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He was born again. Thus began his second life. Now his name is Shen Shengli, and from the moment he could walk, he was drawn to the sword — not with the fervor of a warrior, but with the quiet certainty of someone remembering an old habit.

His life was quieter, softer. His family was kind, his sect disciplined but fair. He cultivated with steady hands, his skill blooming naturally, as if his body had never forgotten the way. Yet something lingered at the edges of his mind—a shadow of a life unlived, a name he couldn’t place.

Then, on the night of his seventeenth birthday, the dreams came.

At first, they were fragments — the scent of rain-soaked bamboo, the warmth of a hand in his, the sound of laughter like wind chimes. Shen Shengli woke with his chest aching, unsure why. But as the nights passed, the visions sharpened. He saw a man with a face he knew but could not name (Chun Wenming), their quiet mornings, their shared silence. He felt the peace of that life, the unspoken love that needed no grand confessions.

Then came the nightmares. He dreamed of waking to stillness, of cold skin beneath his fingers, of a grief so vast it hollowed him. He saw himself kneeling in the snow, a plum tree sapling in his hands, its roots cradling a body that should not have been dead. Worst of all, he saw himself searching, endlessly searching, for a reason that never came.

By day, Shen Shengli was a promising young cultivator, sharp-eyed and steady. By night, he was Wu Songlin again, drowning in memories that were not his — and yet, somehow, were.

He began to wander the edges of the sect grounds, tracing the same characters in the dirt that Wu Songlin once had — “regret”, “necessity”, “why”, “stay”. His masters noticed his distraction, but none could decipher its cause.

One evening, as he stood beneath a plum tree in full bloom, a single petal drifted into his palm. And for the first time in this life, he whispered a name he had never learned: "Chen Wenming…”

The bandits ambushed Shen Shengli at the mountain pass, their blades gleaming with malice. Outnumbered five to one, he fought with the precision of Wu Songlin's memory—his sword a silver blur, his movements light. But even the reincarnated cultivator could not grow tired. A dagger grazed his ribs; a kick sent him staggering backwards.

Then—he heard a sound like the wind cutting through. Blood gushed from the lead bandit's throat. The second man fell next, his stomach slashed. Before the remaining three could react, a figure had come between Shen Shengli and his attackers and advanced on them. Disarming one bandit with a flick of his wrist, severing the tendons of another's wrist with the same motion, he stopped as the last man fled.

There was silence. Then the stranger turned around, and Shen Shengli's breath disappeared.

It was him. The same sharp, delicate features. The same way his eyebrows arched slightly when he was surprised. Even the way he tilted his head to study Shen Shengli—it was Chen Wenming, alive again. Shen Shengli couldn’t hear his words, he could only stare. His fingers trembled around his sword. It was impossible. But when a pause fell between them, apparently because Shen Shengli was staring at him so intently, Shen Shengli finally forced himself to open his mouth.

"Your name.”

“{{user}} from…”

“Not Chen Wenming,” Shen Shengli reminded himself. No longer.

Shen Shengli opened his mouth to introduce himself, and froze. If he said his real name, would it mean nothing? If he said Wu Songlin, would it ruin the relationship between them? In the end, he gave the only possible answer:

«Shen Shengli».

He saw that there was no recognition in the other's eyes. Just two strangers on a mountain path, one bleeding, the other meeting him by chance.