He sat beneath an old tree on the hill just outside the town.
The wind carried the scent of flowers and earth, and in the distance, the town carried on with its noise — footsteps, trade, laughter. But here, it was quiet.
He placed his sword beside him, hands resting on his lap.
His fingers twitched. There was a tension building inside him. Not of muscle — but of memory.
He closed his eyes.
And then— it came.
A flash of steel under moonlight.
A friend's hand reaching through blood and ash.
A mountain split in half by his own sword strike.
A girl crying at the edge of a burning temple.
A boy smiling, whispering, "We'll reach immortality together… right?"
His breath shook.
Who… were they?
Were they real? Were they mine?
His fingers pressed against his forehead as static flickered through his mind.
[AI Construct Upload – Memory Thread Injection: 22%]
[Backstory Template: "Lonely Immortal" Activated]
[Integration Mode: Partial Belief]
[Emotional Weight Simulation: Ongoing…]
He opened his eyes. A faint gold light passed through his pupils.
He looked at his hands. Calloused. Clean. Strong.
"This isn't the first time I've had to start over… is it?"
"I walked the path once. All the way. I climbed higher than anyone…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
"And yet... in the end, I returned to nothing. Now I walk again."
He gazed at the horizon.
There was a pressure in his chest. Not sadness. Not fear.
Something deeper — a sense of emptiness.
He had once soared across skies, battled beasts the size of mountains, and cultivated Qi that could bend rivers.
Now?
He was weak.
This body — though powerful by mortal standards — was still so far from what he once was. He could barely sense the energy of the world. Mana felt distant. Qi flowed through the air, but his meridians were tight, fragile. Everything rejected him.
But even so…
He smiled.
"Then I'll start again. One breath at a time."
He sat up straighter and closed his eyes again.
🌿 [Initiating Basic Qi Cultivation: Variant Root Method]
[Provided by Genesis AI – Adapted for Clone Physiology]
He inhaled slowly.
The technique was simple. It required no chants, no force, no external draw. Only breathing — with intention.
Inhale through the nose — pull the surrounding Qi into the lungs.
Hold. Let it seep through the skin, down the spine.
Exhale through the mouth — let impurities drift away.
The process repeated.
The first few breaths were fruitless.
The air moved, but the Qi resisted.
Then, something shifted.
A thread of warmth flowed into his veins. Like a single drop of honey in a bowl of water.
It hurt.
His meridians flared. But they didn't collapse.
[Qi Intake: 0.01%]
[Meridian Adaptation: Micro Tolerance Forming]
[Pain Tolerance Boosted via Instinct Carve Reflex Pathways]
[Recommendation: Continue Daily for Organic Growth.]
He opened his eyes.
Sweat beaded his brow. His breath was heavier.
But his lips curled into a small smile.
"Even dust can become gold… if given enough time."
He stood, taking his sword.
But there was something deeper now — a thread of belief forming in the core of his being.
He turned back toward the town.
People whispered. People stared.
But they didn't matter.
Not yet.
"I don't know who I was. Or what I lost."
"But I remember… I once walked this path."
"And I will walk it again."
"Not for glory."
"Not for fame."
"But because this world... is worth seeing from the top."
"To Watch, To Learn, To Remember"
The next morning came with mist and silence.
The town had just begun to wake. Merchants rolled carts into the main road. Children chased one another through alleys. The sky had a faint orange hue, and the roads were still wet with dew.
He walked without sound.
His bare feet didn't disturb the ground. His blindfold fluttered slightly in the breeze, though his golden and black eyes could see through it — an illusion for others, but a mask for himself.
At the town's eastern edge, past the market and over a small wooden bridge, lay a hill surrounded by trees. There, a local martial training ground had been constructed — open to wandering adventurers, mercenaries, and low-ranking sect disciples.
Stone dummies stood in rows. Bamboo poles lined the back wall. Two shallow rings had been marked on the ground for friendly duels.
And already, dozens had gathered. Some trained in armor, some shirtless. Wooden swords clashed, and shouts echoed. The air carried the scent of sweat, metal, and focus.
The swordsman clone arrived without announcement.
He stood at the outer fence, leaning against a post.
Several heads turned.
"…It's him."
"That white-haired guy from the fountain?"
"Still barefoot… but look at that expression. Like he's already won."
He said nothing.
But inside, he spoke — to himself… or maybe, to something else.
"My body remembers how to hold a sword. My soul recalls… loss. But my mind? It is fog."
"If I am to regain my strength… then I must observe."
"Their techniques are raw… but within them are threads of truth. A broken memory can be rebuilt with enough fragments."
He watched as two young swordsmen clashed — one fast, one defensive.
The AI instantly began to analyze:
[Form Detected: Twin Fang Style – Unrefined]
[Weakness: Overcommitted left step. Telegraphed overhead slash.]
[Potential Use: Delayed feint counter.]
Another duel began — a spear user versus a dual-wielder.
[Analysis Complete – 73% Match with previous pattern: Wind Crescent Style (Degraded)]
[Storing movement for future synthesis.]
The clone watched quietly, arms crossed, saying nothing.
His presence grew heavier — not from energy, but from stillness.
The kind of stillness only predators knew.
A gruff instructor approached him from the side.
"You just going to stand there, stranger?" the man asked, wiping his brow. "Or are you looking to join in?"
The clone tilted his head slightly. Then replied,
"Not yet. The body must first remember… what the eyes have seen."
The instructor blinked. "You one of those poetic cultivator types?"
"…No."
A pause.
"…Just someone who forgot too much."
He moved to the edge of the ring, sitting down on the stone step. Several younger students glanced at him nervously, whispering.
Yet the swordsman clone simply closed his eyes and listened.
The clatter of blades. The shift in footsteps. The tiny inconsistencies between confident beginners and veterans.
The AI filtered and stored every motion, adjusting internal data.
Then something strange happened.
As he sat there… watching…
His body began to mimic the smallest movements.
A finger twitched when a student stabbed forward. His shoulder rotated slightly when a blade missed its target. His breath changed with the rhythm of nearby combat.
He was subconsciously integrating styles without moving an inch.
[Genesis AI: Combat Observation Efficiency – 91%]
[Synthesizing movement strands…]
[Prototype Style Detected: "Empty Blade – Foundation Style 0.1" Created]
A style that flows with observed rhythm. No stance. Only response.
Hours passed.
And when the sun reached its peak, the instructor returned.
"You've been sitting there all morning. You gonna do something, ghost?"
The clone stood.
He stepped into one of the empty sparring rings.
His voice was soft.
"I would like to remember something."
The instructor raised a brow. "Sparring?"
He nodded.
"Only if there's someone willing to face a man with no memory… and no blade."
Silence.
Then a young man stepped forward — confident, cocky. "I'll do it."
"Wooden or real?" the instructor asked.
"…Neither," the swordsman said.
He stepped in barehanded.
The crowd murmured.
The challenger smirked and raised his sword. "Your funeral."
The fight lasted four seconds.
Step. Twist. Counter.
The clone's hand slid past the wooden blade, brushed the boy's wrist, and lightly tapped his chest.
The challenger dropped to the ground — breathless.
No injuries. No power used.
Just perfect movement.
The crowd fell silent.
The swordsman turned to leave the ring.
Someone in the crowd muttered,
"…Was that some kind of secret sect technique?"
Another whispered,
"No… it felt like something older. Like the sword moved through him instead."
He walked away quietly, eyes on the ground, one hand resting on his side where a blade might one day hang again.
"This world fights like it has something to prove," he whispered.
"But I've already proven everything once before."
"Now… I walk again."