Supreme Divine Weapon

Year twelve of the Kaiyuan era. The first day of winter. Snow fell in thick, swirling flurries.

The imperial capital, Chang’an, of the Grand Yuan Dynasty, lay shrouded in white, as if the world itself had been cloaked in silver.

“Blossoms of plum trees fill the courtyard with sudden fragrance; a single breath of scent born from bitter cold…”

In the Marquis of Founding’s estate, beneath the pavilion by the plum trees, Yang Nan stood cradling a scroll. Snowflakes danced in the air, and one crystalline flake landed gently atop his head. He lifted his small hand, delicately pinched the snowflake, and gently recited a line of ancient verse, his clear, youthful voice suddenly faltering.

He gazed at the snow-laden branches of the plum trees outside the pavilion. The proud, defiant blossoms fell into his dark, shining eyes, yet stirred no sense of pride or fragrance in his heart. Instead, a trace of confusion flickered in Yang Nan’s eyes. He stood in silence for a long time. Not far off, the maids and servants, standing with solemn decorum, noticed the young master’s reading had ceased. In haste, they gathered around him with incense burners and fox-fur cloaks.

Yang Nan waved them away, signaling not to disturb him. He sighed inwardly and glanced down at the small body he had inhabited for twelve years…

Reincarnation? Rebirth? Transmigration?

He had been utterly destroyed in that gas explosion—how could he have awoken, memories intact, in this strange new world?

Was it that talisman the old Taoist had drawn, or the odd stone Ren Xu