I am dead.
Lucas was certain of it.
He had felt the train shatter. Heard the screams. Felt his sister's fingers slip from his grasp before the crushing weight of impact took him.
He had drifted through the void, lost in an endless abyss, his very existence unraveling like threads pulled from a tapestry. Then, just as he had begun to fade into nothingness—something pulled him back.
And now… pain.
A deep, relentless throbbing in his chest. A searing, skull-splitting ache in his head, as though someone had driven a metal spike through his brain and left it there to pulse in agony. His lungs burned as if he had been suffocating moments ago, and every inch of his body felt as if it had been hammered and broken before being poorly stitched back together.
A weak, rasping breath left his lips, barely more than a dry whisper. The simple act of breathing sent another wave of pain rolling through him, rattling deep in his bones.
How?
How was he feeling pain if he was dead?
Is this a dream?
No. Dreams didn't hurt like this. Dreams didn't make his ribs feel as though they had been cracked apart and hastily shoved back into place.
Then what the hell was happening?
Lucas forced his eyes open, expecting nothingness.
Instead—he saw a ceiling.
A wooden ceiling, dark and aged, with thick support beams stretching across like the ribs of some ancient beast. Lanterns hung from iron hooks, casting a dim, flickering glow that danced along the stone walls.
This was not the train.
This was not his city.
His heart hammered, sending a fresh jolt of pain through his chest, but he ignored it, forcing his blurry vision to focus. His body was sluggish, too heavy, as though he were wearing chains he couldn't see.
Slowly, he turned his head.
The room around him was nothing like the sterile, technology-filled spaces he had known. The walls were made of polished stone bricks, sturdy and meticulously crafted. Large wooden shelves lined one side of the room, filled with aged scrolls, leather-bound tomes, and strange, unrecognizable artifacts. A thick fur rug covered part of the stone floor, and a large fireplace burned in the corner, embers crackling softly.
The bed beneath him was massive, far larger than anything he had ever slept on. The sheets were made of thick, high-quality fabric, embroidered with golden threads forming intricate patterns. Even in his hazy state, he could tell—this was the kind of luxury only the wealthy or nobility could afford.
Everything about the room screamed medieval-era opulence.
His mind reeled.
Where… the hell am I?
The air itself felt… strange. Heavy. Thick with something more than oxygen.
Lucas inhaled slowly, and the moment he did—his entire body shuddered.
The air was rich. Not with pollution or chemicals, but something else, something tangible. It felt as though the very atmosphere carried an invisible energy, dense and overwhelming, pressing against his skin, wrapping around his limbs.
It was Qi.
And it was unlike anything he had ever experienced.
Back in the city, Qi had existed, but it was diluted, thin—scarce. Only the most powerful cultivators had the wealth to obtain purified Qi sources. What little he had been able to absorb had taken years of effort, barely increasing his strength beyond that of an average civilian.
But here…
It was everywhere.
It filled his lungs, thrummed in his veins. Every breath sent an unfamiliar, foreign sensation coursing through his body, igniting something deep within his core.
Too much.
Lucas coughed, his body instinctively rejecting the overwhelming surge of Qi. His limbs trembled. His muscles spasmed. He felt assaulted by the sheer density of energy around him.
It was like a man who had starved his entire life suddenly being forced to consume a feast meant for kings.
His stomach churned, his skin prickled, and for a brief moment, he swore he could hear a low, distant hum—as if the very energy in the air was alive, watching him, waiting.
His head pounded. The pain, the unfamiliar sensations, the overwhelming confusion—it was too much.
Lucas squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm the rapid pounding of his heart.
No. He needed to think. He needed to understand what was happening.
He forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Slow, deliberate breaths, despite the pain.
One fact was clear—he was not dead.
Or if he was… this was nothing like what he had expected the afterlife to be.
His body, this room, the overwhelming Qi—none of it made sense.
His vision swam as he tried to lift his hands. They felt different—thicker, stronger, as though they didn't belong to him. He turned his palms toward his face, struggling to focus.
The hands he saw were not his own.
They were smaller, more calloused. This body was not just different. It was younger. Weaker. Frail.
His breath caught in his throat.
Slowly, he dragged his hand toward his face, his fingers grazing his cheek. The sensation was real—solid. His skin felt different. Lighter. As though he wasn't just in a different place, but in a different body.
The realization struck like a hammer.
Reincarnation.
No. That was impossible. That only happened in stories, in myths.
And yet—he was here.
He was alive.
And this was not his body.
A sharp knock suddenly echoed through the wooden door.
Lucas stiffened. His mind screamed at him to prepare, but his body was still weak, unfamiliar. The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside.
A man.
Tall, imposing, dressed in fine robes of deep crimson and gold embroidery. His face was lined with age, his sharp eyes filled with something Lucas couldn't yet name. Power? Authority?
The moment the man's gaze landed on Lucas, his expression shifted from composed to something unreadable.
