Winds raged across the shattered plain, howling like the screams of the dying. Mountains stood unmoved, ancient sentinels carved from the bones of the world. Clouds drifted lazily above, white wisps against an indifferent sky—as the shouting of chaos continued below.
Heaven watched the spectacle with cold amusement: ants warring against an owl. To the divine eyes above, it was mere entertainment, no matter how small the combatants, no matter how desperately they bled.
But to the ants, it was apocalypse.
One owl against an entire army. The confrontation had begun as a skirmish; now it was a bloodbath.
The owl stood unscathed atop a mound of broken bodies, its feathers gleaming like polished obsidian under the storm-lit sky. Its beauty shook even the gods. Its presence was a pressure that bent the air, made the earth tremble, and forced heaven itself to lean closer—captivated.
The owl was a man.
Elegant. Untouchable. Eyes of deep crimson, burning with the fire of a thousand dying suns. Long white hair swayed in the wind like silk banners of war. His robes—once pristine white—were now stained with the blood of a thousand cuts, yet he wore them like a king.
The massacre grew more brutal with every heartbeat.
One cultivator-ant charged, sword raised high. The white-haired man didn't even look. A flick of his wrist. The blade shattered. The man's head rolled, severed clean, blood gushing in a crimson arc that painted the ground.
Another leapt from the side, spiritual energy coalescing into a spear of light. The white-haired man sighed. A spiritual palm materialized above—massive, demonic, wreathed in black flames. It descended. The cultivator didn't even scream. Just *crunch*. Reduced to pulp. A red smear on cracked stone.
An entire flank of the army—hundreds strong—rushed in formation, banners high, war cries shaking the valley. The white-haired man raised one hand. A single sweep.
They were gone.
Not dead. *Erased.* As if they had never existed. Only dust and silence remained where they had stood.
He frowned.
The ants trembled.
Heaven watched.
His eyes—bold, detached, ancient—lifted to the sky. Then he pointed upward, finger steady as a spear.
"You pathetic fucks from above—come at me!"
His voice boomed like thunder, cracking the clouds.
"Don't just watch, you cowardly bastards! Send your best, or admit you're nothing!"
A ripple passed through the heavens. Laughter—divine, mocking, delighted.
The clouds darkened. Swirled. Parted.
A radiant rift tore open in the sky, golden light spilling through like liquid dawn.
Then—he descended.
Long red hair flowing like rivers of blood. Face calm, but eyes wild like a beast unchained. His robes were crimson and gold, embroidered with symbols that hurt to perceive. Killing intent rolled off him in waves, thick enough to choke the air.
The white-haired man smirked.
The red-haired immortal said nothing. Only studied. Analyzed. Every breath, every twitch, every flicker of will.
The ants cowered. The earth itself seemed to shrink.
Two apex predators. An owl and a hawk. Their auras collided—*CRACK*—and the sky split with lightning that wasn't lightning.
The owl struck first.
He moved like a phantom, crimson eyes blazing with murderous intent. A claw of pure will slashed downward, tearing reality itself.
The hawk raised its wings—massive, feathered in divine light—and blocked. The impact shook the mountains. Stone cracked. Rivers reversed.
The white-haired man laughed—a sound like breaking glass and funeral bells—and *leaped*. Higher than the clouds. Higher than the storm.
Behind him, a colossal demonic spiritual palm formed—hundreds of meters wide, fingers like black iron pillars, veins pulsing with corrupted will. It descended with the weight of a dying star.
The red-haired immortal smirked.
He raised his own palm.
The earth *shattered*.
A roar split the heavens. From the cracked ground erupted a divine spiritual beast—massive, serpentine, scales of molten gold and eyes like twin suns. It coiled upward, matching the demonic palm in size, in power, in *hate*.
They collided.
*BOOM.*
Heaven and earth quaked. The ants were obliterated in the crossfire—vaporized, crushed, torn apart by shockwaves that flattened forests for miles.
The battle lasted two days.
Two days of fire and blood and thunder. Of mountains crumbling. Of rivers boiling. Of the sky bleeding light.
When the dust finally settled…
The white-haired man stood.
At his feet lay the red-haired immortal—body broken, robes in tatters, eyes staring blankly at the sky.
The victor threw his head back and laughed—a mad, triumphant howl that shook the ruins.
Then he glared at the heavens, crimson eyes mocking, voice raw from battle.
"Even the 'immortals' above… are not truly immortal."
His laughter faded.
The crimson in his eyes dulled.
He swayed.
Collapsed.
*Thud.*
Body still. Gaze gradually emptying of life.
