Chapter 3 THE REBIRTH OF SEOKGA THE CURSED

Pain.

It was the first thing that greeted Seokga when consciousness clawed its way back into existence. Not the clean, divine agony of celestial judgment, but something raw, mortal, and suffocating. His body felt too small, too fragile—like a sword forged for war forced into a child’s scabbard. Veins burned as if molten iron had been poured through them, and every breath scraped against lungs that had never known true power.

He tried to open his eyes. The world swam in blurred shadows and harsh torchlight.

“…still breathing, that useless whelp,” a deep, contemptuous voice snarled above him. “Seven days of fever and he refuses to die. How stubborn can trash be?”

Seokga’s vision sharpened slowly. A tall man stood over the bed, arms crossed, clad in luxurious black robes embroidered with crimson serpents. His face was sharp and handsome in a cruel way—high cheekbones, a neatly trimmed beard, and eyes like chips of frozen obsidian. Lord Varak, the Tyrant of the Crimson Fang Clan. His new father.

No. Not new. This body’s father.

Varak’s lip curled in open disgust. “Look at him. Pale as a corpse, veins still blocked like some commoner’s bastard. I wasted good spirit herbs on this cripple. If he dies now, at least the clan won’t have to keep pretending he belongs in the main line.”

A soft, trembling voice answered from the other side of the bed. “Please, my lord… he is your son. Give him time. The fever has broken. He will awaken.”

Seokga turned his head with great effort. A woman sat beside him, gently wiping sweat from his brow with a damp cloth. She was beautiful in a fragile, ethereal way—long silver hair cascading over slender shoulders, skin pale as moonlight, and eyes the color of storm clouds. Lady Elara. His new mother. Once a renowned cultivator of the Spirit Realm, now confined to a wheelchair, her lower body paralyzed and her cultivation base crippled. Yet even in weakness, a quiet, fierce love radiated from her.

She looked at him with such tender hope that something twisted painfully in Seokga’s chest. This was not Faeyn… but the echo of her sacrifice burned in his soul. He would not let this woman suffer the same fate.

Varak snorted, the sound dripping with arrogance. “My son? Don’t make me laugh, Elara. This boy is a stain on the Crimson Fang name. Blocked meridians since birth. Can’t even sense qi properly. While his brothers soar through Body Tempering, he lies here like a dying dog.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper. “If you weren’t so pathetically attached to him, I would have fed him to the spirit beasts years ago.”

Elara’s hand trembled on the cloth, but she did not flinch. “He carries your blood, Varak. And mine. That is enough.”

“Blood?” Varak laughed coldly. “Blood is worthless without power. The clan elders already whisper that I should disown the cripple and name Kael or Draven as sole heir. At least they show promise.” He straightened, adjusting his robes with deliberate superiority. “Heal him if you must, wife. But do not waste any more of the clan’s resources on this failure. If he cannot awaken his veins by the end of the month, I will send him to the outer sect… or the mines. Whichever kills him faster.”

With that, Varak turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his arrogant laughter echoing down the corridor like a challenge.

The moment the door slammed shut, Elara let out a shaky breath. She leaned forward, brushing damp strands of hair from Seokga’s forehead with infinite gentleness.

“My sweet boy,” she whispered, voice thick with unshed tears. “You fought so hard. I was so afraid… the fever took you for days. But you’re here. You’re still with me.”

Seokga tried to speak. His throat felt like sandpaper. The words that came out were hoarse, weak, and far too young for the ancient arrogance trapped inside them.

“…Mother.”

Elara’s eyes widened, then filled with joyful tears. “Seokga! You’re awake! Oh, thank the ancestors.” She cupped his face with both hands, her touch warm despite her frail state. “Don’t listen to your father. He is… blinded by ambition. But I believe in you. You have always been special. Different. Even when the healers said your veins were blocked forever, I knew there was something more inside you.”

Special.

The word almost made him laugh bitterly. If only she knew what “special” truly meant. The Eclipse Sigil—dormant, hidden, but pulsing faintly like a black sun in the depths of this mortal shell. It was waiting. Hungry. Corrupted power that would one day devour gods and demons alike.

But for now, this body was weak. Pathetically so. Meridians clogged with some dark curse, qi pathways narrow and brittle. The perfect cage for a fallen god.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Before Elara could answer, it opened without permission.

In stepped a woman of striking beauty and dangerous grace. Tall, with raven-black hair pinned with jade ornaments, sharp fox-like eyes, and lips painted blood-red. She wore luxurious robes that accentuated her figure, and an aura of mid-level Spirit Realm cultivation rolled off her—strong enough to dominate most of the clan, but carefully masked to seem merely competent.

Lady Seraphine. The favored concubine. Stepmother in name, viper in truth.

“Oh dear,” Seraphine said, her voice smooth as poisoned honey. She glided into the room, carrying a tray of medicinal broth. “I heard the young master finally woke up. How wonderful.” Her smile was perfect—warm on the surface, but her eyes glittered with cold calculation as they swept over Seokga’s frail form.

“Seraphine,” Elara said quietly, a hint of wariness in her tone. “You shouldn’t have troubled yourself.”

“Nonsense. As part of this family, it is my duty to care for the lord’s children.” Seraphine set the tray down and leaned over Seokga, her perfume heavy and cloying. “Poor child. Still so pale. Here, drink this. It will help restore your strength.”

Seokga’s instincts screamed. The broth smelled wrong—subtly laced with something that would keep his veins suppressed, perhaps even worsen the blockage. He could sense the faint demonic trace hidden beneath the medicinal scent. This woman was no mere concubine playing for favor. She was on a mission.

He met her gaze directly, letting a flicker of his old divine arrogance bleed through the weakness.

“…Thank you, Stepmother,” he rasped, voice low. “But I think I’ll pass. The last thing I need is more… help from you.”

Seraphine’s smile faltered for the briefest second, surprise flashing in her eyes before she recovered with a soft laugh. “Such spirit already! How delightful. Your father will be pleased to hear you’re feeling better.”

She straightened, glancing at Elara with feigned sympathy. “You really should rest, my lady. Carrying the burden of a sick child for so long must be exhausting for someone in your… condition. Let me handle the young master’s care from now on.”

Elara’s grip on Seokga’s hand tightened protectively. “That won’t be necessary.”

Seraphine’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but she bowed gracefully. “As you wish. Do call if you need anything. Anything at all.”

As the concubine left, the room fell into heavy silence.

Seokga lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the faint, angry pulse of the Eclipse Sigil deep in his core. It was weak. Starved. But it was there.

This body was broken. His family was rotten. His mother was loving but powerless, his father arrogant and spiteful, and his stepmother a manipulative snake working for forces far darker than this mortal clan.

Good.

He had crawled out of divine chains and celestial dungeons.

Mud, betrayal, and blocked veins were nothing.

Seokga closed his eyes, a slow, dangerous smile tugging at his pale lips.

“Home sweet home.”