Chapter 03

In a space devoid of a single point of light, in a darkness that made one forget the long passage of time, I found a strange repose, and my soul putrefied to its very core.

It was a void with no fore or aft, no above or below. There, I existed amidst the stories spun by countless others. They were clearly not beings who existed in this space and time, yet for some reason, I could see and hear their tales. They were like visions conjured by a campfire, like a mirage on a long summer’s day.

They were all different. Their races, genders, and ages varied. Some had lived in cultures so mystical and unfamiliar, while others had belonged to bizarre civilizations I had never even dreamed of. Yet, they all shared one thing in common.

Their stories shared a common thread.

A terrible tragedy.

Without exception, every one of them was the protagonist of a story steeped in such appalling tragedy. If I dared to guess, a thought occurred to me that they might have been the Fated Ones who came before me. Of course, there was no way to confirm this.

Time continued to flow. At some point, the stories ceased. Thinking back on it, perhaps there was never a voice to begin with. Were these all just tales I had concocted to fend off the crushing boredom? Or were they merely fantasies born from a mind that had shattered under the relentless torture?

An eternity passed in this way. A time that could be measured in eons,¹ or perhaps in nayutas.² If time did not flow here at all, then perhaps it could be described as nothing more than a single moment, a fleeting instant.³

Then, at a certain point. A small light appeared in the far distance.

From that light, I could feel the faint warmth of the living, the vibrant pulse of the secular world. I drifted toward it as if enchanted. And when the light was near enough, I understood.

I understood that this cold, desolate, and dreadfully lonely darkness was the very essence, the deepest chamber of my soul. I understood that though I was moving toward the light, I was no longer a being who belonged to it. I had been reassembled, reconfigured by a primeval⁴ monster whose origins I could not even fathom: The Scripture that Commands the Dark and Quakes the Heavens.

And in that moment of realization, I knew.

I was ready.

***

He opened his eyes with the refreshing clarity of one waking from a sweet afternoon nap, as if the hours of agony and shock had been a lie. As if it had all been nothing more than a short nightmare during a deep slumber, he rose without a hint of trouble. His body was so comfortable, so whole, that the memory of being tortured and dismembered felt almost embarrassing. Just like that, as though waking from a full and satisfying sleep, he awoke.

“…Was it a dream?”

Of course, he knew better.

Coiled brazenly within his Danjeon was a heavy, malevolent energy that felt as if it had always belonged there. It was unmistakably the aura of the Scripture that Commands the Dark and Quakes the Heavens. The same dreadful Demonic Qi[1] he had encountered in that subterranean prison now resided within him. For now, it granted him only a fraction of its total power, yet that pure Demonic Qi, as stark and vivid as a spark landing on dark cloth, was a searing reminder that everything had been real.

“Hmm…”

His body, once broken to the point of death, was now in a state of absolute perfection. The way it moved so naturally felt almost alien to him. He lifted a hand before his eyes, clenching and unclenching his fist. Five fingers were attached to a hand so fair and fine that it was without a single blemish, let alone a scar or wound.

“Where is this…”

He pushed himself up. It was a bedroom of refined taste, the air thick with the scent of ink. The walls, lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, spoke to the character of its owner.

“…This is my room.”

He felt he could name the location of every book on every shelf without even looking. In his entire life, this was the one space where he had felt most at ease. This was the bedroom he had used since childhood, in his family’s home.

“…It said it would give me one more chance.”

The scripture had promised him another chance. But to return to the past… He would have been content just to escape that purgatory. He had planned to start from there. His loved ones were all dead and gone, but that would have been fine. Simply not dying helplessly in that prison would have been enough of a new chance for him.

But to be sent back to the past…!

“…Khhh…”

A laugh escaped his lips, unbidden. The Scripture that Commands the Dark and Quakes the Heavens—the entity that had called itself a scripture that defies the heavens—was a far more terrifying being than he had ever imagined. It had demonstrated a dominion, a power to turn back time itself through means he could not possibly comprehend. For a fleeting moment, he grew curious about the monster’s true nature, but that hardly mattered now.

He had returned to the past.

He had been granted the ultimate opportunity.

“Kahahahaha…!”

As if responding to his laughter, the Demonic Qi of the scripture snarled and roared within him.

***

He sat on the edge of the bed. The sight of his hands, which were clearly those of a teenager, and the familiar view of his family’s bedroom, which had until now existed only in memory, confirmed that he had returned to the past. But he needed to know the exact time to which he had returned.

That was a simple enough task. The clues were all around him, more than sufficient.

