Moonlight filtered weakly through the interlocking branches of the Darkroot Forest, its pale glow barely piercing the oppressive shadows that clung to every tree trunk and twisted vine, as if the forest itself wished to swallow all light that dared enter its domain.
Nova staggered forward, his boots sinking into damp soil soaked with blood—his blood.
His breathing was ragged, each inhale scraping painfully against his lungs, while the metallic taste of iron coated his tongue so thickly that swallowing became impossible. One of his arms hung uselessly at his side, flesh torn open, bone faintly visible beneath shredded muscle, while deep claw marks raked across his back, each step sending fresh waves of agony through his body.
Behind him, something moved.
A low, guttural growl echoed between the trees, wet and hungry, accompanied by the heavy crunch of bones being crushed beneath massive paws. The sound alone was enough to freeze the hearts of even seasoned cultivators, yet Nova forced himself to keep moving, driven not by hope of survival—but by instinct refusing to surrender.
"Again… A… Tier Three… fox-beast…"
His voice emerged hoarse and broken, barely more than a whisper swallowed by the forest. He had underestimated it—no, he had been arrogant. At Level 30, with an Intermediate Mortal Cultivation, he had believed himself capable of handling a beast of such rank alone, especially with his fire affinity and the ring technique that had carried him through countless battles.
That arrogance was now gnawing at him more viciously than the beast itself.
Golden light flickered weakly around his hands as five radiant rings slowly manifested around each wrist, hovering in a precise formation, their once-brilliant glow now dull and unstable, as cracks spiderwebbed across their surfaces. These rings were not artifacts but a manifestation of his cultivation path—his pride, his identity, his weapon.
Fire gathered between his palms, sputtering rather than roaring, forming unstable embers that dissipated as quickly as they appeared.
"Damn it…"
He stumbled, falling to one knee as the earth rushed up to meet him, mud splashing against his clothes while pain exploded through his chest. His vision blurred, the world tilting unnaturally as stars danced at the edge of his sight, mixing with the moonlight filtering down in fragmented shards.
Thirty-seven years. That was how long he had lived.
Thirty-seven years of cultivation, struggle, betrayal, bloodshed, and endless battles for scraps of power in a world that devoured the weak without mercy. He had climbed from nothing, clawing his way upward with scorched hands and burned meridians, yet in the end. His life was being reduced to nothing more than prey beneath a cold moon.
The fox-beast burst from the shadows.
It was enormous—far larger than any natural creature—its body covered in coarse, dark crimson fur that shimmered faintly under moonlight, its elongated snout dripping with saliva mixed with blood. Three massive tails lashed behind it, cracking the air like whips, while its eyes glowed with feral intelligence and cruel delight.
Nova barely had time to turn. The beast lunged toward him.
Flames erupted instinctively from his body as he forced every remaining drop of mana into his rings, golden fire exploding outward in a violent surge that illuminated the forest in blinding brilliance. The heat was immense, trees blackening instantly, leaves turning to ash midair as a wall of fire slammed into the beast's chest.
The fox-beast screeched, its roar shaking the forest, but it did not fall. Instead, it pushed forward. The impact shattered Nova's rings.
Golden fragments scattered like dying stars, dissolving into nothingness as the backlash ripped through his meridians, turning pain into something far worse—something absolute. He screamed as blood poured from his mouth, his vision collapsing inward as the world narrowed into darkness.
The beast was upon him. Jaws closed around his torso, teeth piercing flesh, crushing ribs, tearing organs apart with horrifying ease. Nova felt himself lifted from the ground, felt his body being shaken violently as bones snapped one after another, felt himself being torn in half as consciousness began to slip away.
Strangely, there was no fear. Only bitterness.
"So… this is it…"
His thoughts faded as the moonlight dimmed, the forest dissolving into shadows, and his existence was swallowed whole by darkness.
…..
He expected nothing, no afterlife or any judgment. Or not even rebirth. Yet warmth greeted him.
A dull, unfamiliar warmth pressed against his skin, accompanied by the faint creaking of old wood and the distant sound of wind whistling through gaps in stone and broken boards. His body felt heavy, unresponsive, yet intact—no pain, no shattered bones, no burning meridians.
