The scent of blood was heavier than the rain.
In her final moments, Lin Wuyin didn't scream. She didn't cry. She only looked at the sky, watched the storm wash the warmth from her broken body, and waited for her last breath to leave her lungs.
She had failed.
A blade pierced her side. Another slashed across her back. Dozens of wounds carved her flesh like parchment—but none of them hurt as much as the silence from her handler's voice, the one that had always guided her. Cold abandonment was sharper than steel.
She had always been obedient. Always efficient. Always deadly.
But she had failed.
And in the world she came from, there was no forgiveness for failure.
Her world blurred, the puddles pooling beneath her like mirrors. She saw her face reflected there—pale, with lifeless eyes and wet black hair stuck to her skin like ivy. Her lips parted as if to say something, but the rain swallowed her voice.
There were no last words.
Only silence.
Then—
Darkness.
---
A faint warmth stirred her.
Not the warmth of a bed, or comfort, or even pain—just the sensation of something solid beneath her. The scent of earth, moss, and blood.
Lin Wuyin opened her eyes.
Or perhaps… someone else did.
The world was different. Softer. Wilder.
A forest canopy above her. Cold wind brushing against small, thin arms. The faint glint of a jade necklace resting at the hollow of her throat.
She was no longer a woman grown, honed to be a tool of death.
She was a child.
Three years old. Body thin from hunger. Clothes torn, caked with dirt. Her mind spun, caught between two existences—her past life, and the memories not her own. A quiet will whispered within her—a girl's voice, filled with confusion and sorrow.
"Please… find out what happened to me."
And just like that, Lin Wuyin understood.
She was not just reborn.
She was chosen—or perhaps entrusted.
She looked down at her small, shaking hands. Then reached for the necklace at her throat.
The jade pendant was shaped like a plum blossom. Carved delicately, masterfully. Something only nobility would wear.
It was the only proof of the girl's identity.
And now—it was hers.
Lin Wuyin sat in silence for hours.
The wind stirred the trees. Birds chirped. Somewhere in the distance, wolves howled. She did not fear them. In fact, she listened to them, mimicked them.
When night fell, she hid in the roots of a hollow tree.
When hunger gnawed at her, she foraged for mushrooms, nuts, and roots. She observed how the squirrels stored food, how snakes struck prey. She imitated everything. Everything, except humans.
Because there were none.
---
Days passed. Then months. Then years.
She grew in solitude—her limbs lean, her eyes sharp. Her hair long and untamed. Her body was no longer a child's, yet not fully a woman's either.
At age seven, she stumbled upon a cave deep in the mountainside.
Inside it, death hung in the air.
The skeleton of a seated figure rested against the stone wall. Its robes bore the markings of an ancient sect—one she had never seen in the memories of her past life.
Beneath its hand, a scroll lay untouched.
She bowed.
Out of habit. Out of respect.
Then, she read.
And what she found was something that shouldn't have existed in the current world.
Silent Monarch Arts.
A cultivation technique meant not just for fighting—but for disappearing.
Shadow movement. Qi disruption. Blade illusions. Hidden poisons that kill without a trace. Whisper-step techniques that leave no footprints. A way of becoming nameless—a ghost in a world of roaring heroes.
She did not hesitate.
---
Ten years passed.
She trained alone. Grew alone.
Her sword—found buried beside the skeleton—became her companion.
Animals watched her from the trees. She sometimes whispered to them.
Her stoic face never smiled, but she hummed when it rained.
She chewed strange herbs and roots, some bitter, some sweet. She cultivated in silence. Slept with her sword across her lap. Dreamed of a face she'd never known—a woman with pale fingers, placing a necklace around a child's neck.
Her name was Lin Wuyin now.
Maybe it always had been.
---
Seventeen.
That was her age when they came.
Bandits.
Loud. Arrogant. Filthy.
They desecrated the trees, littered the rivers, burned the brush.
She watched them from the treetops, unseen. Her breathing did not shake. Her fingers did not tremble.
When one of them wandered too close—
She struck.
The blade pierced his throat with barely a whisper. He gargled blood. Fell. Died.
It was her first kill in this life.
She did not blink.
But she did kneel beside his corpse.
"...Sorry."
---
She left the forest that night.
Not because she wanted to. But because the peace she had carved for herself was now broken.
There was no longer silence.
There were people again. With them came conflict. Chaos. Fate.
She followed the path the bandits had come from—toward civilization.
After months on a storm-washed road, with her blade at her hip — She saw her.
A caravan.
Dozens of wagons, sleek and heavily packed with goods. Guards standing tense, backs to the trees. And at the center—
A girl in silk robes, clutching a teacup.
Her lips were calm.
Her eyes—sharp like jade.
Bandits surrounded the caravan, demanding tolls.
But she didn't yield.
She didn't beg.
She raised her chin, sipped her tea, and said:
"The Bai family does not bow to mongrels."
Lin Wuyin blinked.
Something strange fluttered in her chest.
Something unfamiliar. Dangerous.
Intriguing.
So she watched.
And when the bandits drew their swords—
She moved.