Chapter 1

The chill of early spring still lingered. From the onset of winter until after the beginning of spring, the sun was a rare visitor to Xijiang City. Sometimes, an unexpected frost would descend, so biting that the cold seemed to seep into the very bones.

At last, the weather had begun to warm, sunlight spilling softly into the world. Wen Yan was determined not to let it pass her by. She had a lounge chair set out in the courtyard and, after lunch, fell asleep basking in the gentle glow.

Her nap was abruptly disturbed by a rapid patter of footsteps, banishing her dreams. Still half asleep, Wen Yan recognized who it was, and couldn't muster the will to open her eyes.

A moment later, before the visitor had approached, a domineering, petulant voice burst out beside her ear:

"Wen Yan, where’s that bolt of cloth from last time?"

Wen Yan truly didn't wish to respond, but the girl was nothing if not willful; she directly put her hands on Wen Yan, forcibly shaking her awake.

"The one Mother gave you last month," she insisted.

Reluctantly, Wen Yan cracked open a single eye, her gaze passing over the girl's slender wrist before settling on her face.

The newcomer’s features were like those from a painting—rosy cheeks and delicate beauty, still in the bloom of youth, not yet grown. She was the sort of pretty child everyone would favor, though that charm had little effect on Wen Yan.

She had little patience for this younger sister who, in public, called her "Third Sister" but behind others’ backs referred to her by name with little respect. If not for the blood they shared, and the Wen family's years of food and shelter, Wen Yan might have disposed of her the very first time she overstepped.

Having lived for centuries, Wen Yan had little desire to bicker with a slip of a girl whose years didn’t even amount to a fraction of her own. Yet, Wen Changning was insufferably overbearing in her presence, as if she were in need of a lesson.

Oblivious to her own peril, Wen Changning continued to act as she pleased, clearly displeased by Wen Yan’s silence. Seeing Wen Yan sprawled bonelessly on the chair, she grew impatient.

"Are you stupid? I’m talking to you—where’s the cloth?"

Wen Yan closed her eyes again and lazily asked, "What do you want it for?"

Wen Changning replied, self-assured, "I’m going to make shoes with it."

"That’s the material for my spring robes," Wen Yan responded.

According to family custom, the Wen household provided two sets of new clothes each season; sometimes a seamstress would be summoned, sometimes only the cloth would be distributed. The bolt in Wen Yan’s keeping was her share for this spring.

Wen Changning, of course, knew this. She shrugged it off. "You barely go out anyway—what’s the point of so many new clothes? Didn’t you hardly wear last year’s? Wear them again this year and let me have the cloth for my shoes."

She muttered under her breath, "Such a fuss. Just give it to me already."

Clearly not inclined to argue further, Wen Changning turned and marched straight into Wen Yan’s room, questioning the flustered maid as she went: "Qingyun, where is it? Is it in her room?"

"Stop."

She had barely taken two steps when Wen Yan’s voice called her back.

It was strange—the voice was calm, neither loud nor soft, not hurried nor slow, utterly without threat. Yet Wen Changning found herself rooted to the spot, unable to move.

Though the weather was warm, a chill crept suddenly up her neck and she shrank into herself uneasily.

Her swagger gone, Wen Changning turned back, embarrassment turning to anger as she glared fiercely at Wen Yan.

"What do you want?"

She tried to sound forceful, but the effect was that of a paper tiger—all show, no substance.

To exchange more words with her would only make Wen Yan’s centuries seem wasted, and if any of her old rivals or friends ever heard of it, she would be laughed at for years.

Wen Yan waved her off with a single, airy word to end the pointless quarrel: "Leave."

Wen Changning glared, her face flushing with anger, but Wen Yan appeared half asleep throughout, clearly disinterested.

Her lips trembling, Wen Changning stared at Wen Yan for a long while before finally flinging out, "Just you wait, Wen Yan!"

With that, she stormed off, likely muttering to herself about revenge being best served cold; Wen Yan had heard it all before.

She stretched lazily in the warm sunlight, yawned, and soon drifted off again.

Yet, having been disturbed, her second nap was less peaceful. In a half-dreaming haze, she seemed to tumble once more into that distant, unreachable world.

She saw many faces—some familiar, some not. Some laughed with her, some gnashed their teeth in hatred, some drew swords and swore to kill her.

But in the end, all those scenes dissolved into the sky, where thunderbolts, thick as arms and violet as the heavens, crashed down upon her with deafening fury.

Wen Yan awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright.

"Miss Third!"

She had woken suddenly, as if from a nightmare. Qingyun, alarmed, hurried over with a cup of tea.

Wen Yan’s head was still buzzing, the echoes of thunder from seven years ago ringing in her ears.

She took the cup and sipped absentmindedly, her thoughts drifting back to her dream and, all at once, to seven years prior.

Seven years ago, Wen Yan had not been Wen Yan—not even born into this world.

In that other world, humans, demons, and spirits coexisted, and spiritual energy was abundant. As long as one possessed a spiritual root, anyone could cultivate. Wen Yan had been the most brilliant among them.

