The sky bled crimson the night he was betrayed.
Above the imperial palace, storm clouds churned like dying beasts. Thunder cracked through the heavens, and blood rained from the steps of the Black Throne. At its peak, surrounded by corpses and shattered banners, stood a man.
Tall. Cold. Unbending.
His robes were torn, but regal. His sword arm broken, yet still raised. His breath came shallow, but he did not kneel.
He had never knelt—not to gods, not to demons, not to emperors.
He was Lin Feng, the Shadow Sovereign, ruler of the hidden realms, keeper of forbidden knowledge, and executioner of kings.
And tonight, the world conspired to end him.
His enemies had come from within. Poisoned oaths. Rotten blood. Soft voices and sharp knives.
The first traitor was his sworn brother, Ji Chen—the man he'd raised to power.
The second… was the woman he once called his future.
She was the last to speak.
"You were never meant to rule the light," she whispered, her blade pressing against his back. "You were born from the dark. Return to it."
He didn't flinch.
Even when the blade pierced through his spine, he didn't scream. He simply looked forward, eyes burning through the flames rising around his throne, as if still seeing the path beyond death.
The darkness came quickly.
Not the sleep of the dead—no, something deeper. A silence beyond sound. A stillness beyond time.
For Lin Feng, death was not an ending.
It was a pause.
A thousand years later…
Lightning cracked through the sky again—this time over a ramshackle outer compound on the edge of Lin Clan territory.
Rain battered a rotting roof. Inside a half-collapsed shed, a boy lay unconscious on the floor. Mud stained his torn robes. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth. His body, thin and malnourished, trembled faintly.
He had been beaten and left to die. Again.
The air inside the shed was stale, thick with mold and rot. Rats scurried in the corners. Wind howled through the cracked walls, but the boy didn't stir.
Until—
A breath.
Shallow. Sharp.
Then a gasp.
And then…
Eyes opened.
But they were not the eyes of a helpless, broken child.
They were ancient.
Lin Feng sat up slowly.
Pain screamed through his limbs—muscles torn, ribs cracked, skin bruised and welted—but he endured it in silence. His gaze swept across the dark room, calculating, cold.
This body was weak. Pathetic. Barely clinging to life.
But it would do.
"So this is what the heavens offer me in return," he muttered, voice rasping like wind over dry bones. "A cripple's corpse and a forgotten name."
He glanced at his reflection in a puddle near the wall.
The boy's face was thin, with sunken eyes and a swollen jaw. A bruise bloomed across one cheek. Blood crusted beneath one nostril. Even the bones looked fragile.
Lin Xun.
That was this body's name.
The discarded son of the Lin Clan's outer branch. Born without talent. Beaten during the Awakening Trials. Deemed trash. Unworthy. Mocked.
But the soul inside was not Lin Xun.
"Lin Feng," he whispered. "Shadow Sovereign. Buried in fire. Born again in filth."
The irony wasn't lost on him.
From throne room to pigsty.
From Shadow King to discarded beggar.
He coughed, blood flecking his lips, but he didn't stop smiling.
"Fine. If the heavens wish to laugh… let them. I've risen once. I'll do it again."
He dragged himself across the floor with trembling arms, each movement searing with pain. Dust rose around him as splinters bit into his palms. Still, he moved—inch by inch, breath by breath.
Under a loose floorboard in the corner, his fingers found something hard.
He pried the wood open and pulled out a small, rotting wooden box.
Inside it lay broken jade medallions, torn scrolls, and a single black stone no larger than a child's fist.
It pulsed faintly in his hand.
Shadow Qi.
Old. Forbidden. Abandoned by the sects and erased from the books. But not from memory.
Not from his memory.
"So even in this life, the shadows follow me."
He sat upright, legs crossed, spine shaking with the effort. He placed the stone in front of him and closed his eyes.
Then, slowly—deliberately—he began to breathe.
The Silent Rooting Technique.
A forbidden cultivation art long lost to the world. One he himself had created. A method of drawing shadow into the bones, carving darkness into the meridians.
The air grew still. The rats vanished. The wind stopped.
And then, from the corners of the room, it began to stir—
Darkness.
Not the absence of light—but living shadow, drawn to the breath of its master.
It curled around him like smoke. Slithered into his skin. Burrowed into his marrow. His body shook violently. His veins darkened. His teeth clenched against the pain.
"I died a Sovereign…" he growled, blood trickling from his lip, "I will not rise a beggar."
The shadows surged, invading every inch of his soul.
Pain washed over him. Sharp. Relentless. Cleansing.
And then—
Stillness.
He opened his eyes.
And the darkness obeyed.
Across the compound, deep within the Lin Clan's inner grounds, a ceremonial bell tolled.
It was the hour of the clan's Awakening Ceremony.
The strongest sons and daughters would awaken their cultivation roots before the elders. Honor would be given. Positions promised. Legacies born.
Lin Xun had been barred from attending. Beaten and cast out days before the ceremony began.
But he would still go.
Not to awaken.
To observe.
To remember.
To measure the trash who mocked him.
And one day… to bury them.
He stood slowly. The pain had dulled. His steps were uneven, but strong enough. The shadows clung faintly to his skin, like smoke that refused to lift.
He wrapped himself in a torn robe and stepped out into the storm.
Thunder growled in the distance.
The path to the inner grounds wound through mist and moss, past old trees and forgotten statues. As he walked, memories stirred—ghosts from his past life whispering in the back of his mind.
He had walked this path before.
But never as prey.
Let them call him trash.
Let them spit on his name.
Let them laugh at the boy who came limping into their sacred ceremony like a beggar seeking bread.
They did not know.
They could not know.
That the man who once ruled empires had returned.
Not to beg.
Not to plead.
But to build his throne again—From shadow, blood, and bone.