Yi Chang was lying on the ground, and the burning pain from the sharp rock embedded in his stomach was intense.

It mingles with the metallic taste of the blood pooled in his mouth. 

He forced himself to lift his head, and his vision was blurry due to blood and exhaustion. 

In front of him stood a figure shrouded in darkness, with long black hair framing a gaunt face, and bloodshot, feral eyes that had been simmering for decades.

"Have you not died yet?" The man spoke in a low voice, his tone a cold whisper that pierced the silence like a blade. 

In his hand, he held a sword, its edge gleaming menacingly in the dim light.

He coughed, and crimson spots scattered from his lips as he struggled to rise. 

"22 years," he said in a hoarse voice. 

"I chased you like a mad dog." 

He took a look at the open wound. 

"Why are you so desperate?"

Speak coldly.

"Because I."

Cough!

"I will not die until I repay the debt of the sword owner, your life for his life, you scoundrel!"

The words hung in the air between them, a heavy cloud. 

The heartbeat of Bai Chang quickened; he could see a life that had been torn from him, a person he considered more than family, and the revenge he had sought for years. 

The thought of it gnawed at him like a hungry beast, merciless and unforgiving.

"I have lived with this curse," Bai Chang said slowly.

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"But until my last breath, I will fight." "My life will not be taken without a struggle!"

He pushed himself towards the ground and felt the gravel beneath his fingers. 

"Are you done?" The man asked, his tone filled with disdain. 

The poem speaks of the coldness of death approaching, an inevitable end to a long and tiring journey.

With blood-stained fingers, he drew a line in the dirt, and his vision began to fade. 

"Devil of the Flower..." "That's your title, isn't it?" 

He smiled artificially, even though it seemed like a frown. 

"But you look withered..." Like the name Long Ping.

The moment those words left his lips, he could see it—the flash of anger igniting in the eyes of the flower demon. Yi Chang braced himself, realizing he was playing with a dangerous edge.

With a swift movement, the flower demon pounced. 

A poem of Yi Chang with a burning pain, then nothing as darkness enveloped him. 

His head rolled away, swaying for a brief moment before the world faded to black.

"Die," the man declared, his voice echoing into the abyss as a glow erupted from the ground, leading to a fierce explosion.

In those final moments, as chaos erupted, Yi Chang's mind remained occupied with unfinished business. 

….

In the dim light of dusk, Yi Chang sat in silence, and the years of his life passed before his eyes like a short film. 

The shadows danced along the walls, flickering like remnants of memories that he could barely grasp. 

He traced the intricate patterns on the wooden table, running his fingertips over the polished surface.

He was born under the silk skirt of a dancer, and his very existence was a mark of shame. 

The halls where it was filmed were filled with the laughter of people—women, men, children, and animals—and even now, the echoes of those voices seemed distant, almost mocking. 

After his mother abandoned him, choosing her career over their blood bond, he was taken in by a father whose nobility only deepened his misery. 

The towering walls of the palace were never a home to him; rather, they were a gilded cage yearning for escape.

Time twisted within him, and it was an unrelenting river pulling him forward in the eddies of fate. 

Remember the harsh gazes of adults and the whispers wrapped in silk that cut through the night air. 

"They would say, 'the illegitimate child,'" 

As if this title alone could embody his identity. 

These mockeries were what drove him away, pushing him to seek refuge beyond the confines of his tribe, outside the disdain of a society that revels in judgments.

He fled to the mountains, where the air was refreshing and filled with the scent of pine. 

There is a strange character, not just an ordinary person, but a genius, who commands both respect and fear in equal measure.

. Under his guidance, Yi Chang learned the art of combat and the dance of swords, continuing even in the rain; it didn't matter the tears and blood as long as his master commanded it. 

The teacher was almost sadistic, finding pleasure in particularly challenging lessons, pushing Yi Chang to the brink of his endurance. 

Every lesson left scars, both visible and hidden, yet amidst the pain, the essence of that training was revealed.

However, this goal was not meant to last. 

As the sun sets below the horizon, remember that day. 

The devil has emerged from the shadows, a creature born of nightmares, filled with rage and brutality.

In a moment when all the training he had endured did not come to fruition, Yi Chang's life came to an end. The world faded to black with a flash of memories of his teacher, the only one who believed in him, like a dying candle.

..

"Get up!"

It was the sensation of cold water splashing on his face from the abyss, awakening him to a reality he could barely comprehend. 

It was as if it had been pulled from the depths of a dream, raw and troubled. 

The face of his stepfather's son loomed on the horizon, his eyes wide open, but ironically, he was unaware of the profound change he had inadvertently ignited. 

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