Silence fell over the broken battlefield. Everything was lifeless. The wind carried only the scent of blood and ash.
Heaven grew quiet.
A gentle wind stirred. Rain began to fall—soft, warm, washing the blood into the earth, as if the world itself wept.
"Old Lu! Old Lu, come back here this instant!"
An old woman's sharp voice cut through the twilight like a blade.
The elderly storyteller—face weathered like old leather, eyes twinkling with mischief—closed his worn, leather-bound book with a soft *thump*. He smiled at the ring of children gathered around him on the village green.
"Storytime's over, little ones,"
He said, voice warm but firm.
"If I keep going, my wife will have my hide—and trust me, she's meaner than any owl or hawk."
The children groaned in unison.
"Old man, what a bummer!"
One boy whined, kicking at the dirt.
"Yeah, please continue!"
A girl begged, eyes shining with tears.
"What happened after the battle? Did the rain bring them back? Did heaven cry?"
The old man chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Some stories end in silence, child. That's the point."
But one child stood apart from the crowd.
He didn't groan. Didn't beg. Didn't cry.
His gaze was cold—yet not quite. His presence was faint, like a shadow at noon. No one truly noticed him.
He was quiet.
He was observant.
He was calm.
He said nothing as the others filed out, chattering and laughing, the sun dipping behind the green mountains in a blaze of orange and gold. The moon rose, pale and watchful. Night fell like autumn leaves—soft, inevitable.
A small hut glowed warmly by the river, smoke curling from the chimney like a dragon's breath.
"Zhung! Go fetch water from the river!"
A woman's voice called from within.
"We're making pork stew—your favorite!"
The boy's eyes lit up. A radiant, childlike smile broke across his face—pure, unguarded joy.
"Coming, Mom! Be right back!"
He grabbed the wooden bucket and dashed outside, bare feet slapping against the cool earth.
But the moment he stepped into the cool night air—beyond the glow of the hut, beyond his mother's sight—the smile vanished.
His expression turned cold. Empty. Ancient.
*Eight years of peace,*
he thought, walking toward the river.
*This body is eight years old… but my mind… three hundred years as a grandmaster. Twenty-five more as a security guard in a world of steel and gunfire. And before that… a dream. Or was it?*
He reached the riverbank. The water was crystal clear under the moonlight, reflecting the stars like scattered diamonds. He knelt, filled the bucket—and couldn't suppress a low, bitter laugh.
*The sun is life. The moon is the grave of night. And I… I am the shadow in between.*
He stood, water sloshing gently in the bucket, and stared at his reflection.
A child's face. Round cheeks. Big eyes. Innocent.
But the eyes that stared back were not.
Back home, the hut was warm and fragrant—pork sizzling in the pot, herbs dancing in the steam. His mother hummed an old lullaby as she stirred, her back to him.
Zhung slipped into her room—they shared a bed, as poor families often did—and knelt by the corner. Beneath a loose floorboard lay his secret.
He pried it up with careful fingers.
Inside: a book. Stolen. From the town library, three weeks ago, when his mother had sent him to buy salt and ginger.
**Guide to Cultivation**
*By Bu Yue Jin*
The cover was worn, the pages yellowed. But the words within burned like fire in his mind.
He flipped past the early chapters—endless tips, warnings, moralizing fluff—and went straight to the core.
**Chapter 1–4: The Laws of This World**
- **The Conflict**
Beasts roam and cultivate. Humans do the same. Empires war with sects, fearing their growing power. A decree was issued: exterminate all sects. Countless civilians perish in the crossfire. The cycle never ends. There is no peace. Only pauses between massacres.
- **The Three Realms**
- **Nascent World**: A realm of monsters and madness. Only the strongest beasts survive. Death is the only certainty. Even immortals fear to tread there.
- **Mortal World**: Where Zhung now resides. A land of scattered treasures—some trash, some divine—buried in ruins, guarded by death. Empires rise. Sects fall. Children die.
- **Heavenly World**: Home of immortals. They sit on thrones of cloud and light, viewing the Mortal World as a playground of insects. They send "champions" to crush defiance. They do not touch the Nascent World—there, even they would die.
**Chapter 42: The Cultivation of Mortals**
> *"To cultivate, a mortal must drink divine or demonic blood. The body endures catastrophic reconstruction to form an **Aperture**—a gateway for **Will**, the energy of this world. The Aperture may form anywhere: head, arm, heart, even the eye.
> Fail, and you become a hollow shell—brain-dead, skin agonizing to touch. Your screams will echo for days before death claims you.
