The birthing chamber of the Evernight Clan was cold. Not from neglect—the clan simply believed that warmth bred weakness. Children of the Evernight bloodline were exposed to the biting chill of their ancestral mountain from their very first breath. Those who survived grew strong. Those who didn't were forgotten. Two cries pierced the silence. The first was loud, full-throated, furious—as if the child resented being torn from the comfort of the womb and thrust into this cruel, freezing world. The midwives exchanged approving glances. A strong cry meant strong lungs. Strong lungs meant a body worth cultivating. The second cry was quieter. Restrained. A single, brief sound, and then silence. The midwives hesitated. "The second-born... is he breathing?" An elder woman leaned closer, her weathered hands hovering over the smaller of the two infants. His skin was pale—too pale, even for an Evernight child. His limbs were thin, his frame noticeably weaker than his brother's. But his eyes... His eyes were open. Newborns did not open their eyes so soon. Their muscles were too undeveloped, their awareness too dim. And yet this child stared upward with an unblinking gaze that made the elder's hands tremble for reasons she could not name. "He lives," she said slowly, pulling her hands back. "But he is... small. The weaker twin." Behind those open eyes, Valerian processed everything. *The Evernight Clan. A mid-tier power in the Northern Reaches. In my previous life, they were destroyed during the Sect Wars—consumed by the Iron Purgatory Sect before I had even reached the Foundation realm. Their bloodline technique, the Abyssal Vein Breathing Method, was considered inferior. Limited. A dead end.* *But I know things now that no one in this era understands.* *I know what the Abyssal Vein truly is.* His tiny fingers curled—barely, imperceptibly—as his twin brother continued to wail beside him. *You cry because you are afraid, brother. That is natural. That is human.* *I do not cry because I have already spent a thousand years screaming.* *Patience. The body is fragile. The soul is intact. The memories are clear. But without cultivation, without a foundation rebuilt from nothing, I am weaker than the lowest insect. One careless mistake, one moment of arrogance, and this second chance becomes a second grave.* The door to the birthing chamber slid open. A tall figure entered—broad-shouldered, draped in the dark silver robes that marked the Evernight Clan's inner bloodline. His face was carved from stone, expression unreadable, but his eyes carried the faintest flicker of something human as they fell upon the two infants. Ashford Evernight. Patriarch of the Seventh Branch. Their father. He looked at the first-born twin—large, healthy, still crying with that defiant energy—and nodded once. Then his gaze shifted to Valerian. Smaller. Silent. Eyes open and watching. The Patriarch's brow creased. Not with concern. With assessment. "The elder twin will be named Caelan," he said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "He will carry the main branch's expectations." A pause. *I let out a soft, intentional cry.* I must play the part of the fragile brother to ensure I am overlooked while I cultivate. "The younger twin..." Ashford's eyes lingered on the small, pale infant a moment longer. That brief, unsettling stillness had not escaped him—but now the child was crying, a thin and reedy sound, the kind that spoke of weakness. His expression settled. Judgment was passed. "He will be named Valerian. Assign him to the outer nursery. If he survives the first winter, we will reassess." The midwives bowed. No one questioned the decision. In the Evernight Clan, resources were finite and mercy was a luxury afforded only to the strong. A weak child born alongside a strong twin was not a blessing—it was a comparison. A shadow cast to make the light seem brighter. Valerian felt himself lifted by rough, indifferent hands and carried away from the warmth of his brother's body. The cold deepened. The outer nursery was a stone room with thin blankets and no heating formations—a place where the clan deposited children they expected to die quietly. Three other cribs held infants who would not see their first birthday. *Good.* Behind the mask of his pitiful cry, Valerian's ancient mind was already calculating. *Overlooked. Underestimated. Placed in the lowest position with the lowest expectations. No one watches a dying child. No one monitors a failure. This is not punishment—this is freedom. Freedom to observe, to adapt, to begin laying foundations that no one in this primitive era could possibly recognize.* *Caelan... my brother. You will grow strong under their eyes, fed with resources and attention. And I will grow in the dark, where no one thinks to look.* *The Demonic God was not built in the light. He was forged in the places others refused to go.* His cry faded into silence, and the midwives did not look back. In the cold stone room, surrounded by the labored breathing of children marked for early graves, Valerian closed his eyes for the first time since his rebirth. Not to sleep. To plan, but before that. Valerian turned his awareness inward. In his previous life, he had possessed a soul so vast it could crush entire cities with spiritual pressure alone. Now, that same consciousness was crammed into a body no larger than a loaf of bread—fragile, undeveloped, with meridians thinner than spider silk and a dantian that had not yet solidified from its embryonic state. It was like trying to pour an ocean through the eye of a needle. He reached for his internal energy—the faintest wisp of natal qi that every living being possessed from birth. In a normal infant, this energy simply circulated passively, nourishing growth, strengthening bones and organs over the natural course of years. No child attempted cultivation before the age of six at the earliest. The body simply could not withstand it. Valerian knew this. He tried anyway. *I have done this a thousand times. I know the exact path. The Seventh Meridian Gate—the weakest point in the natal circuit. If I can crack it open even slightly, I can begin passive absorption of ambient qi years ahead of schedule. The advantage would be—* He pushed. The wisp of natal qi, guided by his will, pressed against the sealed meridian gate like a river trying to break through a dam. For a single, exhilarating moment, he felt it give—the faintest tremor, the barest hint of movement— Then pain. Not ordinary pain. Not the pain of a wound or a broken bone. This was something deeper—something *wrong*. His meridian walls, soft and unformed as wet clay, buckled under the pressure. Microscopic tears spread through the channel like cracks in glass. His tiny body seized, muscles locking, lungs refusing to draw air. The natal qi, instead of flowing forward, scattered wildly through his system like shards of broken glass, tearing at tissues too young and too fragile to endure even this minimal force. Valerian's vision went white. *Stop.* He released his grip on the energy immediately. The scattered qi dissipated, absorbed back into his flesh without direction or purpose. His body went limp in the crib, chest heaving in shallow, rapid breaths. A thin line of blood trickled from his left nostril—invisible in the dark room, unwitnessed by anyone. For a long time, he simply lay there. Breathing. Existing. Feeling the dull, throbbing ache of meridians that had nearly torn themselves apart. *Fool.* The word was directed entirely at himself. *You know better. You KNOW better. This body is days old. Days. The meridian walls haven't calcified. The dantian is still forming. Forcing qi circulation now isn't cultivation—it's suicide. Even with perfect technique, even with knowledge that surpasses every living being in this world, the vessel cannot hold what I'm trying to pour into it.* *This is not my old body. I cannot treat it as though it is.* *The laws of flesh do not bend to willpower alone.* He stared at the dark ceiling, his newborn eyes burning with an emotion that no infant should possess—cold, seething frustration. Not at the world. Not at the heavens. At himself. At the unbearable reality that knowledge without a capable body was nothing more than a beautiful painting locked inside a burning house. *Six years. At minimum, six years before the meridians are developed enough to withstand even basic qi circulation. And that's with careful, I breathe steadily, focusing on calming my body. I will wait, but I shall strengthen my flesh by controlling my breath to refine the natal qi.*

Chapter 1: The Cry of Two Wolves