The rain over the Han Estate didn't fall; it judged. Cold, needle-like droplets pelted the back of Han Feng's neck as he lugged a heavy crate of waste-paper toward the Deep Archive. At eighteen, while his peers were condensing their first drops of Liquid Qi, Han Feng was a glorified janitor for the family that shared his name but none of his blood's pride.
"Move it, 'Broken Vessel'!" a voice sneered.
A foot caught Han Feng's ankle. He tumbled, the crate shattering. Yellowed parchments scattered into the mud, soaking up the filth. Standing over him was Han Jun, a junior disciple whose talent was mediocre, but whose cruelty was top-tier.
"Look at you," Han Jun laughed, grinding his boot into Han Feng's hand. "Born with Clogged Meridians. You're a leak in the clan's resources. If it weren't for the Patriarch's pity, you'd be begging in the streets."
Han Feng didn't look up. He didn't roar. He didn't cry. He simply stared at the mud, his eyes like cold embers. He had learned long ago: In this world, if you don't have strength, your anger is just a joke to your enemies.
"Pick them up. Every single one," Han Jun ordered, spitting on the ground before strolling away toward the warm, Qi-rich training halls.
Han Feng waited until the footsteps faded. He gathered the ruined scrolls, his fingers numb. As he reached for a scrap near the foundation of the Deep Archive's forbidden wing, his hand caught on a jagged piece of rusted iron.
A sharp slice opened his palm.
"Tch." He wiped his hand on his tunic, but a drop of dark, crimson blood fell. It didn't hit the mud. It landed squarely on a protruding corner of a black, leather-bound scroll wedged deep within the stone foundation—a scroll that looked less like paper and more like dried, ancient skin.
[DRIP.]
The moment the blood touched the surface, the air grew unnaturally still. The sound of the rain vanished.
The black scroll didn't just absorb the blood; it inhaled it. The leather rippled, unfolding itself like a living creature. A low, vibrating hum resonated in Han Feng's bones, and suddenly, his vision was flooded with obsidian light.
A voice, ancient and echoing as if from the bottom of a dry well, vibrated inside his skull:
"Ten billion years of Kalpas... the Cycle of the Great Way is broken. A host has been found. Initializing the Chaos Record."
Pain—searing, white-hot agony—erupted in Han Feng's chest. His Clogged Meridians, which doctors had called "dead stone," were being forcibly hollowed out. It felt as if a molten river was being poured into his veins.
He tried to scream, but no sound came out. Inside his mind's eye, a massive, golden screen began to unfurl, listing stats and concepts that shouldn't exist in the Mortal Realm.
[The Chaos Record]
* Host: Han Feng
* Physique: Mortal Trash (Evolution in progress...)
* Cultivation: None (Foundation Establishment Stage 0)
* Current Status: Rewriting Primeval DNA.
* Active Ability: Perfect Insight (Passive) –
All techniques viewed will be mastered to the 'Grandmaster' level instantly.
"What... is this?" Han Feng gasped, collapsing against the stone wall.
His skin began to secrete a foul-smelling, black sludge—the impurities of eighteen years being purged in seconds. The heavy, sluggish feeling in his limbs vanished, replaced by a terrifying, raw power.
He looked at his hand. The cut was gone. Not even a scar remained.
He looked at the discarded scrap of a "Basic Fist Technique" scroll Han Jun had kicked into the mud. Before, it was just ink on paper.
Now, as his eyes grazed the text, he saw phantoms of a golden figure executing the move. He saw the flaws, the wasted energy, the hidden potential.
[Ding! Basic Fist Technique analyzed. Correcting errors... Upgrading to: Heaven-Shattering Collapsing Fist.]
Han Feng stood up. He was still in the rain,
still a "servant" in the eyes of the world. but as he gripped his fist, the air around his knuckles cracked like a whip.
"Ten thousand chapters," he whispered to the dark sky, his eyes glowing with a faint, chaotic purple hue. "I have time. I have the Record. Let's see who calls me 'Broken' when I pull the stars from the sky."
In the distance, the bells of the Han Clan rang, signaling the start of the Annual Tournament.
Han Feng began to walk. Not toward the servant's quarters, but toward the arena.
The long road to the Nine Heavens had just begun.