Morning light seeped through the straw roof, streaking across Jiang Chen's bruised face. His ribs ached with every breath, and his stomach cramped with savage hunger. He had spent the night forcing his frail body to absorb another trace of qi, but progress was like climbing a mountain with broken legs.
Still, the fire in his chest had changed. He was no longer powerless. A spark lived in his dantian. Weak, fragile, but his.
He staggered outside. The village was alive with its usual misery. Women hauled water from the well, men mended broken tools, and children chased each other barefoot in the mud. Smoke curled from cooking fires, carrying the scent of boiled grain. His throat tightened at the smell.
Food.
He hadn't eaten properly in days. His body screamed for it. Without food, his cultivation would wither before it began. But he had nothing—no family, no clan, no coin.
He eyed the Zhang clan's granary at the edge of the village. Its walls were patched, but guards sat outside, watching lazily. Inside were bags of rice and millet, enough to feed families for months. For Jiang Chen, a handful would mean survival.
But the Zhang clan ruled this village. Taking even a grain without permission meant death.
As he lingered, his vision began to blur. The hunger gnawed deeper. He forced himself away, stumbling back toward the woods. If he couldn't take from the Zhang clan, he would scavenge.
He didn't make it far.
"Trash!"
The shout cut through the air. Jiang Chen turned. Zhang Kun, the young master who had beaten him yesterday, strode down the path with two lackeys. His grin was sharp, hungry for cruelty.
"Still alive?" Zhang Kun sneered. "Cockroaches really don't die easily."
Jiang Chen said nothing. His hands trembled. His body was too weak for a fight, but retreat was impossible.
"Didn't I tell you to crawl yesterday?" Zhang Kun's voice dripped venom. "Seems you need another lesson."
The lackeys grabbed Jiang Chen, pinning his arms. He thrashed, but his strength was nothing.
The first punch smashed his lip. Blood filled his mouth. The second blow cracked across his jaw, stars bursting in his vision.
"Trash like you should know your place," Zhang Kun said. His boot slammed into Jiang Chen's chest. Pain lanced through his ribs.
The villagers watched from a distance. None moved to help. Some even smirked. In this world, the weak had no allies.
Jiang Chen's blood dripped onto the mud. His eyes, though hazy with pain, burned with a quiet fury.
He had lived through one life of weakness. He would not live another.
Zhang Kun raised a stone, grinning. "Maybe I should just end you here. Dogs like you waste food."
The lackeys laughed.
Something inside Jiang Chen snapped. The spark of qi in his dantian flared, searing through his veins. His body jolted, strength flooding his limbs—not much, but enough.
With a sudden wrench, he tore free from one lackey's grip. His hand shot up, grabbing the stone.
Before Zhang Kun could react, Jiang Chen slammed the stone into his skull.
A crack. Blood splattered.
Zhang Kun staggered back, eyes wide, hand clutching his head. "Y-you dare—!"
Jiang Chen didn't let him finish. He struck again. And again. The stone rose and fell, each blow fueled by rage and desperation. Blood poured, bones cracked. The laughter turned to screams.
The lackeys froze, horrified. The villagers gasped. No one had ever dared to touch the Zhang clan's young master.
Jiang Chen's hands were slick with blood. His chest heaved, vision red. He felt no pity, no hesitation. This was the law of this world. Kill or be killed.
Zhang Kun's body twitched once, then stilled. His face was unrecognizable, a pulped mess.
Silence fell.
Jiang Chen dropped the stone. His arms trembled. Blood dripped onto the mud, mixing with rain. He stared at Zhang Kun's corpse, his breath ragged.
He had killed.
His stomach twisted—not from guilt, but from hunger and exhaustion. Yet beneath it all, a savage satisfaction pulsed. For the first time in this world, he had struck back.
The lackeys stumbled away, screaming. "Murder! He killed the young master!"
The villagers scattered in panic. Fear and disbelief rippled through them.
Jiang Chen swayed on his feet. He knew what came next. The Zhang clan would not forgive. They would come for him with blades and torches.
But as he touched the pendant on his chest, it pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. His path had begun.
He looked at the corpse one last time. His voice was hoarse but steady.
"You deserved worse."
That night, Jiang Chen hid in the woods, his body aching, hunger clawing at his insides. He sat cross-legged beneath a tree, blood still staining his hands.
The pendant pulsed, and the technique whispered again in his mind. He closed his eyes, drawing in qi, guiding it through his battered body.
Something strange happened. The moment qi touched his bloodied palms, it stirred violently, as if feeding on the blood that still clung there. The wisp of energy surged, stronger than before.
Understanding dawned. His Dao—the path that belonged only to him—was awakening.
The Dao of Predation.
Not devil cultivation. Not orthodox cultivation. His own path: seizing strength from enemies, devouring what they spilled.
He smiled, lips cracked and bloody.
"So be it."
He drew in more qi, forcing it into his dantian. Pain tore through his veins, but he endured. He had endured worse. By dawn, he had doubled the spark within him. His foundation was still pitiful, but it was growing.
And the corpse of Zhang Kun lay cooling in the village, a reminder that the orphan was no longer prey.
The Zhang clan howled for blood. By morning, their elders swore vengeance. Disciples searched the village, blades drawn.
But Jiang Chen had already vanished into the woods, pendant pressed to his chest, eyes burning with resolve.
He had made his first kill. The path of no return was set.
From this day forward, Jiang Chen's story would be written in blood.