His eyelids unpeeled with the stubborn weight of dried glue. Blur and brightness wrestled for focus until a human outline swam in front of him. Jared scrubbed his knuckles across both sockets; the light smeared, but the figure stayed unresolved, haloed by a pale glow.
“Who are you? Where am I?” The questions came out thin, as if spoken from underwater. The silhouette turned. Recognition slammed through him; Jared lurched forward, arms closing around the blurred shoulders, tears igniting behind his eyelids. “Mr. Sanders, I… I just had a terrible dream!”
Fragments of the beating rushed back—the taunting grins, the useless fists that wouldn’t summon power, the taste of blood he hadn’t earned. Fresh fear crawled over the joy of seeing his mentor.
Mr. Sanders answered with a mild smile, his palm brushing Jared’s hair the way one settles a startled dog. “Foolish kid, that wasn‘t a dream.”
“Not a dream?” The words tasted like chalk; they stuck to his tongue. “How can it not be? In that… place, no one knew me. Anyone could hit me.”
Mr. Sanders‘s voice lowered to a teacher’s cadence. “It truly wasn’t a dream. That was your other life. If you hadn’t carried the Golden Dragon’s True Form, the world you just saw would have been your only one.”
Jared froze, bewilderment pooling behind his ribs. “If I weren’t the Dragon… would Josephine, Lizbeth—would they really not know me?” He stared at his own hands, as if fingerprints might confirm which world was dominant.
“Exactly. Without the Dragon‘s blood you’d never have received the Focus Technique; without the Technique you’d be an ordinary man. And an ordinary life bends differently.” Mr. Sanders’s tone was gentle, not apologizing, just stating the shape of things.
Jared‘s tongue felt bitter as the truth settled. He exhaled and said, “I understand now… I got this far not because I’m brilliant, but because of the Golden Dragon’s True Form, and because of who my father is.”
Jared’s mind flicked through bright faces—Josephine laughing, Lizbeth rolling her eyes—and he felt a hot sting of shame. They hadn’t fallen for him; they‘d fallen for the golden badge of his bloodline. If he had been plain Jared from the alley, not the dragon‘s heir, Josephine and Lizbeth would have walked past him like street vendors they forgot to pay.
Mr. Sanders clicked his tongue, amusement hiding fatigue. “Good that you know… A man’s birth usually writes the ceiling above his head. Grind yourself against it anyway.” A dry warmth landed on Jared’s shoulder. Mr. Sanders’s palm lingered just long enough to be a promise, then slipped away.
Jared licked his lips, unsettled, and forced the question out. “Mr. Sanders, that Lord of Reincarnation, he… Huh?”
“Over there…” Mr. Sanders didn’t raise his voice; he only tilted his chin. His finger cut the air like a quiet blade, locking Jared’s attention.
Jared followed the invisible arrow and froze. Not ten paces away, a neat-looking man, maybe thirty, knelt in the dust, shoulders twitching like paper caught in rain. At his knees, a dark damp halo spread; fear had squeezed the water right out of him.
“He’s the Lord of Reincarnation?” The words escaped before Jared could dam them. His gaze crawled over the man’s pale cheeks, waiting for some hidden storm to reveal itself, but found only tremors. Nothing about him matched the legend Jared had rehearsed—the conqueror who bent reincarnation to his will. *Isn’t he the ruthless pioneer who carved a brand-new path through the cycles of life and death?*
Mr. Sanders burst into laughter, the sound rolling like loose stones down a hill. “Lord of Reincarnation, my foot. He’s just a ghost playing dress-up, flaunting the Ghost Clan’s Door of Reincarnation to scam the crowd.”
“Ghost Clan?” The term scraped Jared’s mind raw; he had never heard it before. Entire libraries he‘d skimmed, yet not a single page had whispered of such a race.
Mr. Sanders rested his hands behind his back. “The heavenly wheel turns, souls depart, those tricks belong to the Ghost Clan… Do you recall how I could bring back someone whose very soul had been erased?”
Jared nodded quickly. “I remember… One wave of your hand scatters souls, another wave pulls them back.”
Mr. Sanders chuckled. “I’m not that mighty. When a soul is truly erased from the Three Realms, nothing can resurrect it… What you witnessed was different; the so-called obliterated souls were hurled into the Ghost Clan’s Reincarnation Division so they could crawl back.” He let the truth hang between them like damp sheets on a line.
Jared‘s pulse skipped. “Mr. Sanders, are you with the Ghost Clan?” The possibility felt like a stone dropping through his chest.
“I am no ghost,” Mr. Sanders answered. “I’m merely on friendly terms with their king… Because of that friendship,” he added, turning a bored glance toward the Lord of Reincarnation, “I’ll spare you today. Your clan’s ruin was sealed by fate anyway.”
The gaunt official collapsed to his knees, his forehead thudding against the stone. “Thank you for showing mercy…” His voice quivered between terror and relief.
Heat flooded Jared’s throat. “Where are the Flaxseed spirits? Bring them out! Now!”
“They were dispatched to the Reincarnation Division long ago,” the Lord stammered, shoulders shaking. “I… I can’t reach them.”
Jared faced Mr. Sanders. “Mr. Flaxseed saved my life; I swore to retrieve his clan’s souls so they can live again. Please, help me, Mr. Sanders.” Hope pressed behind his eyes, bright and desperate.
Mr. Sanders snorted. “That pock-faced rogue spent his days teaching you to chase skirts. Now your heart’s tangled, and he’s partly to blame.” His glare hit Jared like a slap. Color rushed into Jared’s cheeks.
“It’s not his fault,” he muttered. “I was born a romantic; that‘s on me.”
Mr. Sanders sighed. With an idle flick of his palm, hundreds of multicolored lights burst from the gray soil of the Reincarnation Realm and streaked toward the sky. “They’re home,” he said. “The Flaxseed spirits have returned.”
Relief bloomed across Jared’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Sanders! Since you’re here,” Jared ventured, “could you also restore Maxwell, and maybe knock some sense into the Celestial Clan Chief? Maxwell is a Hall Master of my Dragon Sect… And Mr. Vermilion’s lady, could you bring her back too?”
Mr. Sanders arched a brow. “Not happening. You made those promises, you keep them. Weren’t you headed to the Clan Chief to negotiate Maxwell‘s release?”
“I… I guess…” Jared’s mouth hung open. With his current strength, he might never match that man. Rumor called the Chief a Golden Immortal; Jared was only a humble Heavenly Immortal. One careless breath from the Chief could snuff him out.
Jared felt the old man’s palm leave his shoulder. “Everything here is settled,” Mr. Sanders said, his voice as calm as banked coals. “Head to level thirteen. From now on, spend your thoughts on cultivation, not distractions.”
Jared opened his mouth before he could stop himself. “I‘m only at the Heavenly Immortal Realm. Level thirteen requires High Immortal, and I’ve heard…”
He never finished. White light flooded his vision, wiping every outline clean. The glare receded. The sickly gray of the Reincarnation Realm was gone; a raw wasteland sprawled beneath a bruised sky. Mountains surrounded him, but their peaks lay shattered, as if a giant heel had stomped them to powder.
“Mr. Sanders?!” The name ricocheted off broken cliffs and came back empty. Silence pressed in; the old master had vanished.
