Zhao Chen gasped awake.
The first thing he felt was warmth—rough linen clinging to his chest, a blanket half-fallen to the floor. His breath came fast. His fingers dug into straw bedding. His body was shaking.
No pain. No blood. No screaming.
He blinked. The ceiling above him was made of old timber, soot-dark and warped by rain. Thin morning light crept through the cracks in the shutters. Birds chirped somewhere outside.
He sat up slowly, confused.
The last thing he remembered… was dying.
Not in some glorious battle. Not surrounded by trumpets or heroes. Just a cold morning, a beast raid, and too many things going wrong too fast. Screams. Claws. His spear shattering. His ribs breaking. Then darkness.
But this—this was home.
He looked around the room. It was small, but familiar. Clay walls, patched thatch roof, the same splintered stool in the corner. His father's carpentry tools hung by the window. The smell of boiled rice drifted in from the kitchen.
Zhao Chen's eyes widened. He threw off the blanket and scrambled to the mirror in the corner. His legs were weak. His arms—thin. He stared into the warped glass.
A boy's face stared back.
Fourteen. Hair a mess, Eyes too big for his narrow face, No scars, No weathered jaw, No signs of the man he had become.
'What in the…" His hand reached for the scar that should've been across his collarbone —gone.
He wasn't wounded. He wasn't even grown.
He'd gone back.
Before the Martial Alliance. Before training. Before the beast raid. Before everything.
"Chen'er?" a voice called from outside the room. "Are you awake?"
Zhao Chen turned sharply toward the door.
He hadn't heard that voice in years.
That was Zhao Ming. His father.
Alive.
The door creaked open, and there he was. Sturdy, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up and sawdust still on his arms. His face was weathered but calm, lips curled in a slight smile.
"Still sleeping at this hour?" he said, shaking his head. "I've got breakfast ready. Come before it gets cold."
Zhao Chen just stared.
"Something wrong?" his father asked.
Zhao Chen tried to answer, but his throat tightened.
"No, I… I'm fine" he said quickly. "Just tired."
Zhao Ming didn't press him. "You can rest later. We've still got firewood to cut before noon."
---
The table was small, carved from cedar, its corners dented from years of use. Zhao Chen sat down slowly, hands still trembling. He watched his father ladle out steaming porridge, thick with yam and a bit of dried meat.
He remembered this meal. Not exactly — but the smell, the heat, the clatter of wood on clay — it was all familiar. A life he thought he'd left behind. A life he thought was gone forever.
He picked up the spoon and ate in silence.
His father glanced at him. "You sure you're alright?"
Zhao Chen nodded. "Just a strange dream, that's all"
His father grunted. "Bad one?"
"Maybe. I don't remember much" he lied.
Zhao Ming didn't press him further. "When you finish, help me move the planks behind the shed. I'll need them for the temple roof."
Zhao Chen finished the bowl slowly. His body still felt light, undertrained, young. But his mind was sharper than it had ever been. He remembered years of drills, of fights, of failure and survival. His soul carried a lifetime of hard-won grit.
He just had no strength to match it — yet.
---
That afternoon, Zhao Chen sat under the pine tree by the riverbank, arms sore from lifting timber. The wind carried the smell of pine needles and fresh mud. The same river that once carried wood shipments still flowed gently past the edge of the village.
He watched it quietly, one knee pulled to his chest, breathing slow and steady.
"This isn't a dream" he murmured.
The way the planks dug into his hands, the ache in his lower back, the taste of salt in the porridge—it was all too sharp, too real. Somehow, the heavens had returned him to the beginning.
But he still had no spiritual root. No way to draw qi. No technique or talent. Nothing but what he remembered—and that hadn't been enough in his first life.
"I was weak then," he said. "I'm still weak now." His hand clenched into a fist. "But I won't stay that way."
Then, something stirred in the air.
It was faint, like a whisper of wind brushing past his ear. Zhao Chen sat up. The light dimmed briefly, like a cloud had passed overhead — but the sky was clear.
Then he heard a sound — soft, metallic, like a bell struck from far away.
[Initializing Effort Conversion Protocol...]
Zhao Chen flinched. A shimmer of light appeared in front of his eyes, no brighter than the sun off river water — but it formed lines. Words.
He stared, unblinking.
---
[Status – Zhao Chen – Level 1]
Health: 100
Stamina: 100
Qi: 0 (Unavailable)
Attributes:
Strength: 4
Dexterity: 5
Endurance: 6
Speed: 5
Willpower: 7
Intelligence: 6
Spiritual Root: 0 (Non-cultivator)
Skills: None
Experience: 0 / 100
Titles: None
---
"What… is this?" Zhao Chen backed away instinctively, but the screen followed his vision. It floated in the air like a spirit-light, impossible and silent. He'd never seen anything like it — not even from the core cultivators stationed in beast patrol.
Before he could react, more text appeared.
---
[New Quests Available]
• First Steps
>Run 2 kilometers without stopping.
Reward: +1 Endurance, Unlock Skill: [Running Lv.1], +25 EXP
• Bare Steel
>Craft or acquire a wooden training sword.
Reward: +1 Strength, Unlock Skill: [Basic Sword Form Lv.1], +25 EXP
• Watch and Learn
>Observe a trained fighter for 10 minutes.
Reward: Unlock Skill: [Combat Instinct Lv.1], +30 EXP
---
Zhao Chen stared at the floating words.
He didn't understand what had activated this strange magic. He didn't even know if it was magic. But the message was clear.
He could grow. Not through spiritual roots or heaven-given talent, but through action—through effort.
His heart beat faster. His mind was racing. His hands clenched tight again, but this time not in fear.
"If I'm starting from nothing," he said quietly, "then I'll earn everything." as Zhao Chen said that, He touched his forehead and
He stood, his muscles sore, his legs shaking slightly. The dirt path ahead looked longer than he remembered — but he knew every inch of it. Every root, every slope, every stone.
Zhao Chen drew a breath, faced the trail —and ran.