The fire of annihilation raged within him. Aryan's consciousness was a lone boat tossed on an ocean of pain, each wave threatening to submerge him into oblivion. He could hear his mother's panicked screams distantly, a mournful sound on the edge of a world he was rapidly leaving behind. But he couldn't respond.
His throat was a sealed cavern, his limbs were not his own, and his mind was a prisoner to the brutal, meticulous process unfolding within his flesh.
The deconstruction was systematic. The System's energy was not a wildfire but a team of silent, ruthless surgeons, operating with cold impartiality. It was both scalpel and suture, wrecking ball and architect. It shattered his fragile bones, not with brute force, but by dissolving their very structure, reforming them into a gleaming, resilient essence. His thin, underdeveloped muscles were un-woven, their fibers separated and cleansed of years of lethargy and poor nutrition. His weak and struggling organs were bathed in this purifying light, their functions reset and optimized.
Then came the purge. A foul, black substance, viscous and tar-like, began to seep from every pore of his skin. It was the physical manifestation of the impurities that had accumulated in his body the dross of failed cultivation, the remnants of a poor diet, the cellular waste of a life lived in weakness.
The smell was acrid and nauseating, a stench of decay and sickness that quickly filled the small room. It formed a greasy film over his skin, turning his simple sheets into a filthy morass.
To Priya, it was a waking nightmare. Her son, her poor, fragile Aryan, was writhing on the bed, slicked with a horrific black grime, a low, constant moan of unimaginable pain escaping his lips. She saw his skin stretch taut over his bones, his jaw clenched so tight she feared his teeth would shatter. This was no seizure it was something far worse. It was the sight of a body tearing itself apart from the inside out.
"Vikram! Rohan! Someone, help!" she shrieked, stumbling back from the bed, a hand clapped over her mouth in horror. The stench was unbearable, and the sight of her son in such a state was a dagger in her heart.
Just as her hope was about to crumble into dust, the violent convulsions began to subside. The terrifying arch in Aryan's back softened, and his limbs, once rigid with tension, went slack. The deep, guttural moans quieted, replaced by a steady, rhythmic breathing. He lay still amidst the filth, his chest rising and falling with a depth and power it had never possessed in life. The black grime on his skin began to dry, cracking and flaking away like dried mud, revealing the skin beneath.
Priya stared, her breath caught in her throat. The skin she could see was not the pale, sickly complexion of her son. It was clear and unblemished, glowing with a vibrant luster she had only ever seen on the pampered young masters of the great city clans a sheen that spoke of expensive elixirs and powerful cultivation arts.
The pain receded like a tidal wave, leaving a shore of profound tranquility in its wake.
Aryan's consciousness flowed back into his body, not as a prisoner, but as a master returning to his home. A home, he found, that had been rebuilt from the foundations up.
He opened his eyes. The world was sharper, a symphony of detail he had never perceived before. He could see the individual grains in the wooden beams of the ceiling above, the delicate dance of dust motes in the amber light from the window. The scent of herbs was no longer just a vague medicinal smell; he could distinguish the sharp scent of sun-dried ginkgo from the earthy aroma of ginseng root. From outside, he could hear the faint chirping of a single cricket, a sound that would have been lost in the noise before.
He raised a hand, and the movement was effortless. The limb felt light, yet imbued with a dormant, coiled strength. He looked at his palm, turning it over. The hand was still slender, but it was no longer the hand of a sickly boy. The skin was flawless, the lines of his palm clear and deep. A faint, almost invisible glow of vitality seemed to emanate from within.
He sat up, the coarse blanket sliding away. Dried black flakes of filth fell from his body, dusting the bed. He looked down at himself. His frame was still lean, but it was no longer frail. There was a subtle definition to his muscles, a harmony to his proportions that hinted at hidden power. He took a deep breath, and his lungs expanded further than they ever had before, filling with air that felt crisp and invigorating. The constant, low grade ache that had been his companion for years was simply gone.
As he marveled at the transformation, the serene, blue panel reappeared before him.
[Body Reconstruction complete. Host's foundation has been successfully established.]
The status page updated in real-time.
•••STATUS•••
Name: Aryan Rathore
Age: 18
Race: Human
Bloodline: None
Body Constitution: Supreme Immortal Foundation (Initial)
Current Cultivation Realm: Qi Condensation Realm - Layer 1 (Peak)
Cultivation Technique: Basic Qi Breathing Art (Mortal Grade)
Spiritual Roots: Medium-Grade