousand years… someone has finally stepped into my tomb."
Han Yun didn't flinch, didn't move.
His breathing slowed.
Eyes locked on the black skeleton.
Brain firing in every direction.
The voice continued.
"I was once an Immortal… not from your world, but from the true upper realm, far beyond this dusty mortal soil. My name once shook the skies… I cultivated to the peak, defied heavens, bathed in dragon blood, walked across divine rivers."
Han Yun blinked slowly.
'Here we go…'
"But I was betrayed," the voice continued, heavier now. "Ambushed by my enemies, wounded beyond salvation. I descended to this low realm to escape... and here, I perished."
"My body died… but my will remained. For centuries, I slumbered, waiting for one worthy enough to carry my legacy. To wield my techniques. To finish what I could not."
Han Yun nodded slightly, eyes never leaving the black throne.
"Classic setup," he muttered to himself. "Top-tier cliché. Betrayed master. Sealed tomb. Waiting for a successor."
Still, his expression stayed calm, almost unreadable.
'Do I believe him?'
He thought about it. Slowly.
Maybe 20%.
Then he spoke aloud, carefully, his voice steady.
"…What exactly do you want from me?"
The voice in Han Yun's head went silent for a brief moment—as if amused by his question.
Then it returned, colder, heavier, like it now hovered just behind his thoughts.
"You are not the worst I've seen," the voice said. "But your talent is… meh. Unremarkable. Ordinary."
Han Yun's eye twitched.
"…Gee, thanks, Senior. Truly honored."
"However," the voice ignored him, "talent is not the sole path to greatness. Many rise fast and fall faster. But those who endure… are forged not by strength, but by will."
"Your trial… will not test your cultivation. Not your bones. Not your blood."
"It will test your mind."
Han Yun went still.
Mind, huh…?
Not what he expected. No beast fight? No climbing a mountain barefoot through fire? No "survive ten lightning strikes with your chest out" kind of test?
"…So no beating something to death?" he asked, cautiously.
"You may wish it were that simple."
Han Yun swallowed once.
The voice continued.
"You will enter the mirror of your thoughts—your memories, your fears, your truths and lies. There, you will either hold… or shatter."
Han Yun's hand subconsciously reached for a talisman—though he knew damn well that wouldn't help in a mind trial.
"…This humble one was simply looking for herbs today," he muttered, deadpan. "And now I'm about to get spiritually gaslit in my own head."
Still… his grip slowly loosened.
He exhaled.
"Fine."
He looked straight at the throne, even if the skeleton didn't respond.
"Let's do this, then. I'll play your creepy head game."
The voice echoed once more, this time quieter—closer somehow, like it was whispering from inside Han Yun's chest instead of his ears.
"This is not an illusion."
"What you see… what you feel… will be the reflection of your own mind. Your regrets. Your attachments. Your truth."
"I will not interfere. I cannot see what lies inside you. I am merely… the spark."
"Everything else… is you."
Han Yun stared up at the black skeleton, his heartbeat calm now—not because he wasn't afraid, but because he understood.
This wasn't about power. Not really. It was about peeling back the layers of who he was.
Just him.
He slowly nodded. "Alright then."
And the world around him collapsed into light.
The light faded.
And when Han Yun opened his eyes—
He wasn't in a cave.
He wasn't bleeding.
He wasn't holding talismans or facing ancient skeletons.
He was… in a college hallway.
The familiar hum of buzzing fluorescent lights above him. The click of sneakers on tiled floors. Laughter echoing from somewhere around the corner. Posters taped sloppily to the walls. The stale-but-nostalgic smell of vending machine coffee mixed with someone's terrible cologne.
Han Yun blinked.
No—Raine blinked.
He looked down at his hands—clean, not calloused. Not trembling from Qi withdrawal. No spirit pouch. No robes. Just jeans, hoodie, and the same beaten-up sneakers he always wore.
Before he could even think, a voice called out.
"Yo, Raine!"
He turned on instinct.
A group of familiar faces approached—his old friends from back home.
College friends. Real ones.
The guy in front grinned, already laughing.
"Bro, tell me why you curved Sarah last week just to grind ranked again—you said one more game and then ghosted her for three hours!"
The others burst out laughing.
Someone elbowed him. "You fumbled an actual cute girl for League, you psycho."
Raine—not Han Yun, not the scammer, not the cultivator—Raine responded automatically.
