The Ashen Sky did not change.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, yet the sky above the world remained a dull gray, as if the heavens themselves had long since given up on brightness. For most, it was merely the color of life. For him, it was confirmation.
This world had been abandoned by optimism—and sharpened by despair.
Cradled in a wooden room lined with simple formation carvings, he lay quietly in his crib, eyes half-lidded, breathing shallow and even. To others, he appeared no different from an unusually calm infant.
In truth, his consciousness was fully awake.
He listened.
Not to voices—but to the world.
Spiritual energy in the Ashen Sky World did not flow freely. It moved like cold ash drifting in the air: slow, heavy, and resistant. Cultivators here did not grow fast, but those who survived became frighteningly stable.
No wonder this world endured so long.
Even in his previous life, he had rarely encountered worlds with such oppressive equilibrium. Growth was difficult, but collapse was equally so. Perfect soil for a long game.
And he had all the time he needed.
—
His body was weak.
Painfully so.
Each breath was shallow. Each movement required effort. His meridians were thin, barely formed, and his dantian existed only as a vague potential rather than a defined structure.
Yet he felt no frustration.
On the contrary—he was satisfied.
This is correct.
In his first rebirth, his growth had been explosive. Too explosive. Talent, opportunities, inheritances—everything had stacked upon itself until his foundation became an unbreakable monument.
That monument had trapped him forever below the final threshold.
This time, he would not repeat that mistake.
He would let the foundation grow naturally.
Perfectly imperfect.
—
Outside the room, footsteps approached.
He did not turn his head, but his awareness extended outward with ease. He recognized the rhythm instantly—slow, steady, tinged with fatigue.
His mother.
She entered quietly, carrying a bowl of warm medicinal broth. Her cultivation was shallow, barely within the early stages of Qi Gathering, but her aura was gentle, steady. She was not talented.
She was persistent.
She sat beside him and sighed softly.
"You're too quiet," she murmured, touching his small hand. "Not even the elders know what to think of you."
Her fingers were rough, calloused from years of manual labor and failed breakthroughs.
He grasped her finger weakly.
Not out of instinct.
Out of calculation.
Her heartbeat stuttered in surprise, then softened.
A bond strengthened—subtly, invisibly.
Emotional anchors matter, he noted calmly. Even immortals are not immune to causality.
—
That night, the family elders gathered.
He listened from afar.
"The bloodline reacted at his birth," one elder said. "But his body is too weak. Perhaps it was a false resonance."
"Or delayed potential," another countered. "Ashen Sky suppresses early bloomers."
A pause.
Then a scoff. "Potential means nothing without resources. Our family barely holds its ground."
Silence followed.
He understood their logic.
They were correct.
Which made them irrelevant.
—
Months passed.
He grew slowly, deliberately. He allowed his body to develop at a pace slightly below average—never alarming, never impressive.
Inside, however, his understanding deepened.
He mapped the local cultivation methods in detail. The Body Building Realm here emphasized endurance over explosive strength. Techniques were crude but effective, designed for survival rather than elegance.
Adapted to scarcity, he concluded. Refined through necessity.
Good.
He did not plan to use them long-term—but understanding came before replacement.
One night, during a rare moment when the moon pierced the ashen clouds, he attempted something new.
Not cultivation.
Observation.
He let his consciousness brush against the faint laws embedded in the world.
Instantly, pressure descended.
Not violent—but absolute.
The world resisted scrutiny.
His infant body trembled slightly, and he withdrew at once.
Within his mind, clarity formed.
The laws here are mature… but guarded.
This world had been interfered with before.
Pruned.
Adjusted.
Interesting.
That meant higher beings had taken notice of Ashen Sky in the past—and might do so again.
A potential future problem.
One he would not acknowledge yet.
—
At six months old, he took his first deliberate step.
Not physically.
Internally.
He guided a single thread of spiritual energy into his forming meridians—not to circulate, not to absorb, but to measure.
The response was immediate.
Pain flared sharply, intense enough to rupture a normal infant's body.
He stopped instantly.
Sweat dampened his skin.
His conclusion was precise.
Body tolerance insufficient. Any cultivation now would damage the foundation.
He smiled faintly.
Good.
He had his answer.
—
That night, as he drifted into shallow sleep, a memory surfaced unbidden.
The moment of failure.
Standing at the threshold beyond Heavenly Immortal, his existence stretched across multiple timelines, his Dao flawless and eternal—
And the wall.
Invisible.
Unyielding.
You are complete, the universe had said without words. There is nowhere left to go.
His infant fingers curled slowly.
"This time," he whispered soundlessly, "I will leave room."
Outside, the Ashen Sky remained unmoved.
But deep beneath it, within a fragile body barely capable of breath, a path that should not exist was being prepared—patiently, precisely.
One day, this world would realize it had given birth to something it could never contain.
And by then—
It would already be too late.