Darkness was the last thing he remembered.
Not the dramatic kind—no blinding light, no voices calling his name. Just a heavy, suffocating darkness, like sinking into the bottom of a cold ocean where even thoughts struggled to move.
His name no longer mattered.
In his previous life, he had been weak.
Not weak in some poetic sense, not the kind of weakness that hid secret talent or destined greatness. He had been truly weak—a body that fell sick easily, a mind filled with dreams his body could never follow, and a life that ended quietly, unnoticed.
He never climbed any mountain.
Never reached the top of anything.
And then, he died.
Breath returned violently.
The boy gasped, lungs burning as if air itself were foreign. His eyes flew open, greeted not by hospital lights or familiar walls, but by a gray, cracked ceiling made of rough stone. Dust drifted down with each shallow breath, stinging his eyes.
Pain followed immediately.
Not sharp, not sudden—just a deep, constant ache that spread through his limbs like rust eating away at metal.
…I'm alive?
He tried to move. His arms trembled and barely obeyed, thin and weak, wrapped in dirty cloth that could hardly be called bandages. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath a small struggle.
This body was weak.
Too weak.
A bitter familiarity settled in his chest.
Memories surged—not his own, yet undeniably his.
A starving village at the edge of nowhere.
Cold nights with no firewood.
A boy mocked for his frail body, unable to hunt, unable to train, unable to cultivate like the others.
A useless child.
The memories belonged to this body's former owner… and now, to him.
"So I really was reborn," he whispered, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar.
The word echoed strangely in the small stone room.
Reborn.
He closed his eyes slowly, forcing himself to calm down. Panic would help nothing. He had read stories like this before—transmigration, reincarnation, second chances in another world.
But reality felt crueler than fiction.
No golden finger announced itself.
No system voice rang out.
No sudden flood of power warmed his veins.
Only weakness.
Again.
A soft cough escaped his lips, followed by a sharp pain in his ribs. He clenched his teeth, waiting for it to pass.
Different world… same starting line, he thought grimly. The very bottom.
Footsteps sounded outside—heavy, careless. Voices followed, rough and impatient.
"He still breathing?" someone asked.
"Barely. If he dies, we save food," another replied with a laugh.
The door creaked open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of damp earth and iron. Two men glanced at him briefly before losing interest, as if he were already half-dead.
As the door closed again, silence returned.
The boy stared at the ceiling, eyes steady despite the pain.
In the memories he inherited, this world had a name for strength. Many names, in fact—realms, stages, titles that marked the difference between the weak and the powerful.
At the very top of those names stood a single word.
Gods.
They were worshipped. Feared. Absolute.
And yet… as the memories settled, something strange surfaced. A fragment of knowledge that didn't belong to the boy or the world.
A quiet certainty.
This world has no peak.
His fingers twitched.
For the first time since waking up, a faint spark ignited in his chest—not power, not hope, but something sharper.
Resolve.
"If there's no peak," he murmured softly, voice trembling but firm,
"then this time… I won't stop climbing."
The cracked ceiling above him remained silent.
But far beyond it—far beyond this village, this world, and even its gods—something unseen stirred, as if it had heard him.
Pain woke him again.
It was not the sudden jolt of fear or confusion this time, but a slow, grinding ache that reminded him of every fragile bone in his body. His eyelids fluttered open, heavy as if weighed down by stone.
The room was still the same.
Cracked stone walls. A low ceiling. The faint smell of mold and damp soil. Thin light filtered in through a narrow opening near the top of the wall, barely enough to tell day from night.
Time had passed—but how much, he couldn't tell.
He swallowed dryly. Even that simple action sent a sting through his throat.
This body… is worse than I thought.
Carefully, painfully, he tried to sit up.
His muscles screamed in protest. His vision darkened, and for a moment he thought he might lose consciousness again. He leaned back against the wall, breathing slowly until the dizziness passed.
Only then did he begin to examine himself properly.
His arms were thin—too thin for a boy his age. Veins stood out beneath pale skin, his hands trembling slightly even at rest. His legs felt weak and unresponsive, as if they hadn't known proper nourishment in years.
This was not a heroic body waiting to awaken hidden power.
