At dawn, atop the mist-shrouded mountain peaks, the scenery was ethereal, like a realm of immortals.

Elder Yuanxi sat cross-legged amidst the vast sea of clouds, her dark hair fluttering in the wind, her eyes lightly closed, her body enveloped in a faint aura of spiritual energy.

She was the most exceptional cultivator the immortal sect had seen in centuries, having already reached the rank of elder and attained eternal life.

Today, she had cast a divination for herself, but the result left her unsettled.

“Twenty years from now, a calamity will strike, unavoidable. Only by adopting a child can it be resolved.”

Yuanxi slowly opened her eyes.

Her face, delicate as a young maiden’s, furrowed slightly in thought.

She was originally a modern woman—a corporate drone grinding away at her job, clocking in at eight and leaving at nine, diligent and hardworking.

Who would’ve thought she’d get into a car accident on her way to work and wake up transmigrated into this body?

At first, she was overjoyed to discover that this body belonged to an immensely powerful immortal.

But her joy was short-lived—her cultivation was so high that she couldn’t control it.

Her spiritual energy was practically zero.

She couldn’t fly, couldn’t cast spells, and was essentially just an ordinary person… except for the fact that she was ageless and deathless.

But according to the memories she inherited, she still retained the ability to divine fate.

An immortal who had achieved eternal life should have been untroubled by mortal affairs, yet this calamity was directly tied to her survival—something she couldn’t afford to take lightly.

Never had she imagined that her fate would be so tightly intertwined with the existence of a child.

“If it’s destiny, then so be it.”

She murmured to herself before resolving to wait for this fated child to appear.

Ten Years Later, Capital of the Great Wei Dynasty

The biting wind cut like knives, and snow fell in thick flakes, blanketing the entire capital.

A frail-looking boy, no more than seven or eight years old, knelt in tattered clothes outside the gates of the Fu Manor, his face deathly pale.

He was Fu Jing, the illegitimate son of the Fu family.

Servants passing by glanced at him and scoffed: “He’s being punished again.”

“Serves him right for crossing the young master!”

“Tch…”

The two gossiped before walking away.

His small face was red from the cold, his nose nearly frozen, but his stubborn eyes remained fixed on the snow-covered ground.

Suddenly, a pair of pristine white boots appeared in his line of sight, their owner’s voice dripping with arrogance: “You dare oppose me? Know your place, trash!”

The small figure stiffened slightly.

This time, his father, Fu Rongfeng, had ordered him to kneel in the snow—all because the young master’s dog had killed the rabbit he had raised.

In a fit of anger, he had struck the dog with a stick, only to be beaten by the young master in return.

And as usual, his father had punished him without even hearing his side.

This wasn’t the first time.

A wave of despair washed over Fu Jing.

Ever since he could remember, he had been reminded daily that he was an illegitimate son, that he must know his place, that he must never overstep.

His food and clothing were the worst in the household—even the maids and servants lived better than him.

Sometimes, his meals were even spoiled.

His elder brother would often find excuses to beat him.

He had no one to turn to, no one to help him.

Over time, even the servants looked down on him, sabotaging him openly and in secret.

His mother had died giving birth to him, leaving him alone to suffer.

He knelt until nightfall, when Fu Rongfeng finally noticed someone still outside and, fearing a death scandal, ordered the servants to drag him back to his room.

The next day, Fu Jing fell into a feverish delirium.

When the servants realized how severe his condition was, they hurriedly reported it to Fu Rongfeng.

Fu Rongfeng and his wife entered Fu Jing’s room and dismissed the servants.

The two stared coldly at the barely breathing boy on the bed.

“Should we save him?”

Was this even a question a father should ask?

His wife responded indifferently: “The prince is doing just fine. No one will ever find out. Even if he dies, it doesn’t matter.”

Her voice was icy.

“As long as Ziyan and Xuan’er are safe, I don’t care if my hands are stained with blood.”

Ziyan… That name was all too familiar.

Ziyan was Fu Rongfeng’s eldest daughter, the most favored imperial consort of the current dynasty—someone his elder brother bragged about daily.

Fu Rongfeng smirked.

“He’s not even a Fu to begin with. Just a scapegoat. Sooner or later, he’ll die anyway.”

Fu Jing finally understood.

He had always wondered why, even among illegitimate children, others lived better lives than him.

Now he knew—he wasn’t even a Fu.

Hatred flooded his heart, consuming him entirely.

The two locked the door behind them, leaving Fu Jing alone in the room—left to die.

In the empty room, the eight-year-old boy felt nothing but despair.

Maybe death would be better than this torment.

In his feverish haze, a pair of soft, cool hands touched his forehead.

“Ah, young one, you can’t die yet. You still have to help me overcome my calamity!”

His body burned like fire, but the cooling energy from that touch flowed into him, easing his pain.

Who… saved me?

As the pain faded, his body relaxed, and he fell into a deep slumber.

The next morning

A servant crept into the room, muttering under his breath: “With a fever that high, he’s gotta be dead. Why do I have to check? So unlucky…”

He groped his way to the bed and saw Fu Jing lying motionless.

He reached out to check for breath—

Huh?! He’s still alive?!

The servant rushed off to report to Fu Rongfeng.

Fu Jing slowly opened his eyes, watching as the morning sunlight spilled onto his bed.

His delicate, usually cold features curled into a faint smile.

He had survived.

He remembered—a sister had told him not to die.

Who was she?

He had to thank her properly.

Then his thoughts returned to the moment before he lost consciousness—the two figures standing by his bed, their words colder than the winter snow.

Every syllable had been a blade, stabbing into his heart without mercy.

His body had been weak, but his mind was clear.

Their words had filled him with utter despair.

Now, his eyes darkened—filled with nothing but hatred.