Chapter One: The Unlikely Cradle
The sterile scent of antiseptic, the last memory of his prior existence, was violently displaced by the earthy aroma of damp soil and the sweet tang of a newborn. Lin Feng, or what was now Lin Feng, stirred. His eyelids, surprisingly heavy, fluttered open, struggling against the dim light filtering through the gaps in a thatched roof. He felt confined, swaddled tightly, his tiny limbs alien and uncoordinated, responding with sluggish protest to his nascent will. A muffled, gentle cooing reached his ears, a woman's voice, imbued with an affection that felt both foreign and strangely comforting.
He was a baby. A newborn. In a world that, just moments ago in his mind, had existed solely within the pages of a beloved novel.
*Heavenly Ascent: The Legend of Yan Zhen*. The title reverberated in the echo chamber of his disoriented consciousness. He'd consumed it, every word, every epic battle, every blossoming romance, for years. It had been his sanctuary, his grand escape from the mundane grind of his former life. Countless hours had been spent fantasizing about traversing its vibrant landscapes, perhaps as a silent, loyal shadow to the prodigious protagonist, Yan Zhen. Yet, a more insidious whisper had always accompanied that daydream: what if he could subtly influence the narrative? Not to steal glory, but to meticulously unravel it, thread by thread? To watch the hero stumble, not due to external foes, but from the insidious corrosion of his own foundations?
Now, the sharp scent of burning wood, the faint bleating of goats, and the distant murmur of human voices confirmed it. He was here. In the humble, remote village of Azure Cloud, the very genesis point of Yan Zhen's legendary journey.
A large, calloused hand, warm and surprisingly gentle, stroked his cheek. A deep, rumbling laugh, belonging to a man, filled the small, single-room hut. "Look at him, little one. Born on the very same day as young Zhen. Perhaps fate binds them already."
Lin Feng's infant mind, a peculiar fusion of a sophisticated adult intellect and the raw instincts of a newborn, struggled to process the full weight of the revelation. **Born on the same day as Yan Zhen.** The coincidence wasn't a coincidence at all; it was a cosmic alignment, an intricate key presented to him on a silver platter. It was the universe—or perhaps the cruel, ironic hand of destiny—delivering the ultimate, tantalizing opportunity. A jolt of something akin to manic glee, a primal surge of triumph, shot through his tiny body, making him squirm instinctively. The woman's shushing was soft, her smile tender, mistaking his internal turmoil for a baby's typical restlessness.
His early years in the village were a masterclass in calculated normalcy. He learned to crawl, then to walk, his new body slowly, painstakingly becoming an obedient vessel for his will. He mimicked the simple rhythms of life around him, absorbing the names of the local flora, the distinct cries of the forest fauna, and the subtle nuances of the villagers' faces. All the while, his adult mind, a relentless sponge, meticulously cataloged every detail: the subtle hierarchies among the children, the unwritten rules of their games, and, most crucially, the burgeoning personality of Yan Zhen.
Yan Zhen, even as a toddler, possessed an undeniable, innate brightness. He was perpetually curious, his eyes wide with wonder at the smallest insect or the tallest tree. His laughter was infectious, echoing through the small village square, drawing others to him like moths to a flame. He was effortlessly charming, quick to share his meager toys, and fiercely protective of his friends, even in their earliest squabbles. If another child stumbled, Yan Zhen was the first to offer a comforting pat, his small hand instinctively reaching out.
Lin Feng, in stark contrast, cultivated a persona of quiet attentiveness. He was the introspective one, the observer. He was always there, a step behind Yan Zhen, offering a steadying hand when he stumbled or a quiet, thoughtful suggestion when he seemed stuck. He quickly discerned that the villagers, particularly Yan Zhen's parents, perceived him as the calm, sensible counterbalance to Yan Zhen's boundless spirit. It was a role he embraced, playing it to perfection. He became the quiet complement, the loyal shadow.
By the age of five, their bond was undeniably strong, outwardly appearing as inseparable as two peas in a pod. Yan Zhen, with his seemingly endless wellspring of energy, would often burst ahead, his enthusiasm a bright beacon. Yet, Lin Feng was always the steady anchor, the reliable presence to which Yan Zhen invariably returned. When Yan Zhen climbed a tree too high, it was Lin Feng who quietly pointed out a stronger branch, or who waited patiently at the base, offering soft encouragement. When Yan Zhen faced a minor setback in a game, it was Lin Feng who, with feigned solemnity, suggested a different approach, always careful to let Yan Zhen believe he'd thought of it himself.