This was a body that had been used up.
Fragments of the boy's past life surfaced again.
His name in this world was Lin Chen.
Twelve years old.
No parents—lost during a monster tide years ago.
Living on scraps and village charity.
Failed to awaken any cultivation talent at the age of ten.
Marked as trash.
In this world, children were tested early. Those with talent sensed energy—qi, mana, essence, different regions called it different names. Those without were abandoned to fate.
Lin Chen had felt nothing.
No warmth. No resonance. No response.
Just emptiness.
That emptiness had sealed his fate.
"Rejected by the world itself," he muttered, the words tasting bitter.
A faint sound came from outside—the clatter of metal, distant shouts, the everyday noise of people who still had strength to spend. Life went on, indifferent to whether a useless boy survived another day.
He tightened his fists slowly.
In his previous life, he had accepted weakness. Not because he wanted to, but because he had no choice. His body had been his prison.
This time… was it really different?
He closed his eyes, turning his attention inward.
Nothing happened.
No flow of energy. No strange warmth. No hidden system panel waiting to be discovered.
Just darkness.
Yet within that darkness, he felt something else—a pressure. Subtle, distant, like standing beneath an endless sky and realizing how small you were.
It wasn't power.
It was… awareness.
The inherited memories told him that cultivators sensed the world's energy first, then drew it into their bodies. But what he sensed now wasn't energy.
It was the structure of something vast.
Layers.
As if the world itself was stacked, one ceiling above another, stretching endlessly upward.
Lin Chen's breathing slowed.
So that feeling wasn't imagination, he thought. This world really has no end.
A quiet laugh escaped him—weak, hoarse, but genuine.
If gods existed at the top of the known ladder… then they were simply standing on a higher floor, not the roof.
And if there was no roof…
Then talent might not be the only path upward.
The door opened again.
This time, only one person entered—a middle-aged man with a weathered face and tired eyes. He carried a bowl of thin, watery porridge. His steps were slow, cautious.
"You're awake," the man said, more statement than question.
He set the bowl down and glanced at Lin Chen, gaze complicated—part pity, part resignation.
"Eat. If you can," he added.
Lin Chen struggled to lift himself enough to take the bowl. His hands shook badly, spilling some of the porridge onto the floor. He forced himself to swallow each mouthful, ignoring the dull ache in his stomach.
The man watched silently.
After a while, he spoke again. "The village won't keep feeding you forever. You know that."
Lin Chen met his gaze.
"I know."
There was no anger in the man's eyes. Just reality.
When the man left, the door closed with a dull thud.
Lin Chen lowered the empty bowl.
This body is at the very bottom, he thought. No talent. No backing. No power.
But as he lay back against the cold stone, his mind remained clear.
In a world with no peak, the bottom was not a dead end.
It was simply the first step.
And this time, he would climb—even if he had to carve each step with his own hands.
Night fell quietly.
The thin beam of light near the ceiling faded until the stone room was swallowed by darkness once more. Cold crept in from the cracks in the walls, settling into Lin Chen's bones. He pulled the thin cloth around himself, though it did little to stop the chill.
Sleep refused to come.
His body was exhausted, yet his mind remained painfully awake.
In the darkness, thoughts rose one after another.
In this world, cultivation was everything. Strength determined survival. Those without it were destined to be crushed—by monsters, by stronger humans, or simply by neglect.
The inherited memories were mercilessly clear.
People like him did not grow old.
They disappeared.
Lin Chen clenched his teeth.
If I don't change something… I won't even live long enough to reach the first step.
Slowly, he sat up again, ignoring the protest of his muscles. Sweat formed on his forehead almost immediately. Every movement felt like dragging a broken body through mud.
He took a deep breath.
"Again," he whispered.
He closed his eyes and tried to sense the world.
This time, he did not search for warmth or energy like the others had. He did not try to imitate the method used by cultivators—drawing power into the body, circulating it through invisible channels.
Instead, he stayed still.
He listened.
Not with his ears, but with his awareness.
At first, there was nothing. Just the dull throb of pain, the faint sound of wind outside, his own uneven breathing.
Then—very faintly—he felt it again.
