The sun hung high in the blue skies, its warm rays softly falling upon a young boy who stood alone in the middle of a barren plain of grass, facing a training dummy.
SHA! SHA! SHA!
In his hand was a spear—a spear he had been relentlessly thrusting forward for hours. His stance remained perfect, and his movements steady; at no point did he pause.
To a passing observer, it might seem as though he was driven by sheer determination. But a closer look would immediately reveal something deeper—hate.
The hate that burned and fueled him as he trained. Each of his spear thrusts left the air quaking, the force strong enough to blow back his long, curly black hair. Every drop of sweat that beaded off his forehead shimmered as it caught the sunlight, reflecting within the depths of his pure, deep amethyst pupils.
His body—toned and refined, or at least, as refined as the body of a fifteen-year-old youth could be—seemed entirely indifferent to the heat and strain pressing in from all sides.
'As expected, many things had changed,' Samael thought as he finally took a breath. Sitting down, he sprawled across the green grass, gazing up at the endless blue sky above.
Though he spoke of change lightly in his thoughts, the shifts he referred to were anything but small. They were monumental—perhaps even world-defining.
Originally, he had prepared for this life to be his final one—the most perfect iteration of his existence. The one he had been planning for since his second life.
Though he had lived each of his lifetimes with the singular and absolute intention of achieving victory, he remained someone inherently cautious. Always preparing for what could go wrong.
But in the face of what had occurred in this life… perhaps his preparations hadn't been enough.
'I guess that means I'll be moving on to Plan B then,' he mused silently, pushing himself up and beginning to stretch his body.
Fifteen years had passed since his birth. Now, he stood merely a month and a half away from his sixteenth birthday—the day he would finally be allowed to cultivate.
The day his body would be mature and tempered enough to begin enduring and channeling Qi.
Thankfully, resources and techniques were never an issue. In each of his lives, Samael had always been reborn into the same clan—the most powerful clan in the world:
The Tharim Lineage.
But therein lay the first and most pressing issue. If he truly sought to surpass himself, as he had done in every past life, he couldn't rely on them.
Sheltered soil never birthed diamonds—but that didn't mean he couldn't use them.
He had a plan.
'Three…' He rolled his shoulder a few more times, loosening up before returning to his training. '…Two…'
SHAH! SHA! SHAH!
The sharp sound of his wooden spear slicing through the air resumed—and just as it did, a figure suddenly appeared beside him.
It was a woman. She was tall—easily six foot five—with a regal bearing. Her head was bald and adorned with intricate, spiraling tattoos of lotuses that matched her flowing white robes, which were embroidered with the same patterns.
Her aura radiated nobility and a quiet, overwhelming majesty. Her very presence seemed to sway the currents of the world, as though the very fabric of reality chose to orbit around her. She seemed like the holiest of entities.
She smiled upon arriving—a radiant, charming smile—but the moment she caught the faintest trace of a smirk playing on Samael's lips, her heart dropped.
She knew what that devilish smile meant.
'…One.'
"Young master, what do you—" she began, but before she could finish, Samael interrupted, speaking words that confirmed her worst fears.
"I want to challenge the Blood Pagoda—"
"What?!" she gasped. As the words left her lips, the world around them trembled. The sunlight dimmed, and a sudden storm of leaves kicked up in the air.
But Samael wasn't done.
"—and the Origin Pagoda—"
"ARE YOU—" she tried again.
Still, he continued.
"—both at the Divine Circle of difficulty."
Elder Dalia—her full name rarely used—was a woman born, trained, and refined for a singular purpose: to protect Samael and those of the royal line.
And at this moment, she felt like passing out.
The words Samael had spoken could not be undone. The moment they were voiced aloud, there was no going back. No erasure. No denial.
And judging by the horror in her expression, it was clear what that meant: this was nothing less than a death sentence.
"You don't think I can do it?" Samael asked with a casual grin, resting the spear over his shoulder.
Elder Dalia didn't reply. Instead, she swept him off his feet, slinging him over her shoulder as she teleported them away without another word.
"We need to call an emergency Lineage Assembly."
——
Moments later, Samael found himself in a vast hall, surrounded by robed elders whose auras exuded boundless depth and pressure—so intense, he could barely breathe, let alone think.
Their eyes bore into him with such intensity that it felt like they weren't just observing him, but trying to unmake him with sheer force of presence.
Yet, rather than cowering, Samael simply took a moment to look around the hall with quiet admiration.
It was a grand and resplendent chamber—perhaps too grand, designed more for titanic beings than humanoids of their scale.
The floors were pure white marble, threaded with veins of reflective dark gray that emitted soft waves of soothing Qi.
Dark stone pillars lined the hall, standing at key intersections. Each was inscribed with glowing golden and white runes that shimmered like starlight, holding up the immense ceiling above.
Samael's gaze drifted upward.
'Still as beautiful as ever.'
Though it was a ceiling, to gaze upon it was like peering into an endless expanse of stars—drawn across a cosmic tapestry of emerald and gold waters, flowing and merging in perfect harmony.
His eyes lowered back to the elders before him. Hundreds of thrones filled the far end of the hall, each occupied by a different elder—or rather, by their projections.
Despite the passage of time, none of them had spoken. They had been silently watching him, their disbelief growing with every heartbeat.
They had each heard of how strange and atypical Samael was, even as an infant. But few had seen him in person. Before their sixteenth birthday, those of the royal line were barred from interacting with the wider world.
And this—this moment—was precisely why.
How in the world did Samael even know about the Pagodas? How did he know about the difficulties?
How did he know that once his intention was voiced… no one could stop him?
He looked at them all, then gently smiled.
"So," Samael asked, voice calm and clear, "when am I going?"