Pain.
That was all he knew for a while. A dull, grinding ache that pulsed with every breath.
Above him, a cracked stone ceiling stared back. The air was thick with damp sweat, dried blood, and the faint stench of rotting wood. His ribs throbbed with every movement.
This isn't my world.
The memories in his mind weren't fully his. Not yet. They came in broken flashes.
He tried to sit up. His body refused. A strained groan slipped from his lips.
More pain. More flashes.
A duel. One-sided. Brutal. The boy whose body he now inhabited had picked a fight he couldn't win… and paid the price.
The pieces began falling into place: Qinghe Mountain Sect. Outer disciple. His name was Li Fan. Seventeen. Spirit roots so poor, even the elders called him hopeless. Too weak to rise, too stubborn to quit.
And now, that boy was gone.
A new soul wore his skin.
Li Fan—he—drew a shaky breath and forced himself upright, ribs screaming in protest.
He didn't know much.
But he was alive.
And that was enough—for now.
His fingers tightened over the thin blanket covering him. The fabric was rough and scratchy.
How did I get here?
The question tugged at the back of his mind, and with it came memories.
A desk. A flickering monitor. A cramped space smelling of instant noodles and cold coffee.
He'd worked himself into the ground. Long hours. Unpaid overtime. A nobody in a company that wouldn't notice if he died at his desk.
And that's exactly what happened.
No car crash. No murder. No noble sacrifice. Just a heart that gave up in the middle of a spreadsheet.
He had died quietly, slumped forward with no one around to see.
There was no light at the end of the tunnel. No grand revelation. Just darkness—and then this.
This world.
This broken body.
This name: Li Fan.
A seventeen-year-old sect disciple with no future and no talent.
He looked down at his hands—scraped, bruised, callused in all the wrong ways. The kind of hands that had swung a sword a thousand times and never gotten good at it.
What now? he thought.
There was no system prompt. No divine guide. No cheat ability whispered into his ear.
Just pain and the quiet hum of Qi barely trickling through his meridians.
He sat in silence, the chill in the wooden cottage sinking deep into his skin. Then—
Creak.
The door opened with a groan of old hinges. Li Fan turned his head slowly.
A familiar face stepped in.
Tall, lean, with a sharp jawline and a calm aura. Dressed in plain outer sect robes, but carrying himself with ease. Wu Jiang.
They had entered the sect on the same day. Two hopeful boys clutching their humble belongings, wide-eyed at the mountain gates.
But talent had driven a wedge between them.
Wu Jiang possessed dual spirit roots—water and wind. Mid-grade, barely, but enough to separate him from the rest. He'd advanced steadily, even cautiously. And now, two and a half years later, he was on the verge of reaching Qi Gathering Stage 5.
Li Fan, meanwhile, had barely touched Stage 3 in all that time.
Just an ordinary Qi Gathering Stage 2 cultivator.
The sect rules were harsh.
Three years. That was all outer disciples were given. If you didn't reach Stage 5 by then, you were expelled. Thrown off sect grounds to become a glorified servant—or worse, a wandering cultivator.
Wu Jiang had a chance.
Li Fan had six months left.
"You're awake," Wu Jiang said softly, closing the door behind him.
Li Fan studied his expression. There was no joy, no celebration. Just a faint trace of surprise.
"You weren't supposed to survive," Wu Jiang said, walking over and kneeling beside the low cot. "But… you did."
Did he? Li Fan wondered. The original Li Fan hadn't made it, not really.
Wu Jiang reached into his robe and pulled out a small jar of ointment. "I applied some medicine when I dragged you back here. You'd cracked two ribs. The bruising on your back was nasty. I didn't think you'd last the night."
Li Fan lowered his eyes. "…Thank you."
Wu Jiang gave a short nod. "You're lucky he didn't kill you."
He—that was right.
The memories came in clearer now. A mission in the outer forests. Clearing spirit weeds near a wild Qi Spring. But somehow, Li Fan had found something he shouldn't have—a Grade 1 Spirit Herb.
Rare. Precious.
Valuable enough to be exchanged for cultivation resources, or even a few low-grade spirit stones. For Li Fan, it could've been a breakthrough.
But he'd been careless.
He hadn't been secretive enough.
When he stepped out of his cottage the next day, Chen Mu was waiting for him. A Qi Gathering Stage 4 disciple—prideful, arrogant, and worse, blessed with a low-high fire spirit root, nearly mid-grade.
Chen Mu didn't need an excuse. Just desire.
One blow. Then another. And another.
Li Fan had tried to run. To bargain. But the fight was short. Brutal.
He wasn't even sure how he'd made it back.
Wu Jiang stood and dusted off his knees. "I bandaged what I could. You'll need more rest."
Li Fan nodded slowly.
They hadn't spoken like this in over a year. Not since Wu Jiang outpaced him in cultivation and started training with better partners. They were still polite, still nodded in passing—but not friends.
Maybe they never had been.
Still, he'd helped.
"Why?" Li Fan asked.
Wu Jiang paused at the door. "Because no one else would have helped," he said after a moment.
The door shut behind him with a dull thud.
Li Fan leaned back and stared at the ceiling again.
The pain had dulled to a low throb.