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Shen Yuan cut through the sky like a silent streak of shadow, gliding effortlessly above the Falling Star Pavilion. The wind whipped past him, tugging at his robes, but he remained undisturbed—his movements precise, almost serene. The flying technique he employed was refined, graceful, a rare Dou Technique inherited from the Pavilion's legacy.
It was one of the last skills the previous Shen Yuan had mastered before his untimely demise. And now, reborn in the same body, Shen Yuan maneuvered it with ease, the inherited memories guiding his every motion. In smaller territories, such techniques were priceless. In the Central Plains, while not uncommon among ancient clans and powerful sects, they still demanded talent and time to master. For someone his age to wield it so fluidly—it was bound to draw attention.
Below him, whispers began to ripple through the Pavilion grounds.
"Is that... Shen Yuan?"
"He's flying. That's the Pavilion's technique, isn't it?"
"He's really mastered it already? At his age? Unbelievable."
"Hmph, of course he did," someone added with smug satisfaction, as if Shen Yuan's accomplishments reflected their own pride.
He caught their voices on the wind, a faint smile touching his lips. Their words didn't spark vanity—only quiet amusement. "So this body was considered a genius," he murmured. "Not a bad reputation to inherit... might come in handy."
Easing back slightly, he let the breeze guide his descent. Below him, nestled within the Pavilion's grounds, was a mid-sized estate encircled by worn stone walls and dense greenery. It wasn't grand, but it spoke of heritage and quiet pride—his family home.
He landed lightly at the gate, boots tapping against smooth stone. Before him stood a house of traditional build, its wooden beams weathered by time, the eaves carved with stars and falling comets—symbols of the family's legacy within the Pavilion.
"So… this is home now," he said quietly.
The word held weight. In his previous life, he'd known nothing of it. Orphaned young, raised by cold institutions and anonymous charity, Shen Yuan had grown up in silence. No birthday candles. No warmth in winter. No one waiting when he came home. And yet now, in this world, there was a family.
He inhaled, then stepped forward and pushed open the door.
"Father! Mother! I'm home," he called, his voice steadier than he felt.
Laughter echoed from within.
"Took you long enough, brat!" came a warm, booming voice, rough with affection.
Shen Yuan stepped into the entryway, where a tall man waited with arms crossed and a broad smile—his father, Shen Ming. A veteran of the Pavilion, Shen Ming's eyes were sharp, yet his expression carried none of the severity one might expect from a man of his stature.
From the side, a gentle figure approached. "Yuan'er," she said softly.
She was beautiful, graceful in her movement, her long black hair cascading down her back. Xiao Luo, his mother, once of the famed Xiao Clan, now a quiet pillar in this new life of his.
"Was your journey peaceful?" she asked, her voice carrying that calm warmth only a mother could offer.
Shen Yuan nodded, swallowing the unfamiliar lump rising in his throat. "Yes, Mother. Everything went well."
She smiled, brushing a hand across his sleeve. "Good. Go freshen up. Dinner will be ready soon—I made your favorite. Cloud-spiced pheasant."
That word again—favorite. Another piece of a life that had never belonged to him, and yet now felt entirely his.
He bowed slightly and made his way down the corridor, memories of the house guiding his steps. The scent of spirit herbs lingered faintly in the air, mingling with incense and the distant chirp of spiritual birds beyond the courtyard wall.
His room sat nestled near the backyard—a modest chamber with clean furnishings. A low bed, a polished table, a few scrolls lining a bookshelf. Sunlight streamed through the wide window, bathing the floor in amber light.
He paused, taking it in.
This wasn't just shelter. It was his. And for the first time in both his lives, he felt rooted.
He let out a quiet breath. "I won't waste it this time."
His eyes fell to his dusty robe, its fabric rough and dull. Functional—but lacking in presence. The original Shen Yuan hadn't cared for appearances, but the soul now in his body had read too many novels to ignore the power of image.
He stripped down, crossing to the secluded garden beyond the back wall. There, hidden among slender bamboo stalks, was a small stone pool. Steam curled from its surface, the water rich in spirit essence and naturally warmed by the sun.
Sliding into the pool, he let the heat soak into his skin. A contented sigh escaped him as tension bled from his body. "Luxury," he murmured.
When he emerged, refreshed, he returned to his wardrobe. Robes of various cuts and colors lined the interior, some still crisp from lack of use. He selected a deep black robe, its edges traced with white curling patterns that suggested wind and cloud. Fitted pants, high-collared underlayer, and soft boots finished the ensemble.
White beast-silk gloves—enhanced for grip—slid over his hands with ease. Around his fingers, he fastened two rings: one embedded with a faintly pulsing red gem; the other, a spatial ring that shimmered faintly with stored power.
He tied his long hair back with a silver band, shaped like a circlet and set with tiny diamonds that glittered in the light. A few ornamental pieces followed—small shoulder guards sculpted to resemble falling stars, and a chest pendant of an interlocked constellation.
A final glance in the mirror confirmed what he already felt.
The boy who had once lived a life of obscurity now stood as something else—elegant, composed, commanding. The golden hue in his eyes reflected strength beyond his years.
"Not bad," he said with a quiet smirk. "Let's see who's really ready."
When he returned to the main hall, his father glanced up, one eyebrow arching.
"Well, look at you," Shen Ming said, tone amused. "Since when did my son turn into a young noble?"
Shen Yuan gave a mild shrug, smile teasing. "Figured I should dress the part."
Shen Ming laughed, the sound echoing through the hall.
And somewhere deep within Shen Yuan's chest, a warmth sparked—something quiet, something real. For once, he wasn't playing a role. He was living it.