The cold was the first thing to feel real. It wasn't the biting chill of a winter wind or the sharp cold of steel, but a deep, seeping cold that started in the bones and worked its way out, extinguishing the last embers of life. It was a familiar feeling. He'd felt it once before, a lifetime ago, as the screech of tires gave way to an explosion of pain and then… nothing.
In this life, however, death was a slower, more dignified affair. More poetic, and infinitely more frustrating.
He was Amrit, third prince of the Kingdom of Kshirapura. A title that sounded far grander than it was. In the vast, god-haunted continent of Viraatkshetra, Kshirapura was a forgotten corner, a pastoral land of milk and rice, known more for its fine silks than its warriors. And he, Amrit, was the kingdom's forgotten prince.
His eyes fluttered open, the effort monumental. The canopy above his bed was a masterpiece of embroidered silk, depicting scenes from the holy texts—gods riding celestial beasts, sages meditating atop mountains, great kings leading armies. The images were blurry, swimming in and out of focus. Every detail of the room screamed of wealth and privilege, from the sandalwood incense burning in a corner, its smoke meant to calm the spirit, to the soft furs layered over his blankets. But it all felt like a cage. A gilded, suffocating cage.
A fit of coughing seized him, a dry, rattling sound that tore at his throat. It was a weak, pathetic sound. The cough of a boy who had been dying since the day he was born. He felt a cool cloth on his forehead, and a gentle voice murmured, "Your Highness, please. Conserve your strength."
He turned his head, the motion taking a titan's effort. An old man with a long white beard and kind, weary eyes was looking down at him. Royal Physician Vaidya Bhaskar. For the past fifteen years, this man had fought a losing battle against the curse that riddled Amrit's body.
"It's… cold," Amrit whispered, his voice a dry rasp.
Vaidya Bhaskar sighed, a sound heavy with failure. "The divine fire in your core is fading, Your Highness. The Soothing Jade Tincture can no longer contain the chill from your meridians. I… I am sorry."
Divine fire. Meridians. The language of this world. For years, Amrit had lived a strange, dual existence. By day, he was the frail prince. But in the quiet of his mind, in the fever dreams that plagued him, he was someone else. He was an IT specialist from a world called Earth, a world of metal birds, glowing rectangles, and a distinct lack of gods who walked the earth. The memories were fragmented, like a shattered mirror, but the feeling of that other life, the echo, was undeniable.
In this world, power was everything. It was called Prana—the life force of the universe. Cultivators absorbed Prana through breathing techniques, circulating it through channels in their bodies called meridians to strengthen their forms, sharpen their minds, and perform wondrous feats. A powerful warrior could shatter boulders with a fist. A true master could cleave a mountain with a sword. Gods, the Devas, could rearrange the stars.
But Amrit? He was born with what was elegantly termed "Shattered Jade Meridians." A congenital curse. His energy channels were brittle and fractured. Any Prana he managed to absorb would leak out, causing excruciating pain before dissipating. Cultivation wasn't just impossible for him; it was a form of self-torture. He was a cripple in a world that worshiped strength.
His father, the King, saw him with pity that bordered on shame. His two older brothers, both talented cultivators, saw him with a mixture of contempt and indifference. He was a stain on the royal bloodline, a living reminder of imperfection. His destiny, as whispered in the court, was to die young. A footnote in the history of Kshirapura. Now, at fifteen, it seemed he was finally fulfilling that destiny.
The fever was worsening, the cold intensifying. The world outside his window was vibrant, he knew. He could hear the distant shouts of the guards training in the courtyard, the clang of steel on steel, the hum of a kingdom alive. It was a world he could see and hear, but never touch.
As his consciousness began to fade, the fragmented memories of Earth grew stronger, more coherent. He remembered the feeling of typing on a keyboard, the taste of coffee, the endless grey of a concrete cityscape. He remembered the loneliness of his small apartment, the stress of deadlines, and the quiet yearning for something more. He had died in a car accident, a sudden, meaningless end to a life that had felt… unwritten.
