Maple Forest Valley sat tucked away in Changhe County of the Yue Kingdom like a pearl hidden in the mortal dust. Though small in scale, it served as a nexus where the worlds of the mundane and the mystic collided. It was a place where immortals and mortals coexisted, though never as equals.
The mortals here lived like insects beneath the feet of giants. A single misstep or an accidental offense against a Cultivator could result in consequences too terrible to imagine. In the best case, one might suffer a crippling beating; in the worst, they would be reduced to nothing more than a scorched outline on the ground. Vigilance was not just a habit here; it was the only survival strategy.
Yet, despite the terror, mortals flocked to the valley like moths to a flame. The Cultivators required servants to handle the trivialities of clothing, food, housing, and transport. In exchange, the mortals received enough scraps to survive. It was a symbiotic relationship, parasitic and desperate, that had defined Maple Forest Valley for centuries.
For the hopeless, this place was a paradise of gambling. They believed that hard work might earn them the grace of an immortal, perhaps even a Longevity Pill to extend their meager lifespans. For the truly fortunate who possessed a Spiritual Root, there was the faint, intoxicating hope of obtaining an Immortal Method and ascending to the heavens themselves.
Such opportunities were rare, yet every few years, a legend was born.
In a shadowed corner of this bustling market, a figure dressed in bizarre, tight-fitting clothes huddled behind a stack of crates, peering out at the world through a splintered gap.
This was Alex. Hours ago, he had been an ordinary university graduate in the modern world, a corporate drone who had spent three years fetching coffee and enduring unpaid overtime. But fate had a twisted sense of humor. He had closed his eyes in his cramped apartment and opened them here, transmigrated into a time and space that defied logic.
At first, panic had threatened to consume him, but Alex was a reader of novels. He quickly forced himself to accept the absurdity of his situation. This was ancient times! A smile had crept onto his face as he imagined the possibilities. He could invent soap, glass, or gunpowder. He would be a tycoon, surrounded by wealth and beauties, living the life of a king that his previous existence had denied him.
That fantasy lasted exactly until he looked up.
When he saw men standing on swords, trailing light as they cut through the clouds, the smile froze on his face. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Where was this? How were they flying?
A sharp pain suddenly spiked in his head, followed by a rush of foreign syllables that somehow made sense. The language of this world assimilated into his mind, likely a residual gift from the body he now inhabited or a side effect of the crossing.
He realized with dawning horror that this wasn't a historical dynasty ripe for industrial revolution. This was a world of Cultivation.
He shrank back into the shadows, his earlier arrogance vanishing instantly. He felt like a rabbit dropped into a den of wolves. He knew nothing of the rules here, and in a world where people could fly, ignorance was a death sentence.
His caution proved to be his salvation.
"Where did this filth come from? You dare block This Great One's path? Die!"
The roar came from the street. A hulking man carrying a massive broadsword on his back stood over a trembling figure. The man looked ferocious, his face twisted in a scowl. Without hesitation, he lifted a heavy boot and swept it forward.
The impact was sickening. A child, dressed in rags and clearly scavenging for scraps, was launched into the air like a broken kite. The boy flew nearly fifty feet, trailing a spray of blood before crashing into the dirt.
Alex stifled a gasp, his hand covering his mouth. The child was pale as paper, his chest barely moving. He was dying.
But the brute was not satisfied. He snorted, raising a hand. Sparks danced at his fingertips, coalescing into a roaring ball of fire. With a casual flick of his wrist, he cast the Fireball Technique.
The flames engulfed the small, broken body instantly. There was a high-pitched, miserable wail that lasted only a few seconds before the fire consumed the oxygen in the boy's lungs. Within moments, the wailing stopped. When the flames died down, there was no body left to bury. There was only a pile of grey ash drifting in the wind.
The surrounding mortals scattered like frightened rats, clearing a wide circle around the murderer. Their eyes held terror, but no surprise.
The other Cultivators nearby didn't even flinch. They watched the incineration of a human child with the same indifference one might show to stepping on an ant. Not a single person spoke up. Not a single sword was drawn in defense.
Life here was cheaper than grass.
The large man stepped directly onto the pile of fresh ashes, grinding them into the mud, and laughed loudly.
"Brother Zheng's Fireball Technique has become much more proficient! I am truly impressed," a nearby cultivator said, bowing slightly with a sycophantic smile.
The cruel man was Zheng Zhu of the Zheng Family, one of the three ruling clans of the valley. His arrogance was backed by blood and iron.
Even the patrolling guards turned their heads, pretending to inspect a nearby stall.
Alex trembled violently in his hiding spot. Cold sweat soaked his strange clothes.
What kind of hell is this? he screamed internally. How did I end up in a slaughterhouse like this?
The dream of becoming a wealthy gentleman shattered completely. Wealth? Soap? Harem? Those were jokes. In a world where a child could be burned to ash for blocking a path, survival was the only luxury.
Alex looked at the spot where the boy had died. He didn't want to cultivate for immortality anymore. He didn't want power. He just wanted to go home. He wanted his cramped apartment, his demanding boss, and his safe, boring life.
But as he looked at the cold, predatory eyes of the flying swordsmen above, he knew there was no going back.