Rain tapped softly against the paper window, like the gentle hands of a ghost. The night was still, thick with the scent of medicine and wet soil. Beyond the manor walls, Azure Tempest City slept beneath a curtain of drizzle—but inside the Lei household, a quiet storm was about to awaken.

In a dimly lit room layered with silken drapes, a frail boy lay motionless atop a cedar bed. His skin was pale, his breath shallow. Born sickly and ridiculed as useless, the third son of the Duke was long forgotten by most—even the servants no longer whispered his name.

Until now.

A sudden crack split the silence—lightning flashed, illuminating the boy’s shut eyes. And then…

They opened.

Not with fear, but with unfathomable calm.

They were no longer the dull brown of a forgotten child.

Now, they gleamed a deep storm-blue—piercing, eternal, and burning with wrath held across lifetimes.

---

“So… this is the vessel I’ve been given.”

The boy—no, the soul—sat up slowly, the voice inside his mind both familiar and foreign.

He could still hear it—the laughter of betrayal. The sneering voices of his former allies as he stood alone beneath a dying sky. Feng Jiutian. Mu Yiran. Zhao Wusheng.

He had been moments away from godhood. But they… they had stolen it from him.

And now—

"You’ve taken everything. Now watch as I take it back."

---

A startled gasp broke the moment.

“Y-Young master?!”

It was a small voice—gentle, frightened. A maid stood at the door, soaked from the rain, her eyes wide in disbelief. Xiao Yu, he remembered. She had always brought warm tea in secret. She had cried the day this body nearly died.

Tiān Lán turned to her, slowly. His gaze was not cruel—but it was no longer that of a twelve-year-old noble child.

It was the gaze of a god who had touched the heavens... and been thrown down.

---

From the courtyard outside, a sudden bell chimed. A small silver bell tied to an old branch—one that never rang, even in storms.

But tonight, it rang once.

Then again.

Twice.

Then one last time—sharp, clear, and full of ancient sorrow.

Thrice.

And far away, in a forgotten ruin buried beneath centuries of moss and silence, something stirred.

The Mirror Bell had awakened.

The rain had returned to the sky.

...Now, they gleamed a deep storm-blue—piercing, eternal, and burning with wrath held across lifetimes.

Then came the thunder—not from outside, but inside his mind.

A memory.

---

[Flashback – The Day of Ascension]

The sky had burned gold that day.

Countless cultivators watched from mountains and clouds as Tiān Lán, wrapped in flowing azure robes, floated at the center of the Divine Ascension Altar. Lightning danced around him like dragons. His body had already begun to break, shedding its mortal shell, reshaping into something greater.

He stood on the edge of godhood.

Just one final strike of the Heavenly Tribulation.

Just one breath more...

Then—

“Now.”

The voice had come from behind. Cold. Familiar.

Tiān Lán turned—too late.

Mu Yiran, the one he had once called brother, drove a jade blade into his spine—right where his soul flame burned.

Zhao Wusheng shattered his core with a soul-binding talisman.

Feng Jiutian, smiling like a prince of heaven, whispered as he pushed him into the abyss:

> “You were too bright, Tiān Lán. You made the rest of us look like shadows.”

They didn’t even let him scream.

They took everything—his power, his name, his fate.

And the heavens did nothing.

As his body fell into darkness, the thunder raged—

not as punishment to them… but as grief for him.

---

Back in the present…

Tiān Lán’s breath hitched. His fingers trembled on the silk bedding.

He clenched his jaw until blood touched his tongue.

“You will see me again,” he whispered.

“And when you do—

I will not be the one on my knees.”

And Heaven would soon learn to weep.

The rain continued its endless patter against the window, but inside the Duke’s manor, there was a sense of stillness—a quiet, peaceful façade that seemed to mock the storm raging in Tiān Lán’s soul.

He stood by the large wooden window, staring out into the night. His reflection, pale and unfamiliar, met his gaze. The boy in the glass was young, perhaps twelve at most. His hair was a deep black, falling neatly around his face, and his brown eyes were wide with confusion. But underneath, the fire of an immortal cultivator burned with rage and remembrance.