"Oh shut up, y'all were the ones pinging me every five minutes. You think I could just leave mid-climb?"
Laughter followed. It felt easy. Too easy.
He joked back, snorted when one of them made fun of his KD ratio, waved at a classmate walking by like this was just another day.
It all felt natural.
It felt… real.
He didn't even notice the subtle tug. The way his heart relaxed. The way his body shifted automatically into the rhythm of this old life.
As if everything else—caves, skeletons, sects, blood, Qi—was just a dream.
Like he was finally awake.
And deep down, something whispered:
Was that other world even real?
Why would you ever leave this behind?
Years passed like pages in a soft old book.
Raine never remembered the cave. Never remembered the talismans, the cold skeleton, or the voice in his head. He never remembered Han Yun.
To him, that life had been a strange dream some surreal, foggy thing he once woke up sweating from, laughed about over coffee, then forgot as the day carried on.
Instead, he lived his life.
He graduated. Got a job nothing glamorous, but stable.
He cried the day his dog passed away. That old mutt had been with him since college.
He met Ann, the quiet girl from the apartment next door who smiled with her whole heart and offered him soup on rainy days. She became the center of his little world.
They married.
They had a son. Then a daughter.
His parents passed. He mourned, moved on.
He tried his best to be a father—not perfect, not always right, but present.
He laughed again. Had barbecues. Reconnected with his old college friends.
He taught his son how to ride a bike, watched his daughter cry at her graduation, danced with Ann in their living room on random nights.
And over time… he aged.
His kids had kids. He became a grandfather. A little slower, a little more wrinkled, but still sharp—still smiling.
His neighborhood knew him as the "old uncle" who always watered his garden and called out jokes to passing kids.
And one quiet morning, with sun filtering through the living room window, surrounded by Ann, their children, their grandchildren, and even a few of his oldest friends—
Raine passed away.
Warm. Peaceful. Loved.
The last thing he heard was Ann calling his name softly through a tearful smile.
Then—white.
A vast, blank void.
He collapsed forward onto the pristine floor of that nothingness, grasping his chest, gasping for air that wasn't there. His breath hitched. His vision blurred.
And then—the tears came.
Not from pain. Not even from fear.
But from a flood of memory returning all at once.
Han Yun.
The cave. The inheritance. The life he left behind.
He had lived a full life… but none of it was real.
It had been the trial.
And now, he remembered everything.
He fell to his knees, tears spilling freely, not knowing whether to mourn or scream or laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Back in the cave, the black skeleton on the throne remained motionless, cold, silent.
It knew nothing of what Han Yun had seen.
That was the rule.
The trial… was the mind.
And only the one who walked it could know its weight.
As Han Yun knelt in that vast, blinding white void—breathing hard, eyes still wet, heart still reeling from a life that both was and wasn't real—the voice returned.
Not cold this time.
Just... steady. Ancient. Waiting.
"What you witnessed... is what your mind holds onto."
"I do not know what you saw, nor do I need to. But that is you. Your truth."
A pause.
And then, like thunder whispered through silk, the voice asked him a single question:
"Now that you've lived what you once thought you lost… would you still choose the path you're walking now?"
A test not of strength.
But of resolve.
Han Yun said nothing.
He knelt there, trembling slightly, the blinding white all around him silent—so silent it made the beating of his heart feel like thunder in his ears.
Was it all fake?
A dream?
He wanted to believe that. He hoped it was.
Because if it wasn't—if that life had been real in some twisted, parallel way—then he had truly died once already.
Not in a heroic blaze of glory.
Not in a grand cultivation duel.
But quietly. Surrounded by family. Loved.
And he had let it go.
His fingers dug into the white floor.
He couldn't stop seeing Ann's face.
Her smile. Her warmth.
His children, the feel of their little hands when they were young.
His old friends, older now but still there.
Even the sound of his damn dog's bark when he came home from work.
All of it.
Every second of it.
His throat clenched.
The pain in his body was gone—but the ache in his chest? Unbearable.
Was that reality…?
Was this…?
He didn't know anymore.
He lowered his head, eyes squeezed shut.
And when he opened his mouth—
Nothing came out.
He couldn't answer the question.
Not yet.
Not now.
He wasn't ready to choose.
Not when part of him was still back there, holding Ann's hand on their final morning.
And for the first time since arriving in this world—
Han Yun…
Felt lost.