That pressure.
It was everywhere. Above him. Below him. Around him.
Not oppressive, not hostile—just vast.
Like standing beneath an infinite sky, except this sky was layered, folding in on itself endlessly.
Lin Chen's heart beat faster.
This isn't energy, he realized. It's… the world itself.
The cultivators of this world interacted with one layer. They refined their bodies to resonate with it, climbed within its rules, and believed that when they reached the highest realm, they had reached the end.
But what he sensed now felt like many ends stacked together.
As if the world allowed you to climb—
but only until you reached the edge of what you were permitted to perceive.
His breathing grew shallow.
"What if… talent isn't sensing power," he murmured softly, afraid even the darkness might hear him. "What if it's sensing permission?"
The thought struck him like lightning.
Children who awakened talent were those the world allowed to interact with its surface layer. Those who failed—like Lin Chen—were simply ignored.
Not rejected.
Ignored.
Ignored things did not rise.
Ignored things did not matter.
A strange calm settled over him.
If the world did not respond to him…
Then he would respond to the world first.
Lin Chen focused again, pushing his awareness outward—not to draw anything in, but to acknowledge what was there. He did not demand power. He did not beg.
He observed.
Time passed.
Minutes. Maybe hours.
Sweat soaked his clothes. His head throbbed. His vision blurred even with his eyes closed. His body trembled, threatening to collapse.
Still, the world remained silent.
No reaction.
No acknowledgment.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"So that's how it is," he whispered.
The world did not care.
In his previous life, his body had been his prison.
In this life, the world itself was the prison.
His strength finally gave out. Lin Chen slumped against the wall, chest heaving. Every nerve screamed for rest.
But even as exhaustion dragged him down, a single thought burned brighter than pain.
If the world ignores me… then I'll become something it can't ignore.
His consciousness began to fade.
Just before darkness claimed him, something subtle happened.
So subtle that if he had already lost awareness, he would have missed it entirely.
The pressure he had been sensing… shifted.
Not dramatically. Not violently.
Just enough to feel like—
An eye, briefly opening.
And somewhere deep within the endless layers of the world, a silent record was updated.
Unregistered existence detected.
Lin Chen did not hear it.
But the world had, for the first time, noticed him.
Lin Chen dreamed.
But it was not a dream of images, nor memories, nor the chaotic fragments of his two lives colliding.
It was a dream of height.
He stood at the bottom of something immeasurable. There was no ground beneath his feet, yet he did not fall. Above him stretched an endless vertical expanse—layer upon layer, each one vast enough to be a sky of its own.
There were no stairs.
No ladders.
No clear path upward.
Only invisible boundaries.
Each layer was separated by something unseen, like a thin sheet of glass that filled the entire world. Some layers glowed faintly. Others were dark, silent, and terrifying. A few radiated pressure so immense that even looking at them felt like blasphemy.
Lin Chen instinctively understood.
These were not realms in the way cultivators understood realms.
These were limits.
Limits placed on perception.
Limits placed on existence.
Limits placed on what a being was allowed to be.
At the very bottom—where he stood—there was a mark hovering in the void.
Small. Faint. Almost nonexistent.
It was him.
Or rather, it was what the world recognized him as.
Nothing.
A presence stirred far above. Something vast shifted its attention—not downward, but sideways, as if adjusting a ledger rather than looking at a person.
A cold, indifferent awareness brushed past him.
Unregistered.
Insignificant.
Below threshold.
Lin Chen felt no fear.
Only clarity.
"So even here… I don't qualify," he said quietly.
His voice echoed upward, swallowed instantly by the endless layers.
In the dream, he raised his hand and pressed it against the invisible boundary above him.
Pain exploded through his senses.
Not physical pain—this was deeper. As if his very existence was being rejected, compressed, flattened back into nothingness.
He gritted his teeth and pushed harder.
Cracks spread.
Not in the boundary—
but in him.
His mark flickered violently, threatening to vanish entirely.
Then he laughed.
It was weak. Hoarse. Almost broken.
"So that's the price," he said. "If I want to climb… I have to exist first."
The boundary did not move.
But something else did.
Far above, beyond countless limits, a presence paused. For the first time, it did not merely record.