For two thousand years, none had ascended to the heavens; everyone said the Celestial Ladder was broken. Wen Yan alone, having proven herself in the mortal world, stood a single step from ascension.

The day she finally took that last step, the entire cultivation world—friend and foe, human and demon—gathered on Mount Wuheng to witness her heavenly tribulation.

Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine bolts of tribulation lightning rained down. She endured for seven days and nights, the heavens themselves seeming to split apart.

With her mortal body, she withstood every bolt and survived the ordeal.

Yet she had never anticipated that the will of heaven itself would turn against her. When the tribulation ended and the auspicious clouds of ascension appeared, hidden within them was another thunderbolt, vast and destructive.

Before the eyes of all, Wen Yan was struck and obliterated, not even ashes remaining.

At this thought, Wen Yan almost laughed in anger.

A sharp crack sounded; Qingyun jumped and hurried over, only to see Wen Yan’s hand dripping with water, the shattered remains of a teacup still in her grasp.

She had crushed the cup to pieces.

Qingyun’s eyelid twitched. Swallowing her nerves, she asked carefully, "Miss Third, are you hurt?"

Wen Yan looked down, slowly unclenching her fingers as shards of porcelain clattered to the ground.

"Miss Third, did you burn yourself—" Qingyun’s words halted as she saw blood welling from Wen Yan’s palm. Her face paled and she quickly wrapped it with a pink handkerchief.

"Does it hurt, Miss? Please bear with it, I’ll fetch medicine."

She hurried inside to retrieve the salve.

Wen Yan gazed absently at the blood soaking into the silk, thinking of her former body—one unscathed even by divine weapons. This body was far too fragile; even shards of porcelain could cut her.

She had known weakness from the moment she awoke in this new form.

The girl who had once owned this body was also named Wen Yan. At the time, she was about ten years old, her features nearly identical to Wen Yan’s own as a child.

But the little Wen Yan was delicate and sickly, not yet grown, and a bout of cold had claimed her life at a tender age.

By rights, given her family’s standing, she should not have died so young.

Her father was a top scholar from the eighteenth year of Yongchang in the Great Jin Dynasty, now serving as Prefect of Xijiang City, a fourth-rank official. Her mother, Lady Lu, was born to the prominent and upright Lu family, a true daughter of nobility.

The Wen family had two sons and three daughters, all of Lady Lu’s issue. Their father took no concubines and kept clear of the pleasure quarters, living harmoniously with his wife.

Little Wen Yan was the third daughter, with an elder brother and sister, and a pair of twins below her.

When Lady Lu bore her first son and second daughter, it made for a perfect pair, and both children were clever and much adored.

When Wen Yan was born, her brother was about five, her sister four. When she was one, Lady Lu conceived again and birthed twins the following year.

By then, Lady Lu was no longer young, and the twins were weak and required even more care. Thus, little Wen Yan, sandwiched in the middle and quite unremarkable, was inevitably neglected.

When she was eight, playing by the lake with the twins, she fell in and became gravely ill. Her health never recovered, and by ten, she had died—making way for the new Wen Yan.

Had she been properly cared for, she would not have died young, but the Wen family never realized that their neglect had cost them a daughter.

Their disregard continued as always. Her father busied himself with official duties; Lady Lu managed the household.

Of the younger generation, her elder brother Wen Ruxu followed in their father’s footsteps, focused on study and ambition. Second sister Wen Ruqing enjoyed business, spending her days establishing a considerable fortune.

The twin brother, Wen Hening, was a scion of idle youth, gallivanting about the city with other rich young men.

Only the youngest, Wen Changning, still bore a grudge over the punishment she received after Wen Yan’s fall into the lake, and often came to make trouble.

Yet seven years had passed in a blink, and not a soul noticed that the spirit within this shell had long since changed.

Wen Yan had followed the customs of the Great Jin, gone to the temple for prayers, and lit a perpetual lamp for the previous Wen Yan, considering this a fulfillment of fate.

Listlessly, she returned to the cushioned lounge, tidied her brocade robes, and gazed at the garden, where spring was beginning to stir. Recalling the lunch of squab, fish soup, and marinated goose web and duck’s tongue, she gradually felt at peace.

She did not know whether her rebirth here had anything to do with the machinations of Heaven, but her old world was lost to her. In these seven years with the Wen family, she had lived in luxury and comfort—far better than anything in her previous life.

Few knew that Wen Yan was, at heart, a lazy soul who lived for pleasure.

Eating, drinking, and making merry was her true desire. Unfortunately, her previous birth had been inauspicious, her path crooked and full of enemies; a moment’s carelessness could have been fatal.

Now, though she had lost her cultivation, there were no demons or rivals here, no mortal enemies. Living out her days in wealth and peace was no challenge at all.

As for the Wen family, they were not her true kin. In fact, her age far outstripped all of theirs combined. If they ever did treat her as a true daughter or sister, that would have been truly absurd.