The crisp, clean air was the first thing Damian noticed as he stepped out of the rustic cottage. It was a world away from the smog-filled city he'd left behind.
Before him, a lush, green valley stretched out, cradled by mist-wreathed mountains that clawed at the sky. His new home was a simple, almost primitive hut, and as he scanned the landscape, he saw other, similar dwellings scattered sparsely across the valley floor, each one a solitary speck in the vast expanse.
The original Damian's memories supplied the reason: it was a sect rule. Cultivators, in their pursuit of power, could be... noisy. Explosions, shouts, and the hum of concentrated energy were common.
Giving each disciple their own space was a matter of courtesy and practicality, preventing a powerful meditation from being shattered by an over-enthusiastic neighbor testing a new technique.
A flicker of hope, born from the countless novels he'd read in his past life, sparked within him. He cleared his throat, feeling a bit foolish as he whispered to the empty air.
"System... Status... Info?"
He waited. The only reply was the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind. He tried again, a little louder, a little more desperate. Silence.
"Well... No cheat code, I guess," he muttered with a sigh, the small hope extinguishing as quickly as it had appeared. He was on his own. With a grimace, he squared his shoulders and began the long walk toward the sect's main lecture hall.
If it weren't for the memories rattling around in his skull, his first instinct would have been to flee. He would have sprinted from the sect, found a remote village, and lived out his days in quiet obscurity. But the memories showed him the loophole in that plan.
The Hazelwood clan was a monstrous entity, and their princess's suitors were like a pack of rabid dogs. Out in the wider world, he would be unprotected prey. Here, within the Green Valley Sect, he was paradoxically at his safest.
The sect's rules were absolute: no disciple could harm another within its sacred grounds. To do so meant expulsion, a fate no one, not even the arrogant nobles chasing a princess, would risk.
'So, the most dangerous location is the safest one,' he thought, a bitter irony tasting like ash in his mouth.
He walked along the worn dirt path, the isolation of the valley pressing in on him. The air grew still, the cheerful chirping of birds fading into an unnerving silence.
A twig snapped in the woods to his left. He froze, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs. He told himself it was just an animal, but the feeling of being watched, of unseen eyes tracking his every move, was undeniable.
Suddenly, they were there. One moment he was alone on the path, the next he was surrounded. Five figures, clad in black from head to toe with their faces obscured by grim, featureless masks, had emerged from the trees as silently as shadows.
'Oh, crap! I was overthinking things, wasn't I?' Damian's mind screamed. His carefully constructed logic about the sect's safety shattered into a million pieces. Rules were only as strong as the people who enforced them, and right now, there was no one around to see them being broken.
Panic overrode reason. He spun on his heel and made a desperate run for the lecture hall. He knew teachers and elders would be there; if he could just reach them, they would save him.
A chorus of low, mocking laughter echoed from behind him. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and his blood ran cold. They weren't even running; they were closing the distance with an effortless, gliding pace. The memories supplied the horrifying context. He was a mere novice at the first stage of the Body Strengthening realm. These men... the oppressive aura they radiated felt like a physical weight, crushing the air from his lungs. They were at the eighth stage, a chasm of power so vast he couldn't even comprehend it.
In a blur of motion, they outpaced him and encircled him once more, their movements fluid and predatory. He stumbled to a halt, trapped.
'Don't kill me, please,' he begged internally, but his throat was locked in terror. No words came out. A flash of cold steel was the only warning he received. A longsword was already resting against his neck, its edge biting deep. A searing line of fire erupted across his skin, and hot blood gushed down his chest. He saw it, his own life force staining the dark fabric of his robes and knew there was no one to save him.
Damian's eyes bulged. The world began to tilt and fade as the air was cut off from his lungs. He knew this feeling... the intimate, terrifying sensation of life slipping away, bit by bit.
And then... darkness.
"Haah... Haah!"
Loud, ragged gasps echoed in the confines of a small cottage.
"I can... breathe?" Damian whispered, his voice hoarse. His hands flew to his throat, frantically checking for the fatal wound. He found nothing. No cut, no blood, only smooth, unbroken skin.
He snapped his eyes open, his gaze darting around in a panic. He wasn't on a forest path, bleeding out on the dirt. He was back in his room, standing right where he had been just before he'd decided to leave.
He scrambled to the window, his heart pounding with a wild, impossible hope. He looked outside, and his breath hitched. The sun hung in the sky at the exact same position it had been when he first left his cottage.
'Do I have a cheat? A time rewind?' The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. This was it. This was the miracle he had begged for. He wasn't a normal transmigrator. He finally understood the loop he had experienced while hanging. His death wasn't an end; it was a reset button.
This was his one and only tool for survival in this cursed world, this land of Valoria where enemies lurked in every shadow and the strong preyed on the weak without mercy.
"Survive... by dying," Damian said aloud, a violent shudder wracking his body. The thought was horrifying. To live, he would have to face death, repeatedly, learning from each agonizing end until he overcame the peril.
He needed more information. He closed his eyes and dove deep into the original Damian's memories, this time searching with frantic purpose. The world of Valoria was vast, comprising nine continents and countless races.
Empires and kingdoms were in a state of constant war over land and resources. He was on the Northwest continent, universally regarded as the most backward and weakest of the nine. Fortunately, the continents were separated by vast, chaotic seas that raged all year long, making travel between them nearly impossible.
In this world, cultivators were the true power. Yet, the talent for cultivation was rare. Only four in every hundred people possessed the potential, and of those four, three would have poor talent, barely able to progress, while only one might be mediocre. A high-talent disciple was a prize for any sect, and a prodigy was a once-in-a-generation miracle.
The known cultivation path was divided into six major realms. First was the Body Refining Realm, where one tempered their physical form to withstand the flow of spiritual energy, or mana.
Second was the Qi Refining Realm, focusing on absorbing ambient Qi from the world.
Third was the Foundation Establishment, where the cultivator formed a solid Dantian to store and stabilize their Qi.
Fourth, the Core Formation Realm, where the Dantian was compressed into a liquid core, drastically increasing power.
Fifth was the legendary Nascent Soul Realm, where a cultivator's soul could leave their body and exist independently.
The final stage in Damian's memories was the Soul Transformation Realm, where the soul could fuse with the very laws of heaven and earth.
As far as the memories knew, no one on the entire Northwest continent had ever reached that sixth stage.
The foundation of it all was one's cultivation roots, divided into four grades: Low, Medium, High, and Legendary.
Damian possessed medium grade roots. It was a painfully average talent, just good enough to be accepted into the Green Valley Sect. Otherwise, he would still be living a peaceful, and likely much longer, life in the mortal world.
'This sucks,' he complained silently. He was weak, his talent was mediocre, and powerful enemies wanted him dead. He knew if he went out that door, the masked men would be waiting. But staying here wasn't an option either. The Hazelwood clan wouldn't wait forever. Inaction was just a slower, more certain death. Reaching the lecture hall was still a must.
This time, however, he had an advantage. He knew what was waiting for him.
Steeling his resolve, he moved toward the door once more. His only hope was that this time, they wouldn't catch him. This time, he would take a different path.