This body.

This life.

It meant nothing.

His real body, the one he once called his own, had been cast aside. Mu Yiran. Zhao Wusheng. Feng Jiutian. They had taken it all from him—his power, his future, his godhood. His heart ached with the loss of it all, but something more dangerous had taken root in his chest.

Revenge.

The storm outside was nothing compared to the storm he felt inside. The betrayal had left a scar deeper than any sword. Yet, for now, he had to hide. No one in this world knew of his true potential. He was a weak child—no more than a fragile piece in the delicate dance of nobility.

The door to the room creaked open, and a soft voice broke his reverie.

“Young master, are you awake?” It was Xiao Yu, the maid from earlier. She was holding a tray of steaming tea, her expression gentle but concerned.

Tiān Lán turned his gaze towards her. She had been kind, unlike the others in this house, but kindness meant nothing now. He didn’t need pity. He needed strength.

Xiao Yu hesitated for a moment, noticing the odd intensity in his eyes, but she stepped inside nonetheless. "The Duchess has asked me to bring you some tea. She wishes for you to join her for dinner, if you're feeling well enough."

Tiān Lán didn’t respond immediately, his thoughts still swirling with his past life and the cultivation methods locked deep within him. Then, slowly, he stepped back from the window and sat at the low wooden table, motioning for her to place the tray down.

“Tell my mother,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “that I’ll join her after I finish my meditation.”

Xiao Yu blinked in surprise. "Meditation? But Young Master, your health—"

“I’ll be fine,” he interrupted, his voice colder than the rain outside. “Just leave me.”

She nodded, though her worry was clear in her eyes. “Very well, Young Master.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Tiān Lán’s face hardened. The silence of the room weighed on him, as heavy as the storm. He had no time for pleasantries, for the games of nobility. The real battle lay ahead.

Rising from the table, he moved to the center of the room and closed his eyes. The air seemed to grow thick, charged with an energy that no one else could feel.

The forgotten methods…

He inhaled deeply, focusing all his energy. A faint, almost imperceptible glow began to form around his hands, blue lightning crackling softly, like a distant storm on the horizon. The technique. One of the methods he had learned in his past life—lost to time and erased by those who betrayed him.

He focused on the Rain Lotus Sect's cultivation method, the one he had created—a forbidden technique, meant for only those with the deepest connection to the heavens. As his spiritual energy surged, the room seemed to bend, the air thick with a force he had not felt in centuries.

The thunder rumbled outside, as though responding to his call.

Crack!

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room, the power of the storm merging with his own cultivation. For a moment, it was as though the universe held its breath. Tiān Lán’s body glowed with ethereal light as he channeled the forces of nature, reconnecting with the storm that had once been his birthright.

When he opened his eyes again, they glowed faintly with the blue storm that surged inside him.

This world may have taken my past, but it cannot take my future.

He would rise again. Stronger. Wiser. More vengeful.

---

The sound of a distant bell rang out from the courtyard. The Mirror Bell. Tiān Lán’s eyes narrowed. Its ringing had been faint but insistent. It was calling to him, and the time was near. He would find the bell, uncover its secrets, and with it, the path to revenge.

---

In the hallway, Xiao Yu stood with her back to the door, peering through the crack. She had heard the strange noises from inside—an energy she couldn’t understand, a power that felt wrong yet familiar. Something about this boy… no, this man who wore a child’s face was different. She had heard rumors about the Duke’s son being sickly and weak, but what she sensed now was something entirely beyond that.

With a shiver, she turned away and headed down the hallway.

Tiān Lán was more than just a child. And the storm was only beginning.

The manor’s dining hall was a silent, glowing chamber of stone and shadow. Lanterns hung like stars from carved wooden beams, their soft light dancing across the storm-patterned walls. A long jade table stretched the length of the room, set with fine porcelain and silver chopsticks.

