“Your path is a special one, boy. Let us nurture it.”
Elder Jia’s hand, surprisingly light, settled on Meng Hao’s shoulder. The touch carried no warmth, only a subtle pressure that felt less like encouragement and more like a brand. Meng Hao stared silently, his left arm throbbing with the aftershocks of the force he'd exerted. Accepting this ‘nurturing’ meant enduring the benevolent gaze of a viper, but it also granted access—to medicinal herbs, to forgotten archives, to a temporary shield while his true power returned. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod.
“Good,” Elder Jia purred, his smile never wavering. “A swift understanding. We shall begin your tutelage tomorrow. For now, you are dismissed. Would you like to familiarize yourself with the sect’s archives? A mind like yours, I suspect, hungers for lore.” The elder’s eyes glinted, a suggestion rather than a question.
Meng Hao turned without a word, leaving behind the stunned disciples and the wailing Wei Changlo. His path was his own, always had been. He had found a new stepping stone. The Jade Spiral Sect’s vaunted library, the ‘Vault of Whispering Sages’, was his first target.
He spent the next few days in the Vault, a colossal structure of pale jade and ancient wood, its shelves stretching into shadowed distances. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that pierced high, narrow windows. Meng Hao moved through the aisles like a phantom, his gaze sweeping over the titles. He found tomes on the ‘Crimson Dewdrop Method’—a gentle art of internal purification—and scrolls detailing the ‘Serene Breeze Fist’—a defensive style focused on redirection. He saw volumes on ‘Cultivating the Verdant Heart’, ‘The Way of Harmonious Flow’, and ‘Echoes of the Tranquil Spirit’. Each manual championed the prevailing philosophy of Karmic Resonance, of yielding like reeds in a river. Meng Hao scoffed internally. Yielding was for the weak. Blending was for the unremarkable.
He needed power, absolute and unyielding. Power that tore, power that dominated, power that reminded the heavens of its rightful master. He needed the Path of Dissonance, and he would rebuild it from the ground up, even if it meant sifting through centuries of righteous drivel.
His search led him to a forgotten corner, a section marked with a small, faded plaque: ‘Anomalous Texts & Unverified Lore’. Here, the air was thicker, the dust heavier, and the energy… stagnant. He ran a finger over a leather-bound book, its cover slick with neglect. This was more like it. These were the hushed whispers, the things the 'harmonious' cultivators sought to bury.
As he was about to pull a particularly dark volume, a shadow fell over him. “Well, well, if it isn’t our new prodigy, Meng Hao.”
Meng Hao turned slowly. A young man, barely older than himself, stood there, flanked by two equally smug companions. This was Liu Fan, a senior disciple known for his sharp tongue and even sharper jealousy, especially towards anyone who garnered Elder Jia’s attention. Liu Fan wore robes of a richer jade green, indicating his higher standing, and his posture reeked of inherited arrogance.
“Lost, simpleton?” Liu Fan sneered, a cruel twist to his lips. “These aren’t picture books. Or perhaps you’re looking for instructions on how to trip over your own feet?” His cronies snickered, low and guttural.
Meng Hao’s expression remained blank. “I came for the records.” His flat tone only seemed to fuel Liu Fan’s amusement.
“Records, you say? What could you possibly grasp?” Liu Fan stepped closer, his eyes scanning the shelves. He plucked a small, squat volume from a high shelf Meng Hao hadn't noticed. It was bound in what looked like faded, cracked parchment, and its edges were brittle. The writing on its cover was unlike anything in the rest of the library, a series of jagged, interlocking runes that seemed to writhe even in the dim light.
“This, Meng Hao, is the ‘Sundered Soul Volume’,” Liu Fan announced, holding it out with a flourish. “A cursed text, they say. Its strokes are indecipherable by mortal hand, its contents a mystery even to our most revered elders. Many have tried to unlock its secrets, only to be driven mad by its grating whispers.” He offered it with a mocking bow. “Will your ‘raw talent’ unravel its mysteries? Or will it confirm your true station as a brainless ox?”
The other two chuckled, waiting for Meng Hao’s inevitable fumble or confused rejection. Liu Fan's eyes gleamed with anticipated triumph. He expected Meng Hao to turn away in fear, or to confess his ignorance.
Meng Hao reached out and took the book. His fingers brushed the rough, ancient cover. He looked at the jagged strokes, a faint, almost nostalgic tremor passing through him. This wasn't some cursed gibberish. This was the ‘Nether Tongue’—an archaic cipher used by a cult of soul-harvesters from the northern wastes during his past life. He had encountered it many times, deciphering their pacts and rituals before exterminating them.
He ran a finger along the incisions, recognizing the cadence instantly. The text was never meant to be read with the eyes, but felt with the spirit, its flow echoing the fractured essence of the soul. He closed his eyes, his spiritual perception reaching out, tracing the chaotic resonance within the glyphs. It was a language of agony and ruin. A language he knew intimately.
“What are you doing, idiot? Performing a ritual?” Liu Fan scoffed, but a flicker of unease crossed his face as Meng Hao stood there, motionless, his eyes closed. The air around Meng Hao seemed to grow subtly heavier, a faint, almost imperceptible hum filling the space.
Meng Hao opened his eyes. “It is an inscription.” His voice was calm, almost bored. He pressed his thumb against a specific symbol on the cover, a spiraling sigil of anguish. There was a faint click. The spine of the book, instead of revealing pages, sprang open like a concealed door, revealing a hollow interior.
Liu Fan recoiled, mouth falling agape. His cronies froze, smirks dissolving into blank disbelief. A hidden compartment? In the ‘cursed text’ no one could decipher for centuries? And Meng Hao, the village simpleton, had opened it with a single touch?
Within the hollow, nestled on velvet, lay another book. This one was larger, heavier, and its cover… The material was dark, supple, almost warm to the touch. It had the distinct, chilling texture of cured human skin. No symbols adorned its surface, only a faint, reddish sheen that caught the dim light. Meng Hao felt a surge of recognition, a primal thrum in his reborn spirit. The scent of ancient, raw power emanated from it.
This was no mere relic. This was a direct line to his past. The ‘Tome of Fractured Will’.
From the shadowy corner of the aisle, a figure emerged, silent as falling snow. An Shijing. Her face was as serene as ever, her pale robes flowing around her like mist. Her luminous eyes, usually devoid of expression, held a brief, sharp flash of something that might have been pity, or perhaps a deep, weary sorrow. She watched Meng Hao, her gaze lingering on the skin-bound tome in his hands, then on his face. She said nothing, her presence a silent, watchful judgment.
As silently as she appeared, An Shijing turned to leave. Before she vanished completely into the shadows, she paused. With a gentle movement, she placed a small, simple jade token on the edge of the shelf, near where Meng Hao stood. The token, unadorned and smooth, pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible hum, radiating a soft, purifying energy, a warmth that seemed alien in this dusty corner.
Meng Hao glanced at the token, then back at the book in his hands. He picked up the jade token, turning it over dismissively. A protective trinket, left by some foolish novice. He tossed it carelessly onto the hollow casing, his attention already consumed by the true prize.
He opened the skin-bound codex. The pages, thick and unnervingly soft, were filled with a familiar, stark calligraphy. His eyes scanned the archaic characters, and a cruel, knowing smile slowly spread across his face. The first line, etched with an almost physical malice, pulled him back into the brutal philosophy he had lived by for millennia.
*To master the world, one must first become its enemy.*