Ten Thousand Years of Knowledge

The Grand Pill Emperor died the way all great men die in cultivation novels: betrayed by the people he trusted most, in a place he should have been safe, for resources he had spent his life accumulating.

His three senior disciples had planned it well. The formation they laid around his private alchemy chamber had taken them two years to construct. When it activated, it didn't kill him — it erased his cultivation and expelled his soul from the mortal plane.

He spent what felt like a thousand years in the void between reincarnations.

When he opened his eyes, he was twelve years old, lying on a cot in the outer-disciple barracks of the Rustpeak Sect — the weakest, most underfunded, most frequently raided sect in the entire Jade Reaches.

He took a slow breath and assessed his situation.

Cultivation root: present, low-grade, barely Foundation Building potential. Physical body: malnourished, three inches shorter than he remembered being. Memories: ten thousand years of accumulated alchemy knowledge, intact.

He sat up and looked at his small, soft twelve-year-old hands.

"All right," he said calmly. "Let's begin again."