Murong Jin's eyes snapped open from his deep slumber. As he sat up, a piercing pain lanced through his body. "OWWWW!" He clutched his ribs, his small, bandage-wrapped frame trembling. The unfamiliar room spun around him—where was he?

  The door burst open. A young woman with luminous cyan eyes rushed in. "Young Master Jin! You're awake!"

  Murong Jin blinked. Compose yourself, he thought. "U-uhm... Yes! I am..." So it worked... How many years have passed? "What... what is the date?"

  The girl's brows furrowed. "Young Master, did you get amnesia?! I knew you were hit hard, but brain damage?!" She took a steadying breath. "A-anyway... it's the 3rd of September, 1200."

  "Five hundred years?!" The words tore from his throat. Staring at the girl, a terrible realization struck—he didn't recognize her at all. "Quick question... who are you again?"

  "YOUNG MASTER JIN!" Her shriek could've shattered glass. "HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW ME?! I'VE SERVED YOU SINCE YOU WERE A BABY!" Huffing, she crossed her arms. "I'm Jin Muwa. Your servant. The one who bathed, fed, and cleaned you when you were a helpless infant."

  Murong Jin's eye twitched. "You... bathed me?"

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  Her smirk was far too smug. "Every. Inch. Young Master."

  "Anyways!" She straightened her robes. "I must inform the Patriarch you've awakened!" With that, she vanished in a whirl of fabric.

  Alone, Murong Jin collapsed back onto the bed. "Five. Hundred. Years." He repeated endlessly, each word tasted like ash. He'd known the artifact could bend time—but this was excessive.

  Gritting his teeth, he assumed a cross-legged position. Time to assess the damage.

  As qi flowed through his meridians, his dantian ignited like a furnace. "Fuck!" He barely suppressed a scream. Every movement sent a thousand needle-sharp jolts through his flesh. When the pain subsided, his scowl could've curdled milk. No matter how much he thought about it.. it was impossible. A descendant of the Murong Clan... A direct descendant at that..

  "A direct descendant of the Murong Clan... only at the middle stage of the Qi Condensation Realm?!" His nails bit into his palms. Pathetic. This body wasn't just weak—it was a cripple.

  BANG!

  The door flew open. A man in his fifties stood framed in the doorway, his beard neatly trimmed, his gaze sharper than a honed blade. The Patriarch.

  Murong Jin rose—ignoring the protests of his wounds—and kneeled. "I greet the Patriarch!" Kneeling to my own descendant... how the mighty have fallen.

  "I heard about your... altercation with the Tang Clan's third young master."

  Why does he care? The Murong Clan reigns supreme among the Five Great Families! The Tangs are insects!

  "The Murong Clan is the weakest of the Five Great Families." The Patriarch's voice was heavy with disgrace. "We cannot afford to provoke stronger forces. Once you've recovered, you will apologize to the Tang Clan in person and they will deicde your punishment."

  Weakest? The word struck like a physical blow. What happened? The Murong Clan had been a titan—feared even by the Murim Alliance. Now? Reduced to groveling before poison-using upstarts?

  Murong Jin's jaw clenched. "Yes... Father." Play the role... for now.

  "Good." The Patriarch turned to leave. "Do not disappoint me again."

  As the door closed, Murong Jin's fist slammed into the mattress. "Bastards..."