Chapter 3: The Weight of Expectations

Chapter 3: The Weight of Expectations

The main hall of the Shengquan Sect was a place of solemnity and quiet power. Unlike the grand, towering palaces of legendary sects, it was modest in design—wooden beams polished by time, scrolls of martial wisdom adorning the walls, and incense burning faintly in the corners. Yet, to those who lived within these walls, it was the heart of their world.

Wuyao Shengjun stood in the center of the hall, facing his father. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the wooden floor, emphasizing the deep lines of age and experience on Master Sheng's face.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken words.

Master Sheng studied his son carefully. "You seem… changed."

Wuyao held his gaze, unflinching. He could not afford to appear weak. The memories of this body told him that his father was a man of discipline, a leader who carried the burdens of his sect with unwavering resolve. Though his love for his son was undeniable, it was not the gentle affection of an ordinary father—it was the love of a master who expected strength.

"I had a strange dream," Wuyao said at last. "One that felt too real."

His father did not press for details, only nodding as if he understood more than he let on. "Dreams often carry truths we do not yet grasp."

Wuyao remained silent. The truth was far greater than a mere dream—he was no longer just his father's son. He was a man who had lived and died in another world, a soul that had known suffering beyond this one's comprehension.

Master Sheng turned, walking toward a wooden stand where an old, yet well-maintained sword rested. His fingers brushed over the hilt. "You have always been a gifted child, Yao'er. But talent alone is not enough. Strength is earned through hardship, discipline, and an unyielding will."

He turned back, eyes sharp. "Tell me. What is your goal?"

Wuyao hesitated. In his past life, he had no goals—only survival. But now, standing in this hall, he felt something stir within him. He had been given a second chance. This life was not his to waste.

"I want to become strong," he said, his voice steady. "Stronger than anyone."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his father's eyes. "And for what purpose?"

Wuyao clenched his fists. To never be weak again. To never let fate decide my worth.

But he could not say those words aloud. Instead, he met his father's gaze and said, "To protect what is mine."

Master Sheng regarded him for a long moment before nodding. "Then you will begin training immediately."

The training grounds of the Shengquan Sect were vast, an open courtyard surrounded by towering cliffs. Disciples practiced in pairs, their wooden swords clashing with sharp echoes. Some performed intricate footwork drills, while others meditated in quiet concentration.

Wuyao stood before his father, who now wielded a wooden training sword. "Show me what you've learned," Master Sheng commanded.

Memories surfaced stances, forms, techniques engraved into this body's past. Wuyao fell into position, legs firm, sword steady. He lunged forward, striking with calculated precision.

Master Sheng deflected effortlessly, his counterattack swift and controlled. Wuyao barely dodged, his instincts screaming as he adjusted his stance. This wasn't the wild, desperate struggle of survival it was the discipline of a warrior.

Strike. Parry. Dodge. Adjust.

He moved on instinct, yet something was different. The body remembered the techniques, but his mind had been tempered by a past life of hardship. Each movement carried purpose. Each attack held intent.

A sudden feint from his father caught him off guard. The wooden blade stopped inches from his throat.

Wuyao froze.

Master Sheng lowered his weapon. "Your technique is solid, but your mind is elsewhere. Focus, Yao'er. Strength without clarity is wasted potential."

Wuyao exhaled slowly. He had let his emotions slip. His desire for strength, for control over his fate, had nearly clouded his judgment. He nodded. "Understood, Father."

A rare smile ghosted across Master Sheng's lips. "Good. Again."

And so, Wuyao trained. Again and again, until his muscles burned and his breaths came ragged. Yet, with each strike, he felt something awaken within him. A hunger. A drive.

A purpose.

Night had fallen by the time training ended. Wuyao stood beneath the moonlit sky, gripping the wooden sword tightly. His body ached, yet his mind was sharper than ever.

As he gazed at the stars, he made a silent vow.

I will not waste this life. I will rise above all.

But fate had other plans.

For deep in the shadows of the mountains, unseen eyes watched the Shengquan Sect. And soon, the peace Wuyao had just begun to embrace… would be shattered.