The Sovereign Returns

Zhao Feng moved like a shadow in the dimly lit corridor, each step a battle against the weakness clinging to his body. His breath was ragged, his limbs sluggish, his senses dulled. He had expected a gradual return to power after awakening, but reality was far crueler than he had anticipated.

His lungs burned. His vision swam. And yet, he forced himself forward.

The cold stone beneath his bare feet sent shivers through his body. It was a stark contrast to the celestial realm he once commanded—a world where a single thought could shift mountains, where the stars themselves had bowed before him.

Now?

Now, he was a frail remnant of his former self, shackled by the limitations of this new, fragile body.

His fingers brushed against the rough stone walls as he pressed himself against them, steadying his breath. The dungeon around him reeked of rot and decay, the scent of damp earth mingling with something fouler. It was the stench of old blood—of death.

He wasn't the first to be locked away in this place.

And if he wasn't careful, he would join the many who had never left it.

A flicker of movement ahead froze him in place. Footsteps.

Two sets. Slow. Leisurely.

Guards.

Zhao Feng's grip on the cold stone tightened. He was in no condition to fight. His body refused to obey the instincts that had once made him a god of war. If he tried to engage them directly, he would be nothing more than a dead man walking.

His pulse quickened as their voices drifted through the air.

"Did you hear? The Zhao Family's finished," one of them muttered. His tone was casual, like he was discussing the weather rather than the imminent downfall of a noble house.

The second guard scoffed. "Finished? They were never much to begin with. Just a bunch of arrogant fools too blind to see the end coming."

Zhao Feng's eyes darkened.

So, it wasn't just him. This entire family was collapsing.

A noble house in decline. An heir discarded like trash.

It was almost poetic.

Almost.

He exhaled slowly, calming his turbulent emotions. Dwelling on these things was useless now. What mattered was escaping without drawing attention.

The guards drew closer.

Zhao Feng's gaze flickered around, searching for an opportunity. His body might have been weak, but his mind was sharper than ever. If he couldn't overpower them, he could outthink them.

His fingers traced along the walls until they found a loose stone, rough and cool beneath his touch. He gripped it carefully, feeling its weight. It wasn't a weapon, but it would do.

The guards passed by without noticing him.

One step. Two steps. Three.

Then, in a single fluid motion, Zhao Feng moved.

The stone slammed into the back of the nearest guard's head, the impact making a dull, sickening crack. The man collapsed forward without a sound.

The second guard turned—too slow.

Zhao Feng was already behind him, his arm wrapping around the man's throat in a precise, merciless chokehold. The guard struggled, his fingers clawing at Zhao Feng's arm, but Zhao Feng held firm, using his weight to drag the man downward.

Seconds passed.

Then, the guard's body went limp.

Zhao Feng let out a shaky breath. His heart pounded against his ribs, his arms trembling from the effort. Even this minor confrontation had left him winded.

How pathetic.

He had once crushed armies with a flick of his wrist. Now, two mere mortals had almost been his undoing.

His jaw clenched.

This body was weak, but weakness could be forged into strength.

He searched the fallen guards, his movements swift and methodical. A rusted dagger. A half-eaten ration. A tattered cloak.

It wasn't much.

But it was enough.

Pulling the cloak over his shoulders, Zhao Feng melted back into the shadows. His steps were quieter now, his breathing controlled. He would not rush forward blindly.

He would watch. Learn. Adapt.

And when the time was right…

He would take back everything.

~~~

The dim torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls as Zhao Feng moved forward, his stolen cloak hanging loosely over his shoulders. It smelled of sweat and mildew, but it hid him well enough. For now, that was all that mattered.

His grip tightened around the rusted dagger he had taken from the unconscious guard. The blade was dull, its edge worn from years of neglect, but he would make do. He had wielded celestial weapons forged from the essence of stars—this was far beneath him.

But a dead man had no pride.

His body was still weak. Every step sent a dull ache through his limbs, a constant reminder of how far he had fallen. He hated it, but he accepted it. Strength would come later.

Now, he had to get out of here alive.

The corridor stretched ahead, lined with heavy iron doors. Cells. Some were empty, their doors yawning open like hungry maws. Others held prisoners—thin, broken figures huddled against the walls, their eyes hollow.

Zhao Feng did not stop.

These people were as good as dead.

He had been a ruler once, and a ruler knew when to abandon lost causes.

A flicker of torchlight ahead made him freeze. Voices.

Two more guards.

Their armor clinked as they approached, their conversation low and unhurried. They weren't expecting trouble.

Zhao Feng's grip on the dagger tightened. He couldn't afford a prolonged fight. He needed to strike quickly—decisively.

He pressed himself against the stone, waiting.

The moment they stepped past his hiding place, he moved.

The dagger drove into the first guard's throat, slipping through the gap in his armor. Blood sprayed across the wall as the man gurgled, his hands flying to his neck in a futile attempt to stop the flow.

The second guard barely had time to react.

Zhao Feng slammed him into the wall, his fingers tightening around the man's throat.

"P-please—" the guard choked out, his eyes wide with fear.

Zhao Feng didn't hesitate.

His knee drove into the man's ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. The dagger followed a heartbeat later, slicing through the exposed flesh beneath his chin. The man shuddered—then went still.

Zhao Feng let the body slump to the floor.

Two more lives snuffed out. He felt nothing.

He wiped the dagger clean on the dead man's tunic, then searched them. A pouch of silver. A folded scrap of parchment. And—most importantly—a key ring.

His heartbeat quickened.

This was it.

He turned, scanning the corridor. At the far end, he spotted a heavy iron door. Unlike the others, this one bore a thick wooden beam across its middle. A reinforced exit.

He strode toward it, slipping the key into the lock.

The mechanism clicked.

Zhao Feng exhaled.

Then, with a firm push, he stepped out of the dungeon—and into the night.

The air was sharp and crisp, a stark contrast to the damp staleness of the prison. Moonlight spilled over the world, bathing the crumbling walls of what had once been the Zhao family estate.

His estate.

Or at least, it had been.

The once-proud banners were tattered, their edges frayed and torn. The stonework was cracked, scarred by battle. The scent of smoke still lingered in the air, mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood.

Zhao Feng's jaw tightened.

So this was what had become of his legacy.

Footsteps echoed in the courtyard ahead. He melted into the shadows, his eyes narrowing.

Figures moved beyond the ruined walls—mercenaries. Their armor was mismatched, their weapons practical but well-worn. They weren't an army. They were looters.

Scavengers picking apart the corpse of the Zhao family.

Rage burned low in his chest, but he buried it.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Right now, he was nothing but a man with a stolen dagger and a weakened body. Recklessness would only get him killed.

But one day…

One day, they would kneel before him.

For now, he would leave this place behind.

He turned, stepping into the darkness beyond the ruined walls.

Zhao Feng had returned.

And the world would learn to fear him once more.