In a vast, silent room, a child sat before a table, sipping tea.
The room was adorned with ancient decorations, exuding grandeur as if proclaiming the power and majesty of its owner. Bathed in light, it radiated a splendid beauty.
Yet, the most striking presence was the child drinking tea. Only three years old, he emitted a majestic and noble aura. His jet-black hair and crimson eyes drew people in, while his chubby, rosy cheeks revealed his innocent charm.
A single glance was enough to feel that he was the young master of a great and glorious family.
Suddenly, laughter echoed through the room.
It began softly but grew louder, escalating into a hysterical cackle, like the triumphant cry of a madman.
"Hahahahaha! I can't believe it... I'm alive!"
He looked at his hands. They were small, no larger than those of a three-year-old. Then he glanced around, taking in the room's magnificence.
"This is unbelievable! I must have been born into a wealthy family. Talk about killing two birds with one stone! Hahahaha!"
He stood up, wobbling slightly but quickly steadying himself. He rushed toward a random object in the room—a plate or disk adorned with jewels. He wasn't sure what it was, but its surface was so smooth he could see his reflection.
When he saw his face, he froze.
"I can't believe it... This can't be real, can it?"
He rubbed his eyes in shock, but the image remained the same. His body trembled, and then he jumped in joy.
"Unbelievable! I'm so handsome! Is there anyone in this world as perfect as me? Hahahaha! I look like a god! Look at this black hair, these crimson eyes—I've always wanted red eyes! And my pearl-like skin? Simply flawless!"
He paused. "But... who am I? Who could be this perfect?"
How would he recover his memories? Perhaps he just needed to wait. Regaining his composure, he sat down, his expression serious. He closed his eyes, waiting for his memories to return.
But even after the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, nothing happened.
"Strange... Did I do something wrong? Is there a keyword I need to say?"
As he pondered his mistake, a memory suddenly flashed in his mind. Then another.
It felt strange, so he clutched his head. It wasn't painful—more like trying to recall a forgotten memory that suddenly resurfaces. But as the flood of memories grew, a headache began to throb.
Unable to bear it, he crouched down, hands pressed to his head.
"Huff! Huff!"
As the pain subsided, he regained his composure and straightened up. He looked around again, but this time, his eyes held a different emotion.
"I can't believe it..."
This world he was born into was none other than the world of his favorite author from his past life.
"Pfft!"
A small laugh escaped him. "How cliché! And I'm surprised by this? Where else would I be reborn? Of course, it had to be my favorite novel! Hahaha!"
What's more, this author had crafted dozens of books set in a single, unimaginably vast world. And that didn't even include the higher realms!
A typical cultivation novel. And he, of course, wasn't reborn as the main character but as Nangong Wushen—a third-rate villain destined to be killed by the protagonist. The first son of the glorious Nangong Clan.
The more he thought, the more memories surfaced.
This continent was called Tianhuang, named after its first ruler, the Tianhuang Sect. For unknown reasons, the sect was destroyed, and from its ruins rose countless powers. Only a few survived—the Nine Supreme Clans and the Five Sacred Sects.
The Nangong Clan was one of the Nine Supreme Clans, ruling over countless lives with its majestic and glorious might. And he was the first and only son of the clan leader.
But, like every cliché young master, he was born talentless and useless. His meridians were blocked, and his cultivation aptitude was weak.
As for why his talent couldn't be improved with treasures or other means? The destruction of the Tianhuang Sect wasn't a simple matter. The power that annihilated it was so great that it damaged the continent's life source, drastically reducing the number of treasures produced.
He let out a sigh, tilted his head back, and gazed at the ceiling.
A grin spread across his face. "This is going to be fun."
His entire body trembled with excitement as he thought of the opportunities this world offered. He clenched his tiny fists.
"I knew it! I knew I wasn't bound to a mediocre fate! I, Nangong Wushen, was born to become a god! Hahahaha!"
His laughter stopped abruptly. "Wait... Why did I just call myself Nangong Wushen? What was my name before?"
Frustration crept in. "Great. Now I've forgotten my past life's name too."
Before he could dwell on it, a sweet, almost divine laugh echoed in his mind.
"Hahaha! You're truly interesting, Wushen."