It observed.
---
Lin Chen woke with a sharp gasp.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat soaking through the thin cloth clinging to his body. His heart pounded as if it might burst.
The stone room was still dark, silent, unchanged.
Yet something was different.
He could feel it.
Not power.
Not energy.
But a weight inside himself—as if something that had been empty before was now barely filled, like the first drop of water in a dry cup.
He slowly raised his hand.
It trembled less than before.
His breathing… was steadier.
The pain in his ribs was still there, but it no longer felt like it would crush him if he moved.
Lin Chen sat up.
For the first time since waking in this world, the motion did not steal his breath completely.
A realization struck him.
"I didn't gain strength," he murmured. "I gained… recognition."
Not approval.
Not blessing.
Just acknowledgment.
The world had not granted him a path.
It had merely stopped pretending he didn't exist.
Outside, the wind howled softly, passing over the village like it always had. Somewhere far away, a beast roared. Life continued, unaware that anything had changed.
Lin Chen clenched his fist slowly.
In this world, cultivators chased power.
Saints chased divinity.
Gods chased eternity.
But he—
He would chase something else entirely.
Existence.
He looked up at the cracked ceiling, eyes calm, burning quietly in the darkness.
"This is only the beginning," he said.
In a world with no peak, the first step was not power—
It was being seen.
Morning arrived without ceremony.
A pale, weak light seeped through the narrow opening near the ceiling, painting the stone walls in dull gray. Lin Chen lay still for a long moment, listening to his own breathing.
It was quieter now.
Not because his body was suddenly healthy—but because it was no longer collapsing under its own weakness.
He slowly pushed himself up.
This time, his arms did not immediately give out.
The movement was small. Insignificant. Something no cultivator would ever boast about.
But Lin Chen felt it clearly.
This is different.
He swung his legs over the edge of the stone bed and placed his feet on the cold ground. His balance wavered. He adjusted, steadying himself against the wall.
The room did not spin.
His vision did not darken.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
Outside, footsteps approached again. The door creaked open, and the same middle-aged man entered, carrying another bowl of thin porridge.
He stopped.
His eyes lingered on Lin Chen for half a breath longer than usual.
"You're… sitting up," the man said slowly.
Lin Chen nodded. "Yes."
The man frowned slightly, as if trying to find the right words. He had seen countless weak villagers over the years. He knew how they looked when they were close to the end.
This boy did not look strong.
But he did not look like he was fading anymore either.
The man set the bowl down. "Eat. After that… you can help with light work. If you want."
Light work.
To others, it was an insult. Proof that he was still useless.
To Lin Chen, it was opportunity.
"I want to," he said without hesitation.
The man studied him for a moment, then nodded and left.
Lin Chen ate slowly, savoring each mouthful despite how plain it tasted. With every swallow, he focused—not on absorbing energy, but on feeling his own existence.
His heartbeat.
His breath.
The subtle tension in his muscles.
He did not rush.
When he finished, he stood.
Pain followed—but it was pain he could endure.
As he stepped outside, sunlight touched his skin for the first time since his rebirth. The village was small, poor, and worn down by years of hardship. Wooden huts leaned at awkward angles. People moved with tired expressions, carrying tools, hauling supplies, preparing for another day of survival.
No one looked at him twice.
To them, he was still the same useless boy.
Lin Chen did not mind.
He picked up a small bundle of firewood, hands trembling slightly under the weight. Each step strained his legs. Sweat formed on his brow within moments.
But he did not stop.
Climbing is not leaping, he reminded himself. It is placing one foot higher than before.
As he worked, he felt it again.
That faint pressure.
Not above him this time—but around him, like a silent witness.
The world did not interfere.
It did not assist.
It simply… allowed him to continue.
That was enough.
Far beyond the village, beyond the mountains, beyond the so-called heavens worshipped by mortals, something vast recorded a small, almost laughable change.
> Status update:
Existence stability: marginally improved.
No thunder fell.
No fate was altered.
No destiny was announced.
A weak boy carried firewood under the sun.
And in a world with no peak, that unnoticed moment became the first step of an endless ascent.
---
End of Chapter 1