Tao Han did not sleep that night.

  The memories were not dreams. They were too coherent, too detailed—woven seamlessly into his own thoughts. By dawn, he finally accepted the truth.

  He was no longer Tao Han, the former Leader of the Murim Alliance.

  He was Daniel Maxim, fifteen years old.

  And that truth alone shook him far more than death ever had.

  Daniel Maxim’s memories flowed like a second life unfolding within him. A demonic household. A lineage steeped not in righteousness, but blood, ambition, and internal slaughter.

  The Crimson House.

  One of the great Demonic Martial Houses of the era.

  Tao Han had once led armies against such forces.

  Now, he had inherited their blood.

  Daniel was the sixth son of the Crimson Patriarch—born of the sixth wife, a woman who had not entered the household through politics or power, but love. That alone had marked Daniel from birth.

  He had five older siblings.

  The First, Second, and Fifth were brothers—each ambitious, ruthless, and already walking the path of succession.

  The Third and Fourth were sisters—sharp-minded, distant, and no less dangerous.

  In a house where blood determined worth, Daniel had once stood out.

  At twelve years old, he had been called a genius.

  His control over Force—the invisible energy that powered martial techniques in this world—had surpassed even his elders. The household had whispered his name. Some had praised him.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Others had grown afraid.

  Then came the incident.

  One morning, Daniel had been found collapsed on the cold stone floor of his chamber. His body had convulsed violently, blood leaking from the corner of his lips. He remained unconscious for three days.

  Poison.

  The investigation had ended quietly.

  No culprit. No punishment.

  Because a boy who lost his ability to cultivate have already lost his value.

  From that day onward, everything changed.

  His heart—once the core through which Force circulated—had become unstable. Each attempt to draw upon Force brought suffocating pain, dizziness, and eventually collapse. At first it was manageable.

  Then it worsened.

  Month by month, his ability to cultivate eroded until even the most basic martial forms became impossible. The household that once watched him with interest now looked away.

  A broken talent had no value.

  As Tao Han digested these memories, something bitter twisted in his chest.

  “So this is how you were killed,” he murmured softly.

  Not by an enemy.

  But by family.

  Days passed quietly as Tao Han—now fully Daniel—observed the Crimson House through borrowed eyes. He studied its structure, its rules, its cruelty masked as tradition.

  This was not Murim.

  This was survival.

  Then one evening, the Patriarch came to see him.

  Daniel’s father was a tall man, broad-shouldered, his presence alone enough to weigh down the air. Yet his eyes softened when they landed on Daniel.

  There was guilt there.

  And helplessness.

  “I can no longer protect you,” the Patriarch said after a long silence.

  Daniel did not interrupt.

  “The elders are pressuring me. A successor must be chosen soon.” His father clenched his fist.

  “If you remain here, you will only suffer. Leave the house. Live quietly. I will provide you with resources.”

  It was mercy.

  But to Tao Han, it sounded like surrender.

  Daniel lifted his gaze, his voice steady. “Father… if I leave now, I will die slowly anyway.”

  The Patriarch frowned. “You cannot cultivate.”

  “Then I will find a way to cultivate again.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Finally, the Patriarch exhaled deeply. “Three months.”

  Daniel’s heart pounded.

  “If you can perform the First Yama Art Form within three months, I will acknowledge your right to stay—and compete.” His father’s gaze hardened. “If you fail, you leave. No arguments.”

  After the Patriarch departed, Daniel sat alone.

  The First Yama Art was foundational—but for someone unable to circulate Force, it was impossible.

  Unless…

  Tao Han closed his eyes.

  He had walked the path of martial arts longer than anyone in this world. The mistake was obvious now.

  They were circulating Force through the heart.

  And the poison had destroyed that path.

  Slowly, carefully, he guided the faint traces of Force within his body—not upward, but downward.

  Toward the dantian.

  Pain flared.

  Then steadied.

  For the first time since the poisoning, Force responded without resistance.

  Daniel’s eyes snapped open.

  It worked.

  As the energy stabilized, the world seemed to pause—

  —and then—

  Ding.

  A cold, mechanical sound echoed inside his mind.

  Before his eyes, something impossible flickered into existence.

  A translucent screen.

  Unfamiliar symbols rearranged themselves into words.

  [Initializing…]

  [Demon Martial Master System: Operational]

  Daniel froze.

  “…What?”