The forest remained silent, as if holding its breath.
Arin stood by the edge of the stream, staring at the unfamiliar reflection in the water. The breeze rustled the leaves gently above, yet it felt distant—like the world had faded slightly around him.
"I… really died, didn't I?" he whispered.
He looked down at his hands. Pale, slender fingers. Not his.
Then at the robe he wore. Smooth, well-woven fabric. Not his.
His heart thudded—not with fear, but with confusion. "So… this is real. This actually happened. I got hit by a truck… and now I'm in another world?"
He blinked slowly.
He had joked about it before. "Watch me get isekai'd while buying noodles." It was always said with a smirk, a comment on the irony of life in those novels. But deep inside, he had never believed such things could happen to him. He was average. He didn't live a "main character" life. So why him?
"I didn't even get to eat the noodles," he murmured bitterly.
He looked up at the sky—blue, vast, with a second smaller sun hanging to the side like a jewel. This wasn't Earth.
His throat was dry. Not just from thirst—but from the reality sinking in.
"I'm… really someone else now," he said, touching his face again.
But then the real panic settled in. A sudden thought hit him hard.
Whose body is this?
He had read enough cultivation novels to know the usual process—reincarnation into a fallen genius, or a hidden bloodline, or some waste who later rises to greatness. But there was one detail those stories often glossed over: memories.
In those tales, the protagonist always remembered the body's past life. They'd simply wake up and go, "Oh, I'm the third son of some elder," or "I've been bullied all my life but now I have a golden finger."
But Arin?
He remembered nothing.
No past.
No family.
No background.
His brows furrowed deeply.
"This is… bad."
He couldn't act like this world's version of himself—he didn't even know who that was. What if this body was a noble? A servant? A criminal?
He gritted his teeth. "I need answers. I need to figure out who I am before someone else does—"
But then, without warning—
Agony.
A burning pain exploded in his chest, like his organs were being twisted and torn apart. His legs gave out, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his sides. His fingers dug into the dirt as he screamed, the sound sharp and ragged.
The pain spread—up his spine, down his limbs, into his skull. Every bone felt like it was shattering and reforming at once. His veins burned like fire, his muscles spasmed uncontrollably. He vomited dark bile and blood as his body convulsed on the forest floor.
Something black and sticky oozed from his pores—filthy, tar-like liquid that reeked of rot and iron. It seeped into the grass around him, forming a foul pool as more blood dripped from his nose and ears.
He gasped, eyes wide in horror.
"What… is happening… to me?!"
No answer came.
Only pain.
A cleansing so violent it felt like punishment.
His vision blurred, the edges darkening.
His last thought before unconsciousness was a mix of fear… and awe.
Was this… some kind of purification?
Then—
Darkness.
—
When he awoke, the sun had moved.
Maybe hours had passed. Maybe a day.
The wind had shifted, and the air felt cooler.
He blinked, sitting up slowly, his robe soaked with sweat and grime. Around him, the ground was stained—black residue, blood, and a faint foul smell that had already begun to fade.
But something was different.
He could feel the difference.
His breathing was lighter.
The sounds of the forest were clearer—each chirp, each rustle of a leaf, echoed with startling clarity. He could even hear a distant stream, much farther away than before. His sight felt sharper too—the texture of bark on a tree, the wings of a passing insect—they all stood out in stunning detail.
He looked at his hands again. Still slender and pale, but now... steadier.
His body felt stronger.
Not powerful, but clean. Unburdened.
And then—memories.
Like the sudden opening of a floodgate, images poured into his mind.
A boy.
Living in a remote mountain region.
A small clan—insignificant in the larger world of cultivation.
His name... Shen Yuan.
Memories came in flashes.
He was born into the Shen Clan, a minor family that prided itself on its cultivation roots. But Shen Yuan was mocked from a young age. Poor aptitude. Weak meridians. No sign of spiritual talent.
The clan labeled him a waste.
They humiliated him.
Yet he endured.
Until one day, he said the wrong thing to the wrong elder's son—someone with power, influence, and a fragile ego.
Shen Yuan was ambushed.
Beaten. Crushed. Left to die near the outer edge of the forest.
And in that moment of death… Arin arrived.
The memories settled like dust, leaving Arin still and quiet.
He looked down at the black sludge and blood on his skin.
"So that's how it happened…"
A deep ache stirred in his chest.
He didn't know Shen Yuan.
But he could feel the boy's emotions—his helplessness, his shame, his despair. A life of being scorned and beaten, all for something he couldn't control.
"I'm sorry," Arin whispered, placing a hand on his chest. "You didn't deserve that."
He closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly. It felt strange—mourning someone whose life he now inhabited—but it felt right.
A moment passed.
Then he stood, his legs shaky but functional.
"What now…?"
He looked at the sky again.
Was he supposed to rise and seek revenge? Walk into the clan and shock everyone with his new strength? No. That's what the arrogant protagonists did.
And they usually got hurt.
He scratched his head, thinking.
He could try to act like Shen Yuan… but someone might see through it.
He could run away… but to where?
He didn't even know this world's name, let alone the dangers it held.
Slowly, thoughts formed into clarity.
He remembered what he used to say while reading those novels.
"If I ever got reincarnated, I'd keep my head down. Learn first. Move second. No rushing."
He nodded.
"Yes. That's what I'll do."
This world was not a game. People died. Shen Yuan had died from a casual grudge. That was enough proof.
"I won't be a hero. Not in some grand, flashy way."
He took a deep breath.
"I'll stay quiet. Stay steady. Learn what I can, when I can. No need to draw attention. Slow and careful."
Arin clenched his fists—not in pride, but in resolve.
He had no grand system, no divine guidance, no ancient artifact whispering secrets in his ear.
Just a second chance.
And that was enough.