Chapter 2 Rebirth, Returning to Youth!
What does death truly feel like?
And what kind of world exists beyond death?
Zhang Yang believed these questions could never be answered.
Yet!
He vaguely remembered that he had died.
But somehow, he also felt as if he hadn’t.
Because he could still think.
Although he couldn’t sense his body, he was certain he could still think.
Only, it was completely dark all around him. Below him, there was only bright, clear light.
It was a lotus pedestal with thirty-six petals.
Exquisite in design, it resembled a jade carving, radiating multicoloured light that dispersed the darkness like a rainbow.
The moment Zhang Yang saw the lotus pedestal, he felt dazed.
He vaguely recalled that it looked familiar.
As if he had seen it before his transmigration.
Most likely —
he had seen it; it seemed to be a craft item he had once purchased.
As Zhang Yang’s mind wandered, a message suddenly flooded into his consciousness.
The Golden Lotus of Creation!
Heaven and Earth nurture this item, which can ensure the host neither dies nor perishes, unless the Golden Lotus of Creation itself is destroyed.
Each time the host is reborn, they will assume the age they had when they first obtained the Golden Lotus of Creation.
But!
It’s not starting over from scratch; the host retains the peak strength from their previous life along with all their memories.
It’s essentially rejuvenation!
As Zhang Yang absorbed the information from the Golden Lotus of Creation, he was so astonished he burst out laughing, unable to close his mouth.
“My cheat code has finally arrived.”
Infinite revival, with every resurrection perfectly preserving all the progress made in the previous life.
Doesn’t this mean my cultivation can grow boundlessly until I reach the pinnacle?
What talent…
What lifespan?
It’s no longer an issue at all.
If this life isn’t enough, then there’s always the next!
Accumulating over countless lifetimes, eventually reaching the ultimate path!
With this thought, Zhang Yang cried out excitedly at the top of his lungs, “Revive, my body.”
-------------------------------------
“Bang!”
In the depths of winter, the rivers lay frozen solid.
Zhang Yang broke through the ice, his face purple with the cold.
He floated on the river’s surface, gazing blankly at the world around him, blanketed in endless white snow.
Where am I?
"Damn, the Golden Lotus of Creation is really unreliable—why does it always revive me in water?"
Zhang Yang grumbled, ignoring everything else as he hurriedly climbed out of the river, naked.
Though he was a practitioner at the Bronze-Flesh Realm, this rank mainly meant greater bursts of strength and a more robust physique, capable of wielding tremendous power—up to a thousand jin (about 500 kilograms).
That was all there was to it.
Staying any longer in the icy, bone-chilling river water, Zhang Yang wasn’t sure how much longer he could survive.
Once ashore, he squatted by the riverbank, peering at his reflection through the clear water.
The face staring back at him was exactly as it had been decades ago—his twenty-one-year-old self.
Back then, he had just transmigrated, with delicate features and fair skin that, in this era, were typically reserved for nobility.
It made sense—ordinary folk spent their days labouring in the fields under the sun, their appearance, bearing, posture, and especially their hands, were entirely unlike those of aristocrats.
You could tell if someone had done hard physical work just by looking at their hands.
Zhang Yang looked at his youthful face and, rather pleased, rubbed his cheek with a smile. “I wonder if Xiang’er and the others would be startled to see me like this.”
Xiang’er was Zhang Yang’s eldest son.
Reflecting on the traits of his rebirth, Zhang Yang immediately clenched both fists tightly.
In an instant, the muscles in his arms bulged, as if steel cables had been tightened, a formidable strength gathering beneath his seemingly slender frame.
This power was even greater than in his previous life!
After all, he had only reached this level at the age of forty-five in his former life, when his vitality and spirit were not as strong as in his youth.
As one grew older, especially past fifty, cultivation either stagnated or declined, often falling short of the prime years.
Squinting slightly, Zhang Yang relished the surge of energy pulsing through his blood and qi. “This strength should exceed a thousand jin; I’m not far from having the qi and blood of a horse.”
Feeling the power within, Zhang Yang suddenly threw a punch.
The strike was as swift as a meteor.
The fist wind howled, fiercer than the biting winter gale!
Feeling the explosive power of that punch, Zhang Yang couldn't help but throw his head back and laugh aloud.
With blood and qi as strong as a horse's, pinnacle of the Way of the Shaman, here I come!
