Chapter 3: Rejuvenated and Slimmed Down
Jegal Hye walked slowly. There was no need to rush. After all, if she mentioned having prepared a delicious meal, he would rise with a hearty laugh.
But when she reached the leader’s chamber, Jegal Hye frowned. The metallic tang of blood assaulted her senses even before she opened the door. She pushed it open and stepped inside.
The bedroom was a scene of carnage.
The leader’s massive body lay facedown, surrounded by pools of dried crimson blood. A bloodied dagger rested near the bed. Jegal Hye methodically scanned the room—windows, walls, ceiling, even the door she’d entered through. No signs of intrusion.
Only then did she relax.
“No wonder the maid panicked. The Art of Feigning Death? Uncle, your pranks have gone too far today.”
The Art of Feigning Death.
An ancient martial technique that halted breath, heartbeat, and even lowered body temperature to mimic death. To use such a revered skill merely to play dead—it beggared belief.
“Uncle, wake up now.”
Jegal Hye knelt by the bed and peered down.
In an instant, she recoiled, scrambling backward until her back hit the wall. Her eyes bulged like lanterns as she choked for air.
The wound on his neck gaped deeply, the torn flesh blackened. Fresh blood still seeped from the gash.
“Uncle… this can’t be… This can’t be real! Why… Why would you…?”
Her wails drew a crowd, but she remained oblivious to their presence.
The alliance descended into chaos.
Their leader was dead.
The greatest martial artist in the world—a man hailed as a martial deity—had fallen.
Yet the shock stemmed not merely from his death.
No it. Any assailant capable of breaching the alliance’s defenses would render guards irrelevant. The leader would end up protecting them instead.
Suicide? Absurd.
This was a man who’d delighted in planning his next meal.
Just weeks prior, he’d visited the Green Forest Stronghold to sample their famed beef. The Green Forest King had grilled meat at his side, preening like a puppy under Hou Gong’s praise.
Thus, only questions remained.
The unkillable man lay dead where death should’ve been impossible—by his own hand, no less.
Yet this was reality.
But Hou Gong lived.
Only his body had changed.
On the night someone gleefully slit his throat, Hou Gong awoke elsewhere, acutely aware of his transformed physique.
‘What is this body? Since when did breathing require such effort?’
Even supine, he sensed the differences. This frail form, this unfamiliar room—this wasn’t the Martial Alliance.
The bed felt too soft. The blanket’s texture alien. The air hung thick, each breath laborious in this foreign flesh.
He managed to rise and stumble to a mirror. A gaunt youth stared back, lips pursed in a pout.
‘Younger. Thinner.’
But this wasn’t his face from youth. No dream either—the way his legs nearly buckled after one step confirmed that. In a dream, he’d have woken already.
Some reincarnation joke?
Jegal Hye had recently asked, “If you could reincarnate, when would you choose?” When he’d questioned whether memories would carry over, she’d merely blinked, stumped.
This wasn’t reincarnation. The face in the mirror bore no resemblance, no matter how emaciated.
Possession? No coexisting soul. Soul transmigration? Hell? Unlikely—since when did hell have beds?
Another world? Or another era?
No answers. Only mounting irritation.
A divine prank? Natural order run amok?
Unforgivable. To alter his life unbidden—
‘Damn it all.’
The mirror fueled his rage. This new face belonged to a skeleton barely clothed in skin. No muscle, hollow eyes, sunken cheeks. Worse were the wrists—fragile twigs marred by knife scars. More scars circled the neck.
The room’s opulent furnishings clashed violently with the body’s wretched state.
‘What—’
Footsteps approached.
To feign sleep or confront? No choice—his legs would crumble if he rushed back to bed.
The steps halted at the door. It opened.
A white-haired old man entered—tall, gaunt, with a beard cascading to his chest. Sickly pallor, two moles on his forehead.
‘Moles?’
Not why two, but recognition struck. Fan Tian, head of Tianhua Library. They’d met years ago, though he’d been healthier then. The moles remained, oddly distinguished.
One certainty: This was the present era.
‘Tianhua Library’s doing?’
The Library—one of Central Plains’ Three Great Archives, housing ancient texts and artifacts. Fan Tian’s erudition dwarfed contemporary scholars.
“Child, you’re awake. Good.”
“……”
Hou Gong nearly gaped. Normally, he’d expect:
—Surprised, Leader?
To which he’d reply:
—Not particularly, but explanations are due.
But “child”? Fan Tian clearly mistook him for his grandson, unaware of the soul shift. The old man’s grief radiated palpably, weighing the air.
‘Dawn-lit sorrow…’
Hou Kong remained still.
“Your wish has become mine. Come here.”
Fan Tian sat on the bed and gestured. After hesitation, Hou Gong shuffled forward—knees buckling, breath ragged—before collapsing beside him.
“Swallow this.”
A small pill.
Hou Gong studied it, then his scarred wrists. Health tonic? Unlikely. The self-harm marks and Fan Tian’s mournful gaze suggested poison.
“Poison?”
No answer. Fan Tian’s brow furrowed.
Their eyes locked in silence until Hou Gong pressed, “Poison?”
“Take it.”
The old man’s indifference confirmed it.
“First, I have a question—”
“If you fear a slow death, don’t.”
“Who leads the Martial Alliance now?”
Fan Tian growled, “What nonsense—”
“This is urgent.”
“Silence!”
“You dare?!” Fan Tian erupted. “Begging daily to die, yet now asking about the Alliance Leader?! Is death not enough? Must you humiliate me further?!”
Hou Gong steadied himself. Further talk was futile.
“You clearly don’t understand this body’s recent state. I’ve no death wish. Leave. We’ll speak at dawn.”
He stood, gesturing toward the door. What history existed between this grandfather and suicidal grandson?
Before he could ponder, Fan Tian lunged.
Instinctively, Hou Gong raised a hand to unleash a wind strike—a simple technique.
Nothing happened.
His arm refused to lift. Reality crashed in—this body could barely walk.
Fan Tian’s weight crushed him.
“Guh—!”
