A deafening boom echoed through the construction site.
Dust and gravel rained down as a steel beam snapped loose from its crane, falling like a guillotine from the sky. Workers shouted, but the noise drowned beneath the screeching metal.
Wan Long turned his head—just in time to see death descending.
In that instant, time seemed to slow. The heavy beam twisted in the air, sunlight glinting off its sharp edge as it plunged downward.
Wan Long barely had time to look up.
A shout left his lips—
Huh…? Oh sh—"
Before the curse could escape his lips, everything went black
A sharp, crushing pain.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
...
' Awww... So much pain...'
It felt as if his body was crushed, burned, and frozen all at once. His lungs screamed for air, but none came. When he finally gasped, he was greeted not by smoke or dust—but by the faint scent of wood, earth, and… herbs?
He opened his eyes.
A dim ceiling stared back at him. Wooden planks. Cracked. Mold creeping between them. The faint moonlight that filtered through the gaps painted silver lines across a small, shabby room.
"Where… am I?" Wan Long muttered, his throat dry as sandpaper.
He tried to sit up, but his body protested. His ribs felt bruised, his arms were covered in scratches, and his chest burned with every breath. When he lifted his hands, they were not the calloused hands of a construction worker—these were thinner, paler… younger.
His heart skipped a beat.
He looked around in disbelief. The room was small—barely enough space for a narrow bed, a wooden table, and a broken stool. In the corner lay a bucket, half-filled with murky water. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and unwashed clothes.
It wasn't a hospital. It wasn't even a modern building.
This isn't Earth…
Suddenly, a splitting headache struck him. Memories—foreign and fragmented—poured into his mind like an overflowing tide.
He was Wan Long. A menial disciple of the Moon Pavilion Holy Sect. Born in the mortal borderlands, sold to the sect as a laborer. His duties: carrying water, cleaning courtyards, tending herbs—tasks unworthy of true cultivators.
Days ago, he'd been assigned to collect low-grade spirit herbs near the mountain base. By chance, he'd found a Tier 1 Spirit Herb, a treasure worth a few contribution points—enough to buy a basic cultivation manual.
But before he could report it, a voice had stopped him.
Wang Ping - An outer sect disciple, son of Elder Wang of the Mission Hall—arrogant, cruel, and used to taking what he wanted. When Wan Long hesitated to hand over the herb, the beating that followed had left his bones shattered and his life fading.
The original Wan Long had died… and now, another soul had taken his place.
Wan Long sat motionless on the wooden bed, heart pounding as memories intertwined—his life on Earth, and this new life in a world far grander than anything he'd imagined.
Through the inherited memories, knowledge unfolded before him like a vast scroll.
He was in The Myriad Realm.
A boundless world where cultivation reigned supreme—where mortals refined body, mind, and soul to ascend beyond life itself.
The myriad Realm was divided into five vast continents; Central Continent – Northern Continent – Eastern Continent – Western Continent and Southern Continent
Among them, the Central Continent stood as the most prosperous and powerful—the center of the cultivation world.
Within the Central Continent stood the Five Holy Sects, each reigning supreme above all others: Moon Pavilion Holy Sect – Heavenly Sword Palace – Azure Spirit Temple –Scarlet Flame Sanctuary – Thunder Sky Monastery .
Below these holy sects were the ranked sects, each classified from Rank Five to Rank One, depending on their strength, heritage, and the power of their disciples.
Rank Five Sects were Small, local sects with few cultivators while Rank One Sects were Great sects with deep foundations having Nascent Soul experts and above.
Holy Sects were Divine institutions standing above all mortal power—true gates to immortality.
Beyond them existed ancient clans, hidden families, and immortal legacies whose names shook even the Holy Sects.
And the Moon Pavilion Holy Sect—his new home—was one of the five main holy sects that ruled the central continent.
It stretched across an entire mountain range, its peaks bathed in moonlight, its valleys veiled in mist. Disciples lived according to their rank: Menial Disciples (laborers and servants), Outer Sect Disciples(Low ranked official Disciples), Inner Sect Disciples (elites chosen for talent and resources.), Core Disciples (personally guided by elders, bearers of true potential.), Direct Disciples (representatives of each peak, often destined for greatness.), Holy Sons and Daughters (supreme geniuses of the sect, shining under heaven itself.)
Even within the Outer Court, where over ten thousand disciples resided, there existed strict divisions—five great peaks: Alchemy Peak, Ruins and Formation Peak, Sword Peak, Artifact Refining Peak, Martial Peak.
Above the Outer Court was the Inner Court, with twenty-four peaks attuned to elemental affinities—fire, water, wind, thunder, and more.