Cheering, Zhang Yang glanced at the sky and ultimately decided to follow the setting sun.
He had no idea where he was, but in the dead of winter, heading towards even colder lands was clearly not a wise choice.
He travelled for five days before he spotted any signs of human habitation.
If he hadn’t encountered a lone snow wolf along the way, he might have perished on the icy, bone-chilling grassland.
Ahead lay a small town.
Its walls rose five metres high, called Xinxian.
Normally, outsiders wishing to enter the town faced considerable trouble—they had to undergo searches and verification of their identity.
But!
Zhang Yang was an exception.
Not because he was handsome, but because he was ruthless enough.
The city guards watched Zhang Yang stride into the town and scratched their heads, puzzled. One asked, “Captain, are we really going to just let him in like this?”
“Nonsense.”
The captain glanced at the soldier and asked, “What season is it now?”
“Dead of winter.”
“In the dead of winter, coming alone from the north, wearing nothing but a wolf’s pelt—do you really want to block someone like that? Are you looking to die?”
“Why can’t we stop him?”
“Foolish. The Di People north of Xinxian had already left for warmer, more fertile regions before the winter arrived. Now the north is a thousand miles of desolate wasteland. Anyone coming from there in this weather, clad in only a wolf’s pelt, isn’t an ordinary person. This man must be a cultivator, at the very least at the Bronze-Flesh Realm.”
“Ah, Bronze-Flesh Realm. Even Yan Kingdom’s strongest warriors are only cultivators at that level,” another replied.
“Stop wasting time. Go report this to Lord Yan.”
“Yes, sir.”
Zhang Yang entered Xinxian and caught sight of Heng State’s characters faintly visible on signboards and walls throughout the streets. He breathed a small sigh of relief.
Although he didn’t know precisely where he was, seeing Heng State’s script meant he was still within its borders.
As long as he was still in Heng State, heading home would be straightforward.
After wandering around the city for a while, Zhang Yang stopped in front of a tavern. The aroma of food wafted out from inside. Rubbing his hollow stomach, he felt a pang of difficulty.
He had no money on him, so the coming days promised to be a struggle. However, fortune always favours those with strength.
“I am Lord Yan Yun. I wonder how a hero like yourself is called and where you hail from?”
A hearty voice called out from behind Zhang Yang.
He turned to look.
A man dressed in splendid clothes, seemingly around thirty years old, stood not far away.
The man’s eyes burned as he appraised Zhang Yang’s well-built frame, as if admiring a beautiful woman.
His fiery gaze made Zhang Yang’s heart twitch involuntarily.
Looks like I’ve run into... Lord Yan of Heng State. He was urgently seeking warriors, and his given name was Yun.
In this age, cultivating one’s powers was no easy task.
Firstly, not everyone is suited to cultivation.
Secondly, cultivation requires a solid material foundation; at the very least, one needs a balanced diet of meat and vegetables.
For ordinary folk, eating meat is no easy matter.
By proportion, most cultivators come from the nobility.
However, cultivation is a harsh undertaking, demanding perseverance through freezing winters and sweltering summers. The vast majority of nobles are too busy indulging in pleasures to endure such hardship.
Yet Lord Yan Yun was precisely the exception.
His constitution was not ideal for cultivation, but from a young age, he loved martial pursuits and sought out renowned masters.
It was unfortunate that the Yan Kingdom was weak in national power and located in the bitterly cold North; anyone with ambition would never stay in such a place.
Zhang Yang came back to himself and, speaking in the refined official language of Heng State, said, “So it is Lord Yan—your reputation precedes you.”
“I have come from the remote northern mountains. May I ask what year it is now, and how is the Heng King’s twenty-fifth year northern campaign progressing?” Hearing this, Lord Yan Yun’s expression immediately turned somewhat strange.
He scrutinised Zhang Yang and asked in surprise, “Sir, are you by any chance referring to King Shang’s twenty-fifth year northern expedition?”
“That northern campaign ended twenty-one years ago.”
Twenty-one years ago!
At these words, Zhang Yang felt as if struck by lightning. His eyes widened, and he stood frozen in place.
His fists clenched tightly, emotions inside him erupting like a volcano, uncontrollable.
Had it really been so long?
What had become of his wife and children now?
By calculation, Xiang’er must be forty-six years old by now.
Wu Niang, Xiao Yuan...
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