**Mu Yan's eyelids fluttered open, resisting the harsh intrusion of sunlight filtering through the dilapidated roof. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes as fragmented memories coalesced: his rebirth, the two enigmatic coins, and the quiet solemnity of his grandmother's funeral. He squinted, trying to orient himself within the meagre confines of his humble dwelling.
Despite the lingering exhaustion, an undeniable urgency propelled him. While he idled in this lower realm, his adversaries undoubtedly flourished. The cold, unyielding ambition of Yan Ru, the shadowy figure beside her—their faces flashed before his eyes, a searing brand on his soul. He had ancient mysteries to unravel, a nascent cultivation path to forge, and a destiny to reclaim. Rising, he splashed water on his face and prepared a meagre meal of rice and broth, the simple fare grounding him in his present reality. With his hunger sated, he settled into meditation, his mind seeking stillness. Guided by nascent instinct and shards of his past life's wisdom, Mu Yan began his training. Each dawn found him beneath the ancient pine, near his grandmother's grave, coaxing his spirit to awaken. His hands, calloused from a life of toil, trembled as he practiced rudimentary energy circulation—the bedrock of any cultivator's journey.
Hours later, he emerged from his meditative trance and retrieved the coins. He subjected them to every technique he could recall from the vast archives of the Lin clan, but their secrets remained stubbornly locked away. He ran through mental simulations, testing theories, dismissing countless hypotheses. Just as frustration threatened to claim him, a forgotten memory flickered: vague, mottled inscriptions and fragmented images carved on broken stone within the ancient relic where the coins were found. The memory, once a fleeting wisp, solidified under the pressure of his unwavering will. He strained to recall the intricate details, mentally reconstructing the shattered depictions, aligning them until a coherent picture emerged. The text was incomplete, scarred by the ravages of time, but the image was unmistakable: a coin and a single drop. The coin was clearly what he possessed. The enigma now centered on the nature of the drop. Was it a rare natural essence, a miraculous liquid, or something more fundamental? His mind, a whirlwind of ancient texts and forgotten lore, cycled through possibilities. Then, a chilling clarity descended. Blood.
The realization struck him with the force of a lightning bolt, rattling his very soul. He had been treating them as mere artifacts when, in truth, they were tools, and tools of such potency often demanded a blood sacrifice to acknowledge their master or unlock their power. The thought sent a jolt of both fear and grim satisfaction through him. Of course. The Dao demands sacrifice for true power. He drew a small knife, his hand steady despite the faint tremor in his spirit and made a shallow cut on his palm. A single drop of blood welled and fell onto the coins. It vanished, absorbed without a trace. He offered more and more, but still, nothing changed. Mu Yan's mind raced, a torrent of desperate calculations. Was it not enough? Perhaps the blood of a common mortal in this lower realm lacked the potency? Or perhaps these two coins were but fragments of a greater whole, requiring their union before activation?