The hospital reeked of medicine and despair.
The dim yellow lights flickered faintly overhead, like the dying heartbeat of a world on the edge.
At the far end of the corridor, a young man lay motionless on a white bed, his body paralyzed since birth.
His name was Huang Tian.
He was twenty-three, yet the doctors said he would not survive another forty-eight hours.
His illness—Rare Neuropathy Type VII—afflicted only one in 1.6 million humans, and no cure existed.
He could not walk.
He could not lift his arms.
But his mind was sharp, like a blade forged from heaven itself.
By the age of five, he had consumed every book on ancient Greek philosophy.
At ten, he grasped Einstein's relativity and the mystery of black holes.
At fifteen, he wrote a paper on the probability of life in parallel dimensions.
The world saw him as a burden.
His parents wept every night.
But Huang Tian never wept.
He only observed.
Calculated.
Planned.
He understood one truth:
Death was not the end.
It was only a boundary.
And boundaries could be broken.
Every day, he watched doctors come and go.
He watched nurses check his faltering heartbeat.
He watched his mother clutch his lifeless hand, holding back sobs.
He wanted to whisper, "Do not cry. I am not afraid."
But his lips would not move.
His voice remained locked inside his mind.
On a storm-ridden night, lightning split the skies beyond his window.
Huang Tian closed his eyes.
Not from fatigue—
But because he felt something was about to begin.
The monitor slowed.
Then slower.
Then silence.
Doctors shouted.
Nurses ran.
His mother broke into tears.
But behind his closed eyelids—
the universe shattered.
A voice thundered from the void:
"You shall return. But this time… you will create."
And within the darkness—
Huang Tian smiled.
---
Blinding light.
The sound of a newborn's cry.
Cold.
Wet.
A new world.
He was reborn in a remote village at the foot of **Desolate Mountain**.
His father was a hunter. His mother, a seamstress.
They had nothing but love—yet lived in poverty.
But Huang Tian was no ordinary child.
His eyes did not cry.
They stared into the heavens, searching.
By three, he spoke in complete sentences.
By five, he understood the hunters' martial techniques.
By seven, he realized one thing: this world had **no cultivation**.
No qi.
No heavenly tribulation.
No divine dao.
Instead, it had three systems:
*Aura Users, Qigong Practitioners, and Magicians.
All of them were limited.
The maximum lifespan—barely 300 years.
To Huang Tian, that was laughable.
He desired eternity.
He desired to surpass death itself.
At eight, tragedy struck.
A colossal tiger descended from the mountain, crushing their home.
His parents died protecting him.
Huang Tian, hidden behind cracked wooden doors, saw everything.
He did not cry.
He recorded.
The beast's movements.
Its rhythm.
Its flaws.
His grandmother saved him—a frail yet wise old woman.
Together, they lived in a shabby hut outside the village.
There, Huang Tian observed the world more deeply.
He saw Aura Users shatter boulders bare-handed—yet age consumed them.
He saw Qigong Practitioners extend life to 300 years—yet never touch the skies.
He saw Magicians summon spirits with blood rituals—yet betray one another easily.
They all shared one flaw:
Their power came from the outside.
Aura from flesh.
Qi from nature.
Force from entities.
But Huang Tian yearned for a power **born within**.
A strength that needed no permission.
A force he could **engineer himself**.
At twelve, his grandmother passed.
He bathed her fragile body and buried her beneath the plum tree.
Still, he did not cry.
But for the first time—he felt loneliness.
Now, he was truly alone.
No family.
No friends.
Only his mind—and the world.
He wandered the mountains.
Studied the flow of unseen energy.
Etched formulas into stone with his own blood.
He discovered: air at the peaks held far denser spiritual energy.
But no one could absorb it directly.
Ancient breathing arts only drew 0.3% of it.
Huang Tian pondered:
If humans can take 0.3%, why not 100%?
If muscles can be trained, why not the entire energy system?
If souls linger beyond death, why not forge one anew?
At fourteen, he designed his first method.
He named it: The Blueprint of Self-Creation.
A cultivation path built not upon gods or fate—
But logic, observation, and soul-engineering.
He outlined its phases:
1. Absorb spiritual energy.
2. Filter and condense it.
3. Fuse it with body and soul.
4. Trigger endless regeneration.
5. Extend life exponentially.
Difficult? Yes.
He lacked treasures, pills, artifacts.
But he held one edge:
A mind forged on Earth—twenty-three years of boundless knowledge.
That spring, he discovered a hidden cave within Desolate Mountain.
The air inside pulsed with spiritual density.
Crystals gleamed along its walls, throbbing faintly.
He knew—it was perfect.
He cleansed the cavern.
Carved symbols into stone with blood and charcoal.
He wrote:
"Phase One: Qi Condensation.
Goal: Absorb spiritual energy from the air.
Target: Forge an energy core within the dantian.
Reward: Lifespan—150 years."
If he succeeded, he would surpass all known practitioners.
Their ceiling was 300 years.
His starting point would be 150—
and rising.
Under a full moon, he sat cross-legged.
His eyes closed.
Breath steady.
He focused on the dantian below his navel.
Not ancient techniques.
But a breathing pattern derived from delta brainwaves, knowledge from Earth.
He synchronized it with the rhythm of spiritual air.
Each inhale, he envisioned golden liquid pouring through his pores into his veins—
rushing toward the dantian.
Each exhale, he expelled toxins, weakness, and doubt.
Day One: failure.
Energy tore his meridians apart.
Blood spilled from nose and ears.
He fainted.
Day Two: improvement.
He endured ten seconds before collapse.
He recorded: "Error: wave frequency unsynced with flow. Adjustment needed."
Day Three: modification.
He set his heartbeat as the guide.
Every pulse—one step toward eternity.
Day Seven: one minute sustained.
Spiritual energy condensed like dew.
Day Thirty: one hour sustained.
A seed formed within his dantian.
Tiny, alive.
He named it: *The Spiritual Seed.
On his fifteenth birthday—
he sat in the cave, drenched in dried blood, yet with eyes blazing.
This time, he inhaled not only air—
but the entire cavern's essence.
Crystals shattered.
The ground trembled.
Stones floated.
Energy surged through his body—
collapsing into his dantian.
The seed expanded.
Condensed.
Then—
A silent explosion.
Waves of energy shattered the cave walls.
Crystals disintegrated.
Debris fell.
But Huang Tian remained still—
smiling.
He had done it.
Qi Condensation Realm – Layer One.
His lifespan: 150 years.
His body, still young, surged with newfound vitality.
He could heal wounds in ten seconds.
Hear sounds from a kilometer away.
Sense energy in others.
Stepping out of the cavern, he gazed at the star-lit sky.
"This is only the beginning," he whispered.
"The heavens? Too small.
I will build greater."
And thus—
the path of the Architect of Eternity began.