“Hmm…”

He scanned the books that packed the bedroom. It seemed like a quick, sweeping glance, but it was far more. The information of every book that had ever been in his room remained perfectly preserved in his mind—when each book had arrived, and where it had been placed at any given time. He meticulously compared the scene in his memory with what he saw before him now. It was a simple task, completed in the space of a few breaths.

“…Seventeen years old, the second month.”

His own youthful voice sounded unfamiliar.

His eyes deepened. He looked back on his life, one so full of turmoil and hardship[2], and reassembled the pieces, again and again. His gaze was like that of an Immortal Sage[3], who could glance at the opening moves on a Go board and instantly foresee the countless plays that would follow.

“…”

It was a faint noise from outside that pulled him from his long reverie.

“You think the Grand Young Master has risen yet?”

“Eh, what does it matter? He’ll just wake up and bury his nose in a book again, won’t he?”

“…Gods. To think the Grand Young Master of the Sword Clan of Luoyang[4], hailed as the Number One Family in the Central Plains, would turn out like this…”

“No wonder everyone calls him the Swordless One[5]. Truly a pathetic state of affairs.”

“Still, he used to be so famous for his brilliance…”

“That must have all been just empty rumors.”

“Born as the heir to the great Sword Clan of Luoyang, a family so grand they’re called the Heavenly Family[6], I suppose he can do whatever he pleases, can’t he?”

It was, without a doubt, the conversation of servants bad-mouthing him. Hearing such talk would have angered any ordinary person, but his eyes remained utterly indifferent[7]. In his past life, he had never been one to be swayed by the happiness and sadness over trivial matters[8]. But the man he was now had his soul stained to its very edges by the madness and Demonic Qi of the Scripture that Commands the Dark and Quakes the Heavens.

On the surface, his mind was like the placid calm of a lake of unknowable depth. But far below, a volcano seethed, ready to erupt at any moment.

“…Hello? Is anyone out there?” he called out, feigning a loud voice.

No one answered.

It was to be expected. His quarters[9] were located in one of the Sword Clan of Luoyang’s secret compounds[10], and the soundproofing[11] techniques applied here were surely the finest in the Central Plains. And yet, he had been able to hear the servants whispering outside with perfect clarity.

“Is this another power from the scripture…?”

His hearing was likely not the only thing that had been affected.

He took his time, patiently repeating a cycle of experimentation and observation. It did not take long to reach a conclusion. His physical abilities had improved dramatically—stamina, strength, his five senses, everything.

“…Incredible.”

He looked into a bronze mirror. Reflected there was not the frail, weak body of his past. Instead, he saw a physique like forged steel, one that only those who had trained to their absolute limits could possess. The body, with every single fiber of muscle clearly defined, was almost grotesque in its perfection. As he admired his form, he soon noticed something else.

“Hoh…?”

The mirror reflected his own face, twisted into an expression so unsettling it was chilling to behold. Was this the face of a Demonic Master, one pickled in killing intent and seeped to the marrow with Demonic Qi?

“My, my.”

He gazed into the mirror, consciously trying to alter his expression.

“Like this…”

He tried to lower the corners of his mouth. He smoothed the wrinkles on his forehead. He softened his glare.

“…It’s only become more grotesque.”

A guttural, phlegmy laugh, klklkl, escaped him. He would have to fix his laugh as well.

“There is plenty of time…”

He raised his hands and rubbed his face as if kneading dough. First, he needed to relax the muscles. As he rubbed vigorously, he felt heat bloom across his skin and the muscles of his face grow pliable. Then, he looked into the mirror again and began practicing his expressions.

“Hmm. I need to create a more… ‘human’ face…”

After staring at the mirror for a long while, the absurdity of his situation struck him, and a natural laugh spilled out. Kekekek—it was a laugh mixed with a sharp, metallic clang. As he continued to wrestle with his own reflection, he spoke.

“…Come to think of it.”

In the mirror was a face that would surely make a child faint from terror. He muttered in a puzzled voice, as if seeking an answer from the man in the mirror.

“What does it even mean… to be human?”

No matter how bizarre his expression, what the mirror reflected was the face of a man anyone would have to admit was a peerlessly handsome young master.

But that was not what he was looking at.

Where his two eyes had been, there were now only gaping, empty holes, twisted in agony and weeping tears of blood. Where his nose had been, two nostrils remained, leaking blood and pus. Not a single patch of skin on his face was left unscathed, and in his throat dangled a tongue that was barely more than a stump.

This was not the image the mirror reflected.

This was the image in his mind’s eye.

Wounded, twisted, distorted, and contaminated…

This was the madness of the scripture he now held within him.