At the summit lay the Main Court, where the Sect Leader and Supreme Elders resided—figures whose cultivation could shatter mountains with a thought.
.....
Wan Long's breath quickened as the immensity of it all sank in. He had been thrown into a world where strength was everything—where the weak were stepped on and the strong soared to immortality.
He clenched his fists weakly, staring at his trembling hands. "A world of cultivation…"
He could still feel the lingering pain in his ribs—remnants of the beating that had ended the body's former life. His surroundings were proof of his station: rough floors, splintered furniture, and cold drafts slipping through the cracks.
Outside, he could faintly hear the distant hum of life in the sect—the chanting of cultivators in meditation, the clash of swords from the Martial Peak, the smell of herbs carried by the wind from Alchemy Peak. All of it felt… alive.
He leaned back against the wooden wall, eyes half-lidded as he tried to process everything.
He was no longer the Wan Long of Earth, a man who worked himself to exhaustion for a daily wage.
Now he was a forgotten menial worker in a world ruled by spiritual power.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips. "From one kind of labor to another… fate really has a twisted sense of humor."
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
Even through exhaustion, he could feel a faint thread of energy around him—the world's spiritual qi. It was subtle yet vast, weaving through heaven and earth. He instinctively tried to guide it into his body, as shown in the memories… but it slipped away, untouchable.
The body's spiritual roots were impure—mixed, unstable, unable to absorb qi efficiently.That was why the previous Wan Long had never taken a single step into true cultivation.
He exhaled shakily and glanced around the dim room once more.On the small wooden table near the bed lay a tiny clay bottle, cracked at the neck. Inside, one lonely pill remained—dull green, its surface slightly worn.
Wan Long's memories stirred.
That was the Low-Grade Healing Pill the former owner had saved for months.A reward earned from backbreaking labor at the herb fields. His one and only precious resource… reserved for a life-and-death emergency.
A wry smile crossed Wan Long's lips. "I guess dying qualifies as one."
He uncorked the bottle and placed the pill on his tongue. The taste was bitter, almost metallic, but a faint warmth soon spread through his chest. The pain in his ribs dulled, and the numbness in his limbs eased slightly.
A thread of life returned to his body.
He leaned back and exhaled, closing his eyes for a brief moment of peace.
But peace didn't last.
As soon as the warmth settled, cold dread replaced it.
Wang Ping.-That arrogant bastard.
If Wang Ping or his cronies discovered he was still alive, they wouldn't let him stay that way for long. The thought sent a chill down his spine.
Although the Moon Pavilion Holy Sect was bound by strict laws—no disciple may kill another within the sect grounds—those laws only existed for show. For outer and inner disciples, punishment was real. For menial servants like him? Hardly anyone cared.
Even if he were beaten to death again, no elder would bat an eye.
The memories of the previous Wan Long twisted in his mind—mocking laughter, sneering faces, the sting of boots striking ribs. That powerless rage lingered deep in the heart of the man whose life he'd inherited.
He looked toward the wooden door. Beyond it lay the sect's vast world—disciples training beneath moonlit courtyards, the sound of sword auras slicing through air, the faint hum of formations pulsing on distant peaks.
And somewhere up there, in those glittering pavilions, walked Wang Ping.
A mere outer disciple—pampered by his father's influence—but in the eyes of a menial servant, he was a mountain impossible to climb.
For now, Wan Long knew his place. He couldn't even step foot on the outer court paths without risking another "accident."
Still… he wasn't completely helpless.
As long as he remained in the menial quarters, Wang Ping wouldn't dare make a move—at least, not openly. The sect's rules forbade killing within its gates, and even a minor infraction could bring punishment if witnessed by the wrong person.
Temporary safety. That was all he had.
He drew in a slow breath, forcing calm into his voice. "I'll stay quiet. Heal. Learn. And when the chance comes…" His eyes hardened, reflecting the faint glow of the candle's flame. "…I'll pay him back."
The wind outside rustled the thin curtains. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled—marking midnight.
Wan Long lay back down on the creaking bed, staring at the fractured ceiling. The pill's warmth lingered faintly in his veins, easing his pain but not his unease.
Above him, through the cracks in the wood, he could see the pale silver of the moon hanging over the distant peaks. It looked cold and unreachable—just like the path of cultivation itself.
He exhaled slowly. "A world of immortals, huh…"
His eyelids grew heavy. Exhaustion, both physical and mental, finally dragged him under.
As sleep took him, one final thought echoed in his mind—not of fear, but of quiet defiance.
Even a servant's life has worth.And I won't waste this second one.