Tiān Lán entered alone, dressed in a pale blue silk robe stitched with silver clouds. His steps were slow but steady—like the rain outside, soft but relentless.

At the far end of the table stood Lady Ruo Yin, his new mother. She rose the moment he entered, her expression blooming into warmth.

“You came,” she said, voice like frost melting in spring. “That’s good. Are you feeling better, my son?”

Tiān Lán offered a light bow. “Yes, Mother. Thank you for your concern.”

Her eyes softened further. She walked toward him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. The warmth was real. And yet… Tiān Lán could feel the faint trembling in her fingers, the fear she tried to hide. Not fear of him—fear for him.

She remembered the old Tiān Lán. The sickly one.

“Come, sit beside me.”

As he moved to take his seat, the two other figures at the table watched him with cool, unreadable expressions.

Lei Xuan, the eldest brother, lounged casually, one elbow on the table. Seventeen, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in deep purple with thundercloud patterns. A practiced smirk played on his lips.

“Well, well. The ghost boy joins us after all.”

Lei Feng, second son, sat opposite. He was fifteen, slender and quiet, his eyes hidden behind long black lashes. He offered a nod—neither cold nor warm. Neutral. Calculating.

And at the head of the table sat Duke Lei Zhenhai.

The man looked like he was carved from iron. His long black hair streaked with silver, his jaw sharp, his eyes like twin bolts of lightning frozen in time. His gaze barely lingered on Tiān Lán.

“You’ve recovered,” he said, voice flat. “Good. Perhaps now you’ll stop wasting our physician’s time.”

Ruo Yin tensed beside Tiān Lán, but the boy merely bowed his head again, calm and unreadable.

“I won’t waste anything ever again, Father.”

The Duke blinked—just once—but said nothing more.

Dishes were brought in by servants, led by Xiao Yu, who placed the first bowl of misty lotus broth before Tiān Lán. She bowed slightly deeper than usual, her hands trembling. Something about him had changed. Something even the Duke hadn’t seen.

As dinner progressed, Tiān Lán spoke little. He listened.

Lei Xuan bragged about sword technique rankings at Thunderblade Pavilion. Lei Feng corrected him once, coolly citing a recent duel in the city. The Duke nodded at both, but rarely looked at Tiān Lán.

Only Ruo Yin tried to pull him into the conversation.

“Lán’er,” she said gently, “I’ve asked the alchemists to prepare some strengthening pills for your bones. You’re still growing.”

Tiān Lán set down his cup slowly. “That won’t be necessary.”

She blinked. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve already created something better,” he said quietly, reaching into his robe and sliding a small jade vial onto the table. “This is Lightning Root Essence. Brewed from the rain ginseng and storm lotus we grow on the east hill.”

Everyone stared.

Lei Feng leaned forward. “That’s… impossible. That method hasn’t worked for decades. It lacks a stabilizer.”

Tiān Lán looked at him calmly. “Only if you use fire to heat it. I used thunder Qi.”

Even Lei Xuan’s smile wavered.

Duke Zhenhai narrowed his eyes—but didn’t speak.

The rest of the meal passed in a tense silence. Ruo Yin looked between her sons with worry, sensing something invisible shifting beneath the surface.

Finally, dessert was brought in: a rare lotus nectar cake, Ruo Yin’s favorite treat.

“For you,” she said, smiling. “You used to love these.”

Tiān Lán looked at the delicate pastry, then up at her soft, expectant face. After a pause, he picked it up and took a small bite.

“It’s sweet,” he said. “Thank you, Mother.”

And then—

GONG.

The air shook.

A deep, ancient bell rang out from the heart of the mountain. All conversation stopped. Even the servants froze.

“The Mirror Bell,” Lei Feng whispered. “But it hasn’t rung in—”

GONG.

Again.

Tiān Lán set the half-eaten cake down. His eyes were no longer brown. In the flicker of the lanterns, they shimmered faintly blue.

Outside, the storm thickened. The mountain stirred.

The past was calling.