The taste of blood was the last thing Lin Xuan knew.
Warm. Metallic. His own.
Snow drifted lazily from the blackened sky, burying the world beneath a suffocating blanket of white. Beneath him, the snow had already begun to turn red, the heat of his dying body bleeding away into the cold.
He could barely move. His fingers twitched weakly against the frozen ground, nerves screaming yet refusing to obey. The sword wound carved through his side burned like molten iron, each shallow breath sending knives through his lungs.
And yet, the pain was not what hurt most.
Through the haze clouding his vision, Lin Xuan saw him — his sworn brother. The man he had saved countless times, the one he had dragged back from the brink of death and trusted more than anyone else alive.
The man stood over him now, black robes snapping in the wind, expression calm… almost pitying.
"Loyalty," the man said softly, "is a fool's chain. Forgive me, Brother… but you were too dangerous to keep alive."
Dangerous?
Lin Xuan almost laughed.
The truth was simpler. The man wanted what he possessed — his cultivation, his techniques, his treasures. In this world, strength was everything, but strength also invited envy.
Lin Xuan tried to speak. Blood flooded his throat, choking the words before they could form. Only a wet, ugly gurgle escaped his lips.
The man did not flinch. He did not gloat. He merely raised his sword in one smooth, practiced motion and brought it down.
Steel tore through flesh and bone, severing the final thread that bound Lin Xuan to life.
There was no heroic last stand. No sudden enlightenment. No miraculous reversal.
Only death.
---
Cold returned first.
Not the clean, biting cold of snow, but a damp, suffocating chill that clung to the skin. Lin Xuan's eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he thought himself trapped in a dream.
Wooden beams stretched overhead. Smoke and mildew fouled the air. His hands — they were wrong.
Thin. Unscarred. Calloused in the way of a street rat, not a martial master.
Lin Xuan sat upright in a sharp motion. His body responded easily, lightly — unnaturally so. His breath came fast, but there was no agony in his ribs, no tearing pain in his side.
This body was young.
No — younger than that.
His gaze swept the cramped room. A rotting wooden table stood in the center, a rusted dagger resting atop it.
The dagger.
He recognized it instantly.
It was the same one he had bought for two copper coins at fifteen.
That had been twenty years ago.
The realization struck him like a hammer. His pulse thundered in his ears.
This was the year he first joined the Red Fang gang.
The year he stepped onto the blood-soaked path that led to power… and betrayal.
Somehow — impossibly — Lin Xuan had returned to the beginning.
---
He sat motionless for a long while, fingers closing around the dagger as his thoughts raced.
A lesser man might have celebrated. Might have called it a second chance.
Lin Xuan knew better.
No god had granted him mercy. No heaven had offered salvation. The murim world was a beast — a land of sects and clans, assassins and traitors, hidden masters and wandering monsters.
The weak were devoured.
The strong were feared — until someone stronger arrived.
If fate had dragged him back to this moment, it was not to save him.
It was to test him.
And if he repeated the same mistakes, he would die again — just as pathetically.
Not this time.
This time, Lin Xuan would plan further ahead. Move slower. Cut deeper.
Every action would serve a future purpose. Every alliance would be transactional. Every enemy would be exploited before they were buried.
The reckless boy who had once chased approval and recognition had died in the snow.
Lin Xuan rose to his feet. The table creaked softly. The dagger felt heavier than it should have.
His eyes settled on the warped wooden door.
This room — he remembered it well. The cheapest lodging in the rat district. Outside lay a maze of narrow alleys, gang markings smeared across walls, and the stink of unwashed bodies.
It was here he had met Bao Liang.
In his first life, Lin Xuan had been grateful. The Red Fang had given him food, shelter, and crude martial training. But gratitude in the slums was just another weakness.
Bao Liang would one day sell him out to the Black Tiger gang for a pouch of silver.
That betrayal had cost Lin Xuan an eye.
This time, it would cost Bao Liang his life.
---
Information came first.
Lin Xuan checked the loose floorboard beneath the table. The hiding place was still there — empty for now.
He slid the dagger into his belt and stepped outside.
The alley greeted him with its familiar stench of piss and rot. Grey snow clung to the walls. Crooked balconies loomed overhead like broken teeth.
Barefoot children darted past. A drunk slumped against a wall, snoring into his coat.
This was home.
And like any home in the murim underworld, it was built on bones.
---
Bao Liang found him before midday.
"Xuan!" the man called, flashing a grin polished by years of deception. His rat-like face peeked out from a ragged scarf, narrow eyes glittering with calculation.
In his first life, Lin Xuan had mistaken that look for warmth.
Now he saw it clearly.
"Bao," Lin Xuan replied evenly. "You're looking well."
Bao laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "The Red Fang could use another blade. You still quick with that dagger?"
Quick.
A reputation built on lies.
This time, Lin Xuan merely nodded. "Quick enough."
Bao leaned in. "There's work tonight. Merchant caravan near the east gate. Easy pickings. You in?"
In his first life, Lin Xuan had agreed.
This time, he smiled.
"I have a better idea."
Greed flared instantly in Bao Liang's eyes.
Lin Xuan lowered his voice. "A spice shipment. Tomorrow. Unguarded. Worth ten times more than a caravan."
A lie.
But a useful one.
Bao swallowed. "Spices? That's noble-market stuff. How do you—"
"I have my ways." Lin Xuan shrugged. "If you're not interested—"
"No, no." Bao waved hurriedly. "I'll take you to Old Jin tonight."
Exactly as planned.
---
Night transformed the city.
By day, the slums pretended to live. By night, they hunted.
Lin Xuan walked beside Bao Liang, listening without hearing. He memorized every turn, every doorway, every watching pair of eyes.
Six men in the shadows.
All potential traitors.
At the end of a narrow lane stood a squat brick building with a single reinforced door.
Bao knocked.
Three short. One long. Two short.
The door opened.
Inside, smoke and sweat thickened the air. Dice clattered. Whispers died as Lin Xuan entered.
At the back sat Old Jin — wiry, scarred, sharp-eyed.
In his first life, Lin Xuan had been disposable.
This time, he would be indispensable.
"I don't deal in rumors," Lin Xuan said calmly. "I deal in outcomes."
Old Jin studied him, then smiled.
"Pour the boy a drink," he said. "Let's hear him."
---
By the time Lin Xuan lay on the straw mat that night, his place had been secured.
Not through loyalty.
Through value.
Tomorrow, the lie would unravel — carefully. Purposefully.
And the long game would begin.
The man who died in the snow had returned.
And the world would never see him coming.