And now I'm here. Dying again. Just as meaningless. A profound, soul-crushing despair washed over him. He had been given a second chance, a life in a world of magic and wonder, only to be handed a broken vessel. He was a spectator to his own life, and now the show was ending.
Is this it? he thought, the voice in his head a blend of the prince's resignation and the programmer's weary cynicism. Twice born, twice doomed. What a raw deal.
The cold was absolute now. The physician's voice was a distant buzz. The ornate room was fading to black. This was it. The final moment. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable.
But in that abyss, that nexus between life and death, something impossible happened. In the deepest, most absolute point of his despair, a new sensation bloomed. It wasn't cold or hot. It wasn't pain or pleasure. It was… information.
A serene, impossibly clear sound, like a single water droplet hitting a silent pond, echoed in the core of his consciousness.
And then, text appeared in his mind's eye. It was a clean, sans-serif font, glowing with a soft, ethereal blue light. It was a sight so alien to this world, yet so deeply familiar to the soul of the man from Earth.
[Transmigrated Soul signature confirmed.]
[Despair Index has reached critical threshold: 99.99%.]
[Host's unique state of existence between two life-cycles has met activation requirements.]
[Awakening the Infinite Crit System...]
Amrit's fading consciousness flared with utter shock. A system? Like in those web novels? The thought was so absurd, so fantastically out of place, that it momentarily pushed back the encroaching darkness. He'd read dozens of them in his past life. It was the ultimate power fantasy, a cheat code for losers and underdogs.
[System successfully bound to Host Soul: Amrit.]
[Host Status:]
Name: Amrit
Condition: Near-Death (Divine Fire Extinguishing, Shattered Jade Meridians, Life Force Fading)
Cultivation: None
Abilities: None
[Infinite Crit System Functions:]
1. Any action performed by the Host has a chance to trigger a [Crit].
2. A [Crit] applies a random multiplier (from 2x to 1,000,000x) to the efficiency, quality, or result of the action.
3. The more fundamental and practiced the action, the higher the base probability of a [Crit].
4. System is passive. No voice commands needed. Intent is the trigger.
His mind, which had been foggy and slow, was suddenly razor-sharp. The implications of what he was reading crashed into him with the force of a tsunami. Any action? A random multiplier? This was a power that defied all logic of this world. In Viraatkshetra, progress was linear. You practiced a sword form ten thousand times to achieve mastery. You meditated for a decade to deepen your spiritual sea. It was a world of hard work and incremental gains.
This system… this was a shortcut that broke the very concept of hard work.
A sliver of hope, fierce and desperate, ignited within him. The encroaching cold of death was still there, a tangible pressure on his soul. He was still dying. But now… now he had a tool.
What action can I take? he thought, his mind racing. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.
Breathe.
The thought was instinctual. Breathing was the most fundamental action of any living being. In this world, it was also the foundation of all cultivation. The Lotus Breathing Compendium was the basic technique taught to all members of Kshirapura's royal family. It was a simple method to draw a wisp of Prana from the air into the body.
He had tried it thousands of times. Every attempt had ended in failure and agony as the wisp of Prana tore at his broken meridians.
But now…
He focused his intent, ignoring the pain, ignoring the physician's panicked muttering in the background. He remembered the instructions from the compendium, the path the air was supposed to take, the way the mind was supposed to guide it.
He took a breath.
It was shallow, weak, the breath of a dying boy. A tiny, almost imperceptible thread of Prana, thinner than a strand of hair, was drawn from the air toward him. It touched his skin and, as always, began to cause a faint, stinging pain. It was a failure. Of course it was a failure. Despair threatened to swallow him again.
And then, the blue text flashed in his mind.
[Basic Action: 'Lotus Breathing Technique' performed.]
