The last thing Jiang Chen remembered was the cold. Not the ordinary chill of winter, but the kind of cold that seeps into marrow, the kind that whispers of endings. He had been lying in his cramped apartment, pale walls pressing down like a coffin, his lungs burning as if every breath was molten lead. He had read cultivation stories all his life, fantasized about soaring across skies on flying swords, battling immortals, and transcending mortality.
But in the end, he was nothing more than a bitter man in a failing body. No pills, no qi, no treasures. Just regrets and half-finished dreams.
When darkness claimed him, he thought it was the end.
But the darkness cracked.
A voice—distant, faint—called his name. Then came pain, sharp and raw, lancing through every nerve like his body was being torn apart and stitched together again. He tried to scream but choked on phlegm and blood.
When his eyes fluttered open, he was no longer in his apartment. The ceiling was made of straw, patched with mud, leaking rainwater through countless holes. The smell of mildew and rotting wood clung to the air. He lay on a pile of damp straw, his limbs trembling from hunger.
He raised his hands.
Thin. Pale. Filthy. The nails cracked and blackened. His arms looked like twigs, each bone pressing against skin. His chest heaved with shallow breaths. This wasn't his body.
The memories came in a flood. A boy. An orphan. Beaten, starved, spat on by villagers. His name was the same—Jiang Chen—but his life had been a misery. No family, no protection, no strength.
Reincarnation.
The word struck him like a hammer.
"I… I really came to a world like this?" His voice rasped, hoarse, barely a whisper.
And yet he knew it. He had read of such worlds: cultivators who flew on swords, pill masters who refined elixirs that could reshape destiny, sects that ruled over mountains and dynasties, immortal realms spanning endless skies. A world where the strong lived like gods and the weak were less than insects.
He was in one now.
But he wasn't a genius young master or a hidden dragon of destiny. He was an orphan, discarded in a gutter of the world.
By noon, hunger gnawed at him like rats. His stomach cramped, twisting painfully. The boy's body hadn't eaten in days, surviving only on scraps. He staggered out of the hut, each step wobbling. The village stretched before him—muddy roads, broken fences, thin smoke rising from small hearths. The villagers were hard-faced, eyes sharp from years of struggle.
As he limped down the path, a group of children spotted him. Their laughter was cruel.
"Look, it's the beggar again."
"Still alive? Even dogs die faster than him."
The tallest boy, dressed in slightly better rags, stepped forward. His nose was hooked, his grin sharp with malice. He was the young master of the Zhang clan, who controlled this tiny village. "Jiang Chen, you useless trash. Still crawling around like a rat? Didn't I tell you to stay hidden?"
Jiang Chen's lips tightened. His new body trembled under the boy's gaze, instinctively fearing the beatings that always followed.
Zhang Kun kicked him in the ribs. Pain exploded, and Jiang Chen collapsed, coughing blood. The laughter grew louder.
"You're not even worth killing," Zhang Kun sneered. "But today I'm in a good mood. Crawl and bark like a dog, and I'll let you eat the scraps behind our hall."
The words echoed in Jiang Chen's mind. Scraps. Bark like a dog.
His heart burned. In his past life, he had been powerless, a man who wasted his years in self-pity. Now fate had spat him into another world—and still, he was treated like dirt.
Something inside him snapped.
He met Zhang Kun's eyes, blood trickling from his lips. "One day," he whispered, voice hoarse but steady, "I will make you kneel."
The children froze. Then Zhang Kun's face twisted. "Trash dares to talk back?"
The kicks rained down. His frail body couldn't resist. Bones cracked, bruises blossomed, and pain drowned him until the world blurred.
By the time they left, laughing, Jiang Chen lay broken in the mud. Rain fell, mixing with his blood.
Night fell. The village was silent except for the howl of wolves in the distance. Jiang Chen lay on the straw bed, each breath ragged, his ribs stabbing with pain. He was close to death again.
But as he shifted, something cold pressed against his chest.
He pulled it free. A pendant. Oval, made of dull black jade, strung on a frayed cord. It looked worthless, but his heart skipped. Etched into the jade was a single character—辰 (Chen).
The orphan's only possession.
His blood smeared across the jade. The pendant pulsed.
A faint light glimmered within, dark yet eternal, like stars hidden in the void. For a moment, the world vanished. Jiang Chen's mind was pulled into an endless darkness filled with ruins—collapsed palaces, shattered mountains, rivers of blood. He heard screams, the clash of weapons, the roar of devils.
At the center of it all, a voice boomed:
"Descendant… survive."
Then the vision shattered.
When Jiang Chen's senses returned, he clutched the pendant, sweat dripping down his brow. A warmth lingered in his chest, seeping into his veins. Faint, fragile—but it was qi.
Cultivation.
The pendant had given him a fragment of a technique. Words burned in his mind, ancient and cryptic, teaching him how to draw qi from the air into his dantian.
His hands shook. He knew this was the chance—the only chance. If he failed, he would remain trash forever.
Jiang Chen sat cross-legged on the straw. His body screamed with pain, but he ignored it. He closed his eyes, focused on the technique. Inhale. Guide the air through the meridians. Force it into the dantian.
At first, nothing happened. His body was too weak, his meridians clogged with filth. Each attempt felt like pushing against stone.
He persisted. Hours crawled by. Sweat drenched him. His chest ached, his vision swam. Again and again, he inhaled, guided, pushed. Blood trickled from his nose.
Then—
A spark.
Like a drop of fire entering a dry forest, a wisp of energy seeped into his dantian. His entire body jolted. His heart raced, his bones hummed, his skin prickled as if touched by lightning.
Qi.
It was only the smallest thread, fragile as a candle flame, but it was there.
Tears blurred his vision. In his past life, he had dreamed of this but never touched it. Now, in this miserable body, he had begun.
He clenched the pendant. "I will climb. No matter how much blood I must spill, no matter how many bones I must break… I will climb."
The next morning, the village buzzed with fear. Jiang Chen overheard whispers as he limped past the well.
"Did you hear? Devil cultivators were seen near the river pass."
"They took three children from the next village. Skinned them alive for blood rituals."
"Shhh! Don't speak too loudly. If they hear you, we're finished."
Jiang Chen's blood chilled. Devil cultivators. He had read of them: men and women who abandoned the orthodox path, devouring blood and souls for strength. Monsters in human skin.
The villagers were right to fear. For mortals, devil cultivators were worse than wolves.
Jiang Chen touched the pendant beneath his shirt. If devil cultivators came here, he would have no defense. He was weaker than a child.
But not for long.
He had drawn his first wisp of qi. The road ahead was endless, the dangers countless, but he would walk it.
He looked at the sky, gray with storm clouds, and whispered to himself:
"This world… I will carve my name into it. Even if the heavens stand in my way."
The pendant pulsed faintly, as if answering his vow.
And thus, in a forgotten village, an orphan named Jiang Chen began the first step of a path that would shake realms, topple sects, and defy the heavens thems