Nova's consciousness drifted, confused, sluggish, as if submerged underwater. "…Alive?"
The word formed in his mind before he could stop it. Slowly, painfully, his eyelids fluttered open.
The first thing he saw was darkness—then light leaking through a torn roof, moonlight spilling down through jagged wooden beams and fractured tiles, illuminating drifting dust particles that danced lazily in the air. The ceiling was uneven, partially collapsed, exposing the night sky beyond, where clouds moved silently across a silver moon. This was not the Darkroot Forest.
His breath hitched as sensation returned to his body, one piece at a time. He felt the rough surface beneath him—an old, creaking bed with a thin, worn mattress. He felt fabric against his skin, coarse and unfamiliar, yet clean enough to not immediately disgust him.
He tried to move. His fingers twitched. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hands before his face. They were uninjured. Not just uninjured—but also felt different.
Longer fingers, smoother skin, veins less pronounced, yet strong, defined, built with balanced muscle rather than the hardened scars of a veteran cultivator. He flexed them experimentally, watching as they responded with ease, without pain or resistance.
His heart began to pound. "No… this isn't…"
He sat up abruptly, the motion smooth, effortless, far too effortless for a man who had just been torn apart moments ago. His gaze dropped to his body, eyes widening as realization struck him with the force of a thunderbolt. This body was young, about 20 years old.
Not weak—but youthful, refined, sculpted as if designed rather than trained. Lean muscle stretched beneath his clothes, powerful yet elegant, with none of the accumulated damage his previous body had borne. Even his breathing felt different—deeper, fuller, as if this body had never known exhaustion.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The room was small, cramped, and clearly abandoned or long neglected. Cracks ran along the stone walls, some wide enough for moonlight to slip through, while broken furniture lay scattered across the floor. A single table leaned precariously near the corner, one leg shorter than the others, while fragments of roof tiles littered the ground beneath the gaping hole above.
"This place…" His voice sounded different too—lower, smoother, carrying a strange resonance that sent a shiver through him.
He stumbled toward a cracked mirror leaning against the wall, its surface dusty but intact enough to reflect his face. When he wiped it clean with trembling fingers and looked up—
Nova froze. The man staring back at him was impossibly handsome.
Sharp yet refined features, a perfectly structured jawline, straight nose, and lips that looked sculpted rather than born. His skin was clear, unblemished, his expression confused yet striking, while black hair fell messily around his face, framing eyes that glowed faintly bright gold, shimmering like molten metal under moonlight.
It was a face that felt unreal. "…Is this really me?" His reflection offered no answer.
He touched his face, tracing unfamiliar contours, disbelief swirling violently within his chest. This body was not merely attractive—it was the kind of appearance that drew attention effortlessly, the kind that commanded gazes without effort, without cultivation or power backing it.
A foreign body and yet undeniably his. Before he could process further, a sudden crash shattered the silence.
The door to the room burst inward violently, wood splintering as it slammed against the wall, sending shards flying across the floor. Nova spun around instinctively.
A broad-shouldered man stepped inside first, tall and powerfully built, his presence filling the broken room instantly. His physique was solid and imposing, muscles packed densely beneath his clothes, yet his movements were sharp and disciplined rather than sluggish. His gaze was stern, calculating, scanning the room with the eyes of someone accustomed to danger.
Behind him stepped a woman. Her presence alone seemed to change the air.
She had long red hair, vivid and flowing like living flames, cascading down her back and shoulders in wild, untamed waves. Her body was undeniably curvaceous, every movement accentuating a figure that was both powerful and alluring, balanced perfectly between strength and femininity. She did not hide her form, nor did she exaggerate it—she simply existed, unapologetically.
Her eyes were a deep amber-gold, warm yet sharp, glowing faintly as if reflecting an inner fire that mirrored her hair.
They both stopped when they saw him standing there and Silence fell between them for a moment.
Nova met their gazes, his mind racing, instincts screaming, cultivation habits stirring reflexively—even though he could feel no familiar fire mana responding within him.
'Who… am I now? And what kind of life have I just been reborn into?'
The question lingered heavily in the broken room as the moonlight watched silently from above.