[Crit Chance detected…]
[…Triggering a 100x Crit!]
The world exploded.
The minuscule, hair-thin wisp of Prana did not enter his body. It detonated. In an instant, the ambient Prana in the entire royal suite—the energy from the burning incense, from the jade ornaments, from the very air itself—was violently sucked towards him. It coalesced into a torrent of pure, liquid-gold energy, a hundred times more potent and vast than what his breath should have drawn.
This raging river of power, which would have caused a healthy, talented cultivator to explode, surged towards Amrit's chest.
Vaidya Bhaskar, who had been preparing a final, desperate acupuncture treatment, froze. His spiritual sense screamed at him. The Prana in the room was in a state of violent chaos, converging on the dying prince. "Your Highness!" he cried out, thinking some external force was attacking.
But Amrit didn't hear him. He was at the center of the storm. He braced for an agony that would tear him apart. He expected his Shattered Jade Meridians to be ground into dust.
Yet, the agony never came.
The golden river of Prana, amplified a hundredfold, was not just powerful; it was also impossibly pure. It was Prana refined to its most fundamental, gentle state. When it entered his body, it didn't feel like a raging torrent. It felt like a warm, loving embrace.
The energy flowed not into his broken meridians, but around them. It seeped directly into his cells, his bones, his blood. The bone-deep cold that had been killing him was instantly vaporized, replaced by a profound warmth that spread from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes.
And then, the most miraculous thing happened. The super-refined Prana, brimming with life, began to work on his Shattered Jade Meridians. The tiny, countless fractures that had plagued him since birth… they began to mend. The Prana acted like a divine solder, gently, patiently, sealing the cracks. It coated the fragile channels, reinforcing them, widening them, transforming them.
What a lifetime of medicine and prayers couldn't do, a single critical breath was accomplishing in seconds.
[Shattered Jade Meridians are being repaired by 100x Crit-infused Prana.]
[Repair Progress: 10%... 30%... 60%...]
Outside, Vaidya Bhaskar stared, his jaw slack with disbelief. The deathly pallor on Prince Amrit's face was vanishing, replaced by a healthy, rosy flush. The shallow, rattling breaths were evening out, becoming deep and rhythmic. The prince's spiritual aura, which had been like a flickering candle flame about to be snuffed out, was now… stable. No, it was more than stable. It was growing.
[Repair Progress: 99%... 100%.]
[Shattered Jade Meridians have been fully repaired and fortified.]
[Constitution upgraded: Frail Body -> Resilient Body.]
[Your Divine Fire has been reignited.]
[Host condition stabilized. Threat of death eliminated.]
Amrit's eyes snapped open. They were no longer dull and clouded with pain. They were clear, sharp, and blazing with a light that had never been there before. He took another breath, this one deep and full, and felt the sweet, clean air fill his lungs without a hint of pain.
He sat up.
The movement was fluid, effortless. For the first time in his life, his body obeyed his command without protest. The furs and silks pooled around his waist. He looked at his hands—no longer pale and thin, but imbued with a sense of vitality. He could feel the Prana from that single breath, a warm pool of energy now circling peacefully in his lower abdomen, in a dantian that had always been a barren wasteland.
"Your… Your Highness?" Vaidya Bhaskar stammered, taking a hesitant step forward. He reached out a trembling hand to take Amrit's pulse. "The fever… it's gone. Your meridians… they are… perfect? No, they are stronger than perfect! They are like flawless crystal! How is this possible? What miracle is this?"
Amrit looked at the stunned physician, a slow smile spreading across his face. It was the first genuine, hopeful smile he had ever worn in this life. The world had written his destiny in stone: to be the frail prince who died a quiet, pitiful death.
But he had just been handed a hammer and chisel.
The cold of death was gone, replaced by the fire of rebellion. He was no longer a footnote. He was the anomaly, the glitch in the celestial program.
He was Amrit. And he had a million chances to shatter the fate they had planned for him.