> Divine and demonic blood comes from powerful mythical beasts. Most mortals who hunt them die. Horribly.
> It is not advised for mortals to cultivate. Only death awaits."*
Zhung's fingers tightened on the page.
*Death awaits,* he thought. *But so does power.*
He skipped to **Chapter 51: The Cultivation of Will**.
> *"Will is not qi. It is not mana. It is not spirit.
> It is **intention made manifest**.
> To gather Will, one must first survive the blood. Then, one must **want**.
> Want with every fiber of your soul. Want until the world bends. Want until the heavens flinch.
> The Aperture is the door. Will is the key.
> But the key is forged in pain."*
Before he could read further—
"Zhung! Dinner's ready!"
He hid the book, slid the floorboard back, and hurried out.
Their small hut glowed with love. Mother and son ate in peaceful silence—pork stew thick with carrots and herbs, steam rising between them like incense. The night was gentle outside. Crickets sang. The river murmured.
For now, the world was kind.
But kindness is a lie the world tells children.
**Meanwhile, in a neighboring village…**
Night had fallen heavy and starless.
A night guard wandered into the forest to relieve himself, humming an old drinking song under his breath.
*Slash.*
No sound. No warning.
Blood sprayed across the trees in a silent arc. His upper body fell, cleanly severed at the waist. His legs stood for a moment—then toppled.
Beasts descended.
Red eyes in the dark. Fangs. Claws. Hunger.
The village bell clanged in panic—*CLANG CLANG CLANG*—a desperate cry into the void.
Guards scrambled to bar the wooden gates. Torches flickered. Swords were drawn.
Too late.
The gates *shattered* inward with a sound like breaking bones. Beasts poured through—wolves the size of horses, serpents with human faces, shadows with too many teeth.
Screams filled the night.
Not even children were spared.
Two boys ran for their lives through the burning streets.
One slipped on blood-slick cobblestones, tumbling into a drainage ditch.
"Help!"
he cried, voice cracking.
"Please—don't leave me!"
His friend skidded to a halt. Reached down. Grabbed his hand—
A massive wolf bounded from the smoke, eyes glowing with bloodlust. Foam dripped from its jaws.
The fallen boy's eyes widened in terror.
Then—*shove*.
He pushed his friend forward—straight into the wolf's jaws.
Time slowed.
Their eyes met.
The betrayed boy's scream was cut short—*CRUNCH*.
The survivor ran. Tears streaming. Guilt already buried beneath raw, animal instinct.
*Even if you were my friend… I won't trade my life for yours.*
He dove into a wooden hut, barricaded the door with a table, and curled into the corner, hands over his ears as the screams rose—then fell into silence.
Dawn broke pale and cold.
The survivor emerged from the hut, hands raised in trembling triumph.
"I'm alive,"
he whispered.
"I survived…"
A shadow fell over him.
A figure approached through the smoke and ruin. Long violet hair. A face twisted with malice—skin sallow, eyes sunken, lips peeled back in a rictus grin.
The boy cried out as an invisible force yanked him forward. His feet left the ground. His mouth was forced open—wider, wider—until his jaw cracked.
Blood erupted from his throat in a torrent—thick, dark, endless.
His eyes went dull.
The blood hovered in the air, a crimson orb, pulsing like a heart.
Then it rained down onto the violet-haired man.
He closed his eyes. Inhaled.
The blood soaked into his skin, vanishing like water into parched earth. His pallor flushed. His grin widened.
He turned and walked away, leaving the ruined village behind—bodies twisted, homes smoldering, the air thick with the stench of death.
This world was harsh.
Cruel.
Unforgiving.
**Back at the river, the next morning…**
Zhung sat on a flat stone, fishing pole in hand, line bobbing gently in the current.
The sun climbed slowly, painting the mountains gold.
He stared into the water, thoughts drifting like the river itself.
*River flows gently, like time itself.
This world is strange.
I, Zhung Hang, lived in two worlds—one a dream, one reality.
But this world…*
He watched a leaf float past, caught in the current.
*My name was Zhung Hang in both past lives. Here, I am Zhung.
So which world is real? Which is the dream?*
A fish bit. He reeled it in slowly—a fat silver carp, scales flashing in the light.
He held it up, staring into its blank, dying eye.
*If this world is heaven's illusion…*
He smiled—slow, sharp, dangerous.
*…then I will ascend. And I will rewrite heaven's rules with my own.*
He laughed then—loud, defiant, echoing across the water and into the mountains.
A laugh that belonged to no child.
**End of Chapter 4**