He froze, scanning the room with a serious expression. "Might I know which senior this is?"
"No need to be so tense, little Wushen," the voice replied. "You can call me the Will of the World. As for why I'm here... My little child has abandoned me and set off on a perilous journey in another world. So, I've come to give you a parting gift."
"A golden finger, as you might call it."
Before him, a golden light appeared, shapeless and ever-shifting.
"This is the Supreme Villain System. Accept it, and forge your own path!"
Nangong Wushen stared at the light, his eyes widening, entranced by its beauty. His hands trembled. But then his brows furrowed, and anger surged within him. He slammed his fist on the table, spilling the now-cold tea.
"NO!"
The voice sounded shocked. "What?"
For the first time, the Will of the World was bewildered. Normally, it wouldn't even speak to its children—just grant them their golden finger and leave. But Nangong Wushen had seemed endearing, prompting it to initiate a conversation. After all, not everyone declares themselves a chosen god after being reborn.
Suspicious eyes turned toward the light.
"I said no!" he snapped. "Did you really think I'd want something like that? Don't compare me to those pathetic fools! 'Forge your own path'? What a grand lie! Systems give you stupid tasks, force your life down a predetermined path, and then reward you like a dog getting treats from its master."
"If you truly want to help me, let me choose my own path!"
The Will of the World was stunned. It had never encountered such arrogance, especially from someone who dismissed the opportunity for supremacy without a second thought.
"Nangong Wushen, is this truly what you want? I'm offering you a chance at greatness. Do you know how many would kill for this opportunity? Without this power, what can you do? A talentless child of a doomed clan—what can you achieve?"
"You know your body is trash. Your cultivation talent is at the bottom. Even your family can't find a solution. And that's not all. Even if you overcome those obstacles, there are the Chosen Ones of Heaven, blessed with boundless luck—main characters. How will you compete with them? Even if you defeat them, without a system, you can't plunder their luck. That's the reality of this world. You are nothing."
"Don't underestimate me!" Nangong Wushen clenched his fists in fury, his body trembling. He was out of breath.
Memories from his past life flooded back. He was five years old, gazing outside. People were running and playing, birds were feeding their young, and flowers bloomed, proclaiming their beauty to the world. Towering buildings stood as testaments to technology's grandeur.
He had been enchanted by this beauty.
But then he turned to his home and saw his mother crying in a corner. He didn't fully understand, but he heard it was because his grandfather had died.
Why was she crying when the world was so beautiful? Then it hit him—death.
For the first time, he felt true fear. Death meant never seeing this beautiful world again. Death meant never laughing again.
It terrified him. He didn't want that. It was horrifying.
He wanted to create a place where everyone could be happy, where he could gaze upon this beauty forever.
Then a simple thought struck him, embedding itself in his soul: If I become a god, wouldn't all this come true?
No matter how hard he tried, he could never shake that thought from his mind.
Snapping out of his memories, a surge of confidence and determination filled him.
"I, Nangong Wushen, will not be stopped by such trivial things! One day, I will stand at the pinnacle of this universe and become a god!"
He turned to the Will of the World. "If you truly see me as your child and want to help me, then let me forge my own path. I have only one request for my golden finger—grant me the Power of Creation. Only with creation can I become a god!"
The Will of the World gazed at Wushen silently, its thoughts unreadable. Finally, it let out a deep sigh.
"Very well. If that's what you desire, I will aid you on this path."
"Your power from now on is the Power of Creation. But it comes with limitations—you can only create things equivalent to your current level. These restrictions will lift as you grow stronger, but it's best you discover that yourself."
Suddenly, the light before him shifted and merged into his body. A sharp pain engulfed him, forcing him to his knees. His body burned as if his blood had turned to magma. Tears welled in his eyes from the agony, but he gritted his teeth.
After declaring such bold words, he couldn't beg for mercy. This was his choice.
His consciousness began to fade.
In that moment, the Will of the World's final words echoed in his mind.
"Since you're so determined, let me give you a little help."
Another light entered his body. "With this, the first time you use the Power of Creation, you won't be bound by any limitations. For one time only, you can create anything you desire. I hope you don't disappoint me, my dear child."
With those words, his consciousness sank into darkness.