The discharge was a battle of wills. The Hospital Chief, a man whose career was built on the cold logic of science, stood in the doorway of the VIP suite like a sentry. He clutched the latest scans—images that defied every medical textbook in the building.
"It's medically irresponsible," the Chief argued, though his voice lacked conviction under Mo Jue's steady gaze. "His heart was dead. For four minutes, there was nothing. Now, his vitals are more robust than an Olympic athlete's. If we let him walk out, we are losing the discovery of the century."
"Discovery?" Mo Jue stood by the window, now dressed in a crisp black suit provided by the Song family. The fabric felt foreign, a second skin of mortal vanity. "You wish to study me like a specimen? Be careful, Doctor. Some mysteries are not meant to be unraveled by those with such short lifespans."
Elder Song, sitting upright with a vigor that terrified his nurses, waved a hand dismissively. "The paperwork is signed, Chief. My legal team is already in the lobby. If you try to hold him—or me—I'll buy this hospital just to fire you before dawn."
Ten minutes later, Mo Jue walked out of the sliding glass doors into the cool, humid air of the city night.
The city was a sprawling beast of light and sound. Mo Jue declined the Song family's offer of a limousine, choosing instead to walk. He needed to feel the rhythm of this world.
As he moved through the crowded districts, the "New" Mo Jue found himself distracted. In his past life, he had been obsessed with the path to the Heavens. Every breath had been a calculation for more power; every sunset, a reminder that he was not yet eternal. He had forgotten what it was like to be an ant among ants.
The smell of grilled meat from street stalls, the rhythmic thump of music from distant clubs, and the laughter of lovers—it was a mundane symphony. For a moment, his violet eyes softened. He remembered his own beginning, long before he was the Sovereign of the Nine Hells.
He had been a nameless orphan in a forgotten province, fighting stray dogs for scraps of moldy bread. It was only when a wandering cultivator noticed the "spirit-light" in his eyes that his life of blood and bone began. This world was different—there was no spiritual qi, yet these mortals lived with a frantic, beautiful desperation.
Perhaps, he mused, sidestepping a group of rowdy teenagers, this 'trash' body's memories are not entirely a burden. There is a strange peace in being nobody.
The transition from the neon center to the outskirts was jarring. The skyscrapers gave way to cramped, peeling apartment blocks where the scent of jasmine was replaced by the smell of damp concrete and old cooking oil.
He reached the door of Apartment 4B. The lock was loose—a security risk that made the Demon King's lip curl in distaste. He turned the key with practiced muscle memory and stepped inside.
The apartment was tiny, barely the size of his old meditation chamber, but it was meticulously clean. On the worn fabric of the sofa sat a young girl, her head lolling to the side, a textbook resting on her lap.
Xiao Ni.
Mo Jue froze. He looked at her through the lens of Li Tian's memories. He felt the phantom ache of a brother's love—a protective, fierce instinct that Li Tian had died trying to preserve. To Mo Jue, who had slaughtered entire lineages, this single, fragile life felt strangely heavy.
She shifted in her sleep, murmuring something about "tuition fees."
A wave of nostalgia hit Mo Jue like a physical blow. He remembered the only person who had ever been kind to him during his orphan years—a blind old woman who had shared her last bowl of rice with him. He hadn't been strong enough to save her from the winter cold.
I was an orphan once, he thought, his gaze lingering on Xiao Ni's peaceful face. I climbed a mountain of corpses to ensure no one could ever take anything from me again. And yet, I lost everything to a woman's smile.
He walked over and gently draped a thin blanket over her shoulders. His touch was light, but as he retracted his hand, a faint, protective seal of black energy—invisible to the naked eye—settled over the apartment.
"Sleep, little sister," he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand years. "The debt-collectors will not come tonight. Nor will they ever come again."