One warm afternoon, with the sun a benevolent disc in the azure sky, they sat by the tranquil Jade Stream, skipping flat, smooth stones across its surface. They were ten years old now, their bodies lean and agile from endless hours of play in the village and the surrounding woods. Yan Zhen, ever the more boisterous, grunted in frustration as his latest stone sank with a disappointing splash after barely two skips.
"It's no use, Lin Feng!" he exclaimed, tossing another pebble onto the bank in exasperation. "Yours always glide so far! It's like magic!"
Lin Feng smiled, a gentle, understanding curve of his lips that didn't quite reach the calculating depths of his eyes. "It's just practice, Zhen," he replied, his voice soft, almost unassuming. "And maybe… maybe a little observation. The flatter the stone, the better it skips, of course. But the angle matters too. See?" He picked up a perfectly smooth, flat pebble, demonstrating a precise, almost delicate flick of his wrist. "Here, try this one. And watch my wrist when I do it. It's all in the follow-through."
Yan Zhen took the stone, his brow furrowed in concentration, meticulously mimicking Lin Feng's fluid motion. This time, the stone bounced five times, creating a series of concentric ripples before finally sinking. Yan Zhen's face lit up, a genuine, unadulterated grin of triumph spreading across his features. "Whoa! You're right! You always know these things, Lin Feng. You're like… like an old sage!"
"Just paying attention, Zhen," Lin Feng demurred, his voice humble. "You have strength, brute force; I just have an eye for details. It's how I keep up with you." He subtly placed his own stone, a slightly less impressive one, to the side, careful not to outshine Yan Zhen too much in such a trivial moment. He didn't need to outperform Yan Zhen in every minor game or task. He just needed to subtly guide him, to make him increasingly reliant on Lin Feng's "wisdom" and "observation."
Later that evening, under the vast, star-dusted canopy of the night sky, they sat outside Yan Zhen's small, wooden hut, a small, controlled fire crackling merrily between them. The air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and distant blooming night-jasmine.
"You know, Lin Feng," Yan Zhen began, his voice hushed, tinged with childish awe as he gazed up at the twinkling expanse, "my dad says you're smarter than me. He says you're always thinking, always planning."
Lin Feng feigned a modest blush, looking down at his hands as if suddenly fascinated by the patterns of dirt under his fingernails. "He's just kind, Zhen. He exaggerates. You're strong. You're brave. You have a good heart, and everyone sees that. My way of thinking... it's just different. Sometimes, I wish I could be as straightforward as you, as direct." He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, his voice tinged with a manufactured melancholy, "Sometimes, I worry I think too much. It makes me slow to act, unlike you."
Yan Zhen, ever the loyal friend, quickly reached out and patted Lin Feng's shoulder, a gesture of youthful reassurance. "No way! You're the best, Lin Feng. You help me think, you point out things I miss. And you're always there for me, no matter what." He puffed out his chest a little, a small boy's declaration of unshakeable loyalty. "We're sworn brothers, right? From this day on, we'll always look out for each other. No matter what."
Lin Feng met Yan Zhen's earnest, guileless gaze, his own eyes shining with what appeared to be genuine affection, reflecting the firelight. "Always, Zhen," he affirmed, his voice thick with what could easily be mistaken for profound emotion. "To the very end. We'll face everything together."
The lie tasted sweet on his tongue, a delectable confection. He had spent ten years meticulously cultivating this trust, nurturing it with calculated kindness, with seemingly innocent advice, and with well-placed words that subtly elevated himself while gently, imperceptibly, chipping away at Yan Zhen's self-perception. Now, the time was drawing near. The whispers of the immortal sects, of powerful cultivators descending from distant peaks to seek out worthy disciples, were growing louder in the village. Soon, they would leave this small, forgotten cradle. Soon, the real game would begin. And Yan Zhen, the fated protagonist, would walk willingly, hand in hand, into the intricate web Lin Feng had so patiently and meticulously spun.