A pale shaft of morning light slipped through the half-opened window, casting intricate shadows on the walls of a small but elegantly furnished room. In the center, a twelve-year-old boy sat cross-legged on his bed, his eyes fixed on the clear sky beyond. His mind churned with a storm of thoughts.
"It's been ten days," he mused, his fingers unconsciously tracing the creases on the silk bedsheet beneath him. "I am really in the past. I've gone outside countless tis, testing my surroundings, hoping for a sign that this is so kind of inner demon tribulation. But no... it feels too real. Too vivid. This is no re illusion of the heart."
Wang Ming's gaze hardened, his eyes reflecting the bright morning sun. He had endured countless tribulations over his three thousand years of cultivation, each more intense than the last, yet none of them had ever felt this genuine. The crispness of the air, the distant cries of training disciples in the courtyard, the warm pulse of life all around him-it was too perfect.
"But that hand... what was it? How did it drag back to this ti? And for what purpose?" His thoughts spiraled in frustration, unable to grasp the aning behind his unexpected rebirth.
A gentle knock at his door pulled him from his contemplation. His eyes flickered with a trace of impatience. "Co in," he said, his cold voice.
The door creaked open, and a mature middle aged maid stepped inside, her head bowed in respect. She was perhaps thirty or forty, with a soft, earnest face that spoke of a life spent in humble service.
"Young Master Wang Ming," she said, her tone laced with the cautious respect of soone addressing a young noble, "the Awakening Ceremony is about to begin. I have been ordered to bring you there."
Wang Ming's expression remained impassive. "You may leave. I will co shortly." His voice carried a hint of his past self, the cold command of a figure used to being obeyed without question.
The maid quickly bowed, retreating from the room without another word. As the door clicked shut, Wang Ming's eyes returned to the clear sky beyond his window, a trace of ancient solemnity settling in their depths.
Wang Clan eting Hall
The grand hall of the Wang Clan was a monunt to the family's power and influence. Twelve n, elders of the clan, sat on either side of a long, polished jade table, their expressions serious and composed. At the head of the table, on an elevated throne, sat the Clan Leader, an old man with a long, flowing beard and sharp, hawk-like eyes that seed to pierce through the very souls of those before him.
One of the elders, a middle-aged man with a commanding presence, stood up and clasped his fists respectfully. "Clan Leader," he began, his voice steady and deep, "the formation has been fully prepared. All children above twelve who have sensed spiritual energy have been gathered from across our domain. This ti, the number exceeds seven thousand."
The old clan leader stroked his long beard, his sharp eyes flashing with a hint of expectation. "Seven thousand," he murmured, his tone thoughtful. "Let us hope that among them, a few good seedlings will erge. Our clan's future depends on the strength of our next generation."
The twelve elders nodded in agreent, their expressions solemn. The importance of this ceremony was not lost on them. Each potential cultivator represented a thread in the tapestry of their clan's future.
At that mont, a guard entered the hall, his head bowed low as he knelt before the clan leader. "Clan Leader, all the children have assembled. They await only your presence and that of the elders."
The old man waved his hand dismissively, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Very well. Let us proceed."
He rose from his throne with a regal grace, the jade ornants in his hair clinking softly. The other twelve elders quickly followed, their robes flowing like the tides as they filed out of the hall, their auras creating an oppressive atmosphere that left the guard trembling even after they had passed.
Awakening Ceremony Grounds
The Awakening Ceremony grounds were a vast, open field surrounded by towering stone pillars engraved with ancient runes. Thousands of children had already gathered, their faces a mix of anticipation, fear, and hope. So whispered nervously among themselves.
"Do you think we can awaken?" a young boy whispered to his friend, his eyes wide with anxiety.
"I heard that last year, only forty out of five thousand succeeded," another replied, his voice tinged with despair. "It's always the descendants of the formation masters who awaken. We commoners have little hope."
Jealous glances shot toward a group of richly dressed children standing at the front of the crowd, their postures straight, their eyes filled with confidence born of generations of privilege.
Suddenly, a loud voice cut through the whispers like a blade. "Silence!" A fierce-looking guard stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "The Clan Leader and the Elders are arriving. Anyone who speaks out of turn will be executed on the spot."
The murmurs died instantly, replaced by an oppressive silence that hung thick in the air. The weaker children felt their knees tremble, their breaths coming shallow as the overwhelming pressure bore down on them.
Thirteen figures strode onto the raised stage, their long sleeves trailing behind them like the wings of immortal cranes. Their auras, each a towering mountain of spiritual force, swept over the crowd, forcing even the most defiant to bow their heads in submission.
The old man at the center stepped forward, his gaze as sharp as a blade, cutting through the sea of anxious faces before him. He raised his hand, his fingers forming a complex series of gestures that caused the air itself to hum with power.
"Begin the formation," he commanded, his voice echoing through the stillness like the crack of thunder.
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