Lucas' breath hitched.
Whoever this man was, he knew this body.
And if Lucas wasn't careful…
He would soon be exposed as an imposter.
Lucas barely had time to process his situation before the man stepped forward.
His expression—stern yet weary—softened the moment he saw Lucas lying there, his body frail and unmoving.
The man exhaled deeply, his broad shoulders sagging slightly. For a long moment, he simply stood there, his sharp gaze drinking in every detail. His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but instead, he turned away, walking toward a small wooden table beside the bed.
Lucas could barely make out his movements, but he saw the man reach for a ceramic bowl filled with water. With practiced hands, he dipped a soft cloth into it, wrung it out, and walked back toward the bed.
Then, with a slow and careful touch, he began wiping Lucas' skin.
Lucas almost flinched at the sensation. The cloth was warm, damp, and oddly soothing as it moved across his forehead, brushing away the sweat that had gathered there.
The man's hands were rough with calluses, but his touch was gentle. There was something deeply personal about the way he moved—not like a servant tending to a noble, but a father caring for his sick child.
Lucas could see it now.
The quiet sadness on the man's face.
The way his brows were furrowed, the faint crease in his forehead deepening as he worked. His fingers trembled slightly, though he tried to hide it.
This man…
He had been here before. Countless times.
Caring for this body. Hoping. Waiting. Fearing.
Lucas realized, with a strange heaviness in his chest, that this man had mourned him.
How long had this body been like this? Days? Weeks? Longer?
The thought made something twist inside him.
The man dipped the cloth back into the water, his lips pressing into a thin line. He stared at Lucas' face for a moment—almost like he was expecting him to disappear.
Then, he spoke.
"You held on for so long…" His voice was deep, but hoarse, like someone who had spent too many sleepless nights in silence. "Yet your body grew colder by the day."
He let out a tired breath, dipping the cloth back into the water. "I prayed, though I knew the heavens have long since stopped listening to men like me." His movements slowed. "Even so… I still hoped."
Lucas' heart clenched.
He wasn't sure why, but hearing those words—feeling the raw weight behind them—made the reality of his situation sink in even more.
This man was not just some stranger.
He was his father.
Or rather, the father of this body.
A man who had waited, suffered, and grieved for a son that would never return.
And here Lucas was. An intruder in his son's body.
The guilt hit him hard and fast. He hadn't even spoken a word, but already, he felt like a fraud.
His throat tightened. He wanted to say something—to explain, to ask, to apologize—but his body was still weak. His limbs felt like dead weight, and even breathing took effort.
The man—his father—continued wiping his arms and chest, the warmth of the cloth soothing against his skin. His skin… Lucas still wasn't used to it. It was thinner, paler, almost sickly. This body was weaker than any he had ever known.
A few droplets of water dripped from the cloth and landed on his lips.
The moment the moisture touched his mouth, Lucas realized just how dry his throat was.
He swallowed instinctively, and the movement must have been visible because the man froze.
A beat of silence passed.
Then another.
Lucas, still struggling to even move, barely managed to crack his eyes open.
The moment his gaze met the man's, he saw it—
Shock.
Pure, unfiltered, disbelieving shock.
The cloth slipped from his father's fingers, landing in the water with a faint splash. His eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat.
Lucas' lips parted, trying to form words, but his voice was gone.
The man's expression changed.
His shock melted into something deeper—something raw, overwhelming.
And then, before Lucas could even process what was happening, the man stumbled forward, gripping his face with trembling hands.
"You—" His voice broke.
Lucas barely had time to react before he was pulled into a tight embrace.
The man's arms wrapped around him, holding him as though he might disappear at any second. Lucas felt the weight of the man's body against him, the slight tremors in his grip.
A strangled breath left the man's lips.
"You're awake."
Lucas could hear the disbelief, the desperation, the relief pouring from those words.
"You're awake," the man repeated, voice shaking. His hands clutched at the back of Lucas' head, pressing him closer, as if trying to confirm that this was real.
Lucas, still reeling, could do nothing but sit there, frozen.
He had never been held like this before.
Not in his old life.
Not even when he was dying.
The warmth of the embrace, the weight of the emotions behind it—it was foreign to him.
But to this man… to Elder Gideon Alden…
This moment was everything.
Lucas felt his chest tighten. His throat burned, but not from thirst this time.
For the first time since waking up in this body, he understood something very clearly.
He was not alone.
But the thought didn't bring him comfort.
Because in his past life, he hadn't been alone either.
He had his sister.
His little sister, who had been with him through everything. Who had been on that train with him. Who had died with him.
And now… she was gone.
A cold, hollow ache settled in his chest. The warmth of the embrace, the weight of Elder Gideon's arms around him—
it was foreign, yes, but it was also… familiar. A painful reminder of what he had lost.
Lucas clenched his weak fingers into the fabric of the man's robes.
This was real.
This life was real.
But she wasn't here.
And no amount of warmth could change that.