Azure Dragon Continent — Imperial City of the Five Element Dynasty.
A faint neon sign flickered in the morning haze, humming softly above a plain wooden gate.
Phoenix and Dragon Dojo!
The blue letters pulsed faintly like trapped lightning—out of place, absurd, yet stubbornly alive in the heart of an ancient dynasty. Passersby glanced once, frowned, and hurried away. Pretending not to see it was easier than admitting something so strange existed.
Below that sign, a young man in a white robe swept the courtyard's stone steps. His broom brushing against the stone, rhythmic and deliberate, as though the act itself held meaning. Dust rose in tiny spirals around him, catching faint traces of light from the neon glow.
Though the dojo stood silent, his every motion carried the patience of a man used to waiting—perhaps for a change, perhaps for destiny.
"Another lifetime..huh," Wang Chen murmured. He shook the broom, scattering a cloud of gray dust. His black hair was neatly tied, but his eyes carried exhaustion older than his body—like a man who had lived too long to still hope.
From one glance, he looked like any other small-town martial artist tending to his empty dojo. But the stillness hid a secret which could cause cultivators to hunt him down once revealed.
"To think… in my thirty-first life, I've become a dojo master again," he sighed softly. A wistful smile tugged at his lips. He still remembered his first life back on Earth—China, a little dojo near the park, full of noise and laughter. Now, across worlds and lifetimes, fate had drawn a perfect, cruel circle.
Because Wang Chen was not of this world.
He had died on Earth—and awakened here, in a realm ruled by cultivators and immortals.
He had once dreamed of becoming one of them—an immortal who could split mountains, pluck stars, and live forever. But the world hadn't been kind. His first life here had begun in a tiny village where only a retired soldier knew of cultivation. Years slipped by, and on his thirty-fifth birthday, he felt a chill pierce his heart. Then, darkness.
When he woke again, he was twenty-five—reborn.
A second chance? he had first thought, or maybe his cheat, only to realize something more chilling. it was a cycle.
From a mining town buried beneath Iron Dragon Mountain to frozen wastelands and endless deserts, Wang Chen lived—and died—again and again. Each time, the same ending awaited him at thirty-five. His body would fail, his vision would fade, and he would awaken in a new life, trapped in the same curse.
By the eleventh life, a mysterious tower had appeared in his spiritual space. He thought salvation had arrived—but when thirty-five came again, so did death. By his twenty-first life, he even gained a system. Yet it, too, mocked him with its silence.
Now, in his thirty-first life, hope was little more than an ember buried under exhaustion. Still, obsession had replaced fear. If he could not live long, then he would fight to survive.
This life had only begun a few hours ago.
Wang Chen placed the broom aside, his breath steadying.
"Status," he whispered.
A pale blue window shimmered into existence.
[Name: Wang Chen]
[Soul Refinement: 31 Layers]
[Lifespan: 25 / 35 (Raise one Peak Qi Cultivation disciple to increase lifespan)]
[Race: Mortal]
[Cultivation: None]
[Talent: Tower of Infinite Enlightenment (Divine), Indomitable Will (Unique)]
[Abilities: Sword Heart (Infant Stage)]
[Techniques: Three Turn Sword Style]
[Potential: Miserable (Raise one Qi Refining disciple to improve potential)]
The words glowed faintly, casting reflections in his eyes. Ten years left. Ten years before death came again.
But this time—something was different. New lines shimmered below his lifespan.
He stared for several long seconds. Then, his lips curved faintly.
"So there's still a way out."
A chime echoed in his mind.
[Congratulations, host! Daily task 'Divinity in Small Things' completed.]
[Reward: One year of cultivation in a high-grade sect.]
White light surged through his veins. His bones hummed, his muscles tensed, and power flooded him like molten sunlight. For a brief moment, the world brightened—then dulled again, as if mocking him.
He flexed his fingers. Strength rippled through his arms, crisp and alive.
"As expected from a high-grade sect," he murmured. "Peak Qi Refining in a year… not bad."
He chuckled softly. "If only my potential was high enough, perhaps I would've reached Foundation Building already."
Still, even that joy couldn't silence the hollow ache in his chest. He knew too well—cultivation alone couldn't save him. Not yet.
Then—his stomach growled, loud and violent.
He froze, eyes darting down, the sudden surge in strength caused his body to feel hungry.
A wry smile tugged at his lips. "Even after thirty-one lives, hunger's still my greatest enemy."
He reached for his sandals when—
BANG!
A harsh knocking rattled the gate.
Wang Chen's brow furrowed. Few even noticed his dojo—who would come now? But then, a spark of hope flickered in his eyes.
"Could it be… a student?"
Straightening his robe, he adjusted his posture, his expression calm and dignified.
"Good," he murmured. "If the predecessor had a student, then I'll teach him my Three Turn Sword Art. That should count as raising a disciple… right?"
For the first time in this life, genuine excitement stirred in his heart.
But before he could open the gate—
"Yes, boss! This is the place I told you about!" a voice shouted from outside.
"Someone actually took over our area and even opened a dojo! Didn't pay a single coin of protection money either!"
"Seems like this fool doesn't put the Blood Fang Gang in his eyes at all!" another voice added, dripping with mockery.
The joy on Wang Chen's face froze. Slowly, his expression darkened.
"...Blood Fang?"
So, not students—but thugs.
He exhaled quietly. The calm in his eyes deepened into something colder. Across thirty-one lifetimes, he had faced beasts, curses, assassins, and worse. A few street rats would not shake him.
His blood simmered. The faint hum of spiritual energy filled the courtyard. If anyone looked closely, they would see the faint shimmer of sword intent coiling around him, invisible yet sharp enough to cut air.
"I'm already hungry," he muttered, voice turning to steel. "And now someone dares to disturb me…"
Outside, three men stood before the gate.
The one in the center—a burly man with a scar across his face—crossed his arms. His eyes were cold, accustomed to blood.
He was the steward of the Blood Fang Gang, the man who managed this district.
Today he was only leaving once he taught this good for nothing piece of shit, a bloody lesson.