Reborn before my betrayal

The Iron Root

The stranger remained motionless for three agonizing heartbeats, the notched executioner’s axe hovering inches above Kaelen’s collarbone. The green flame on the blade died entirely, leaving behind a thin wisp of acrid, white smoke.

"A bold claim for a dog with a broken spine," the raspy voice muttered behind the bone mask.

With a fluid motion, the stranger flipped the heavy weapon, catching the handle near the blade, and drove the blunt pommel straight into Kaelen's temple.

The world went black.

Kaelen woke up to the smell of damp earth, boiling fat, and unrefined copper.

He lay on a cold, rusted iron grate. When he tried to draw a breath, a sharp spike of agony flared through his ribs, confirming that his physical body was still a fragile, broken mess. He wasn't dead, but his limbs were securely pinned beneath heavy, cold-iron shackles that drained what little ambient mana his shattered core attempted to pull from the air.

"He's awake," a voice grunted from the shadows.

Kaelen tilted his head, ignoring the throbbing pain behind his eyes.

He was inside a massive, subterranean cavern. The ceiling was a jagged lattice of petrified tree roots that leaked a thick, luminescent sap, providing the only light. Around the perimeter, dozens of figures sat on hollowed-out stone crates, cleaning notched weapons, sharpening bone spears, and tending to large iron cauldrons.

These weren't simple bandits. Their movements were measured, their breathing synchronized—the unmistakable posture of disgraced rogue cultivators and exiled military deserters.

The masked stranger stepped out from the gloom, tossing Kaelen’s tattered, blood-stained royal sash onto the floor in front of him.

"The boy speaks the truth about one thing," the stranger said, removing the scavenger-skull mask to reveal a face covered in jagged burn scars and a single, milk-white blind eye. "The border vanguard has crossed the line. The western sky is thick with their scout ravens."

A large, barrel-chested man with a massive iron collar welded around his neck rose from a stone bench. His footsteps shook the loose gravel on the cave floor as he advanced toward Kaelen's cage. This was Vane, a former Imperial Executioner who, in Kaelen's past life, had successfully organized the lawless factions of the border into a brutal guerrilla army before Cassian ultimately executed him.

"We don't harbor imperial princes, Mara," Vane rumbled, his voice deep enough to rattle Kaelen’s cage. "Even the broken ones. If the vanguard traces him to the Iron Root, they will starve us out of the tunnels. Clean his throat and toss him to the ravens."

Mara—the scarred stranger—leaned against a stone pillar, crossing her arms. "He claims he knows how to burn the capital. I think he knows what happened to the Obelisk in the valley."

Vane drew a long, serrated hunting knife from his belt. He stepped closer to the iron grate, his remaining good eye boring into Kaelen. "The capital is protected by three thousand high-tier arrays and the Emperor’s personal guard. A child's fantasy. Give me a reason to waste our water on you, imperial boy, or I bleed you right now."

Kaelen looked up at the serrated edge, his expression completely blank. He didn't feel fear; he felt calculation. He knew Vane. He knew Vane’s history, his techniques, and the hidden fatal flaw in his cultivation method that would eventually allow Cassian to decapitate him in three years' time.

"You use the Iron-Skin Mantra," Kaelen said, his voice flat, carrying no submissive edge.

Vane froze, the knife stopping inches from Kaelen's face.

"Your skin is impervious to steel, and your blood can withstand high-tier fire magic," Kaelen continued, his violet eyes locking onto Vane’s blind eye. "But every midnight, when the ambient yin energy peaks, your third meridian near your liver undergoes a violent backlash. You've been using compressed copper-sap to numb the pain, but the metal toxicity is slowly turning your bone marrow to ash. You have less than two years to live, Commander."

The silence that fell over the cavern was heavy enough to suffocate.

The rogue cultivators stopped sharpening their blades. Mara’s hand drifted toward the hilt of her axe. Vane’s face turned an ash-grey color beneath his dark skin, his knuckles turning white around the handle of his knife. The secret of his failing cultivation was something he hadn't even told his inner circle.

"Who told you that?" Vane whispered, the rumble in his chest replacing itself with pure, lethal intent. He slammed his fist against the iron bars, bending them inward. "Who is your spy here?"

"No one," Kaelen said, a cold smile touching his bloody lips. "I know how you cultivate, I know how your enemies cultivate, and I know exactly which mountain pass the vanguard will use to ambush your outer scouts in exactly forty minutes. If you want to survive the night, Vane, you're going to have to take these chains off my wrists."

Before Vane could answer, a loud, frantic whistling sound echoed down the upper tunnels of the cavern.

A scout burst through the hidden root-entrance, covered in mud and gasping for air. "Commander! The imperial vipers... they didn't take the main road. They’ve bypassed our forward traps and are entering the Whispering Fissure right now! Our hunting party is trapped!"

Vane snapped his head toward the scout, then slowly turned back to look at Kaelen, his eyes wide with a sudden, terrifying realization. The prince wasn't guessing.