The world came into focus through a haze of pain and disorientation. Lin Xuan's eyelids fluttered open, revealing a ceiling of cracked mud and thatch, dimly lit by the faint glow of dawn seeping through gaps in the walls. His body felt wrong—frail, undersized, aching in ways that spoke of malnutrition and neglect. He lay on a thin mat of straw, the air thick with the scent of earth and unwashed cloth.
*Where am I?* The thought cut through the fog in his mind like a sharpened blade. He didn't panic; panic was for the unprepared. Instead, he cataloged his sensations methodically. Heartbeat: elevated but steady. Breathing: shallow, lungs protesting each inhale. Limbs: weak, unresponsive at first, but responding to mental commands with sluggish delay. No immediate threats—no sounds of pursuit, no weapons in sight.
Memories flooded in then, unbidden and overwhelming. Not the hazy recollections of a child, but the sharp, vivid life of a man from another world. He had been Lin Xuan, a corporate strategist in the cutthroat world of global finance and espionage. His last moments: a betrayal in a high-rise boardroom, a poisoned glass of scotch, the cold realization that his meticulously laid plans had been outmaneuvered by a hidden rival. Death had come swiftly, a void swallowing him whole.
And now... this. Reincarnation? Transmigration? The concepts were absurd, pulled from the novels he'd skimmed during rare downtime. Yet here he was, in a body that wasn't his own. He probed deeper into the new memories overlaying his own. This vessel belonged to a boy of the same name, an orphan in a forgotten village called Stonebrook Hollow, on the fringes of the Azure Dragon Continent. The original Lin Xuan had been beaten by village thugs for scavenging food, collapsing in this hovel to die alone at the tender age of twelve.
*Convenient,* Lin Xuan thought, a wry calculation forming. No family ties to complicate matters. No obligations beyond survival. But the body was a liability—emaciated, with meridians clogged and untapped, whatever that meant in this world. The boy's fragmented memories whispered of "cultivation," a path to power through absorbing ambient energy called Qi. Strong cultivators could shatter mountains, defy age, command sects and empires. The weak? They were fodder, trampled underfoot.
He sat up slowly, ignoring the protests of his muscles. The room was sparse: a wooden bowl crusted with dried gruel, a tattered blanket, and a small window overlooking a muddy path lined with similar huts. Beyond, misty hills rolled into the distance, dotted with sparse farms and the occasional plume of smoke from a forge. Stonebrook Hollow was a backwater, home to a few hundred souls scratching out a living from the earth. Bandits raided sporadically, spirit beasts prowled the forests, and the nearest sect—the Crimson Flame Sect—demanded tribute in exchange for "protection."
Lin Xuan's mind raced, piecing together a strategy. Step one: assess resources. He had nothing—no weapons, no money, only the rags on his back. But he had knowledge. His old life's expertise in manipulation, forecasting, and exploitation. In this world, power seemed hierarchical, gated by talent and opportunity. He would climb it, rung by rung, using wits where brute force failed.
A growl from his stomach interrupted his thoughts. Hunger was a immediate threat. He needed sustenance to stabilize this body. Standing on wobbly legs, he shuffled to the door and peered out. The village stirred with early risers: farmers heading to fields, a woman drawing water from a well, children chasing chickens. No one paid him mind; the orphan was invisible, a ghost in their midst.
*Good. Invisibility is an asset.* He slipped out, moving with purposeful stealth toward the village outskirts. The boy's memories guided him to a stream where wild berries grew. Along the way, he noted details: the headman's house, larger and guarded; the communal granary, locked but poorly so; tracks in the mud suggesting recent beast activity.
At the stream, he foraged cautiously, plucking red berries that the memories deemed safe. As he ate, a faint warmth spread through him—not just from the food, but something deeper. Qi? The air hummed with it, invisible threads of energy brushing his skin. He focused, drawing it in instinctively, and felt a trickle enter his meridians. It was minuscule, like sipping from a vast ocean through a straw, but it eased the ache in his bones.
*This is the foundation,* he realized. Cultivation started here, with gathering Qi to temper the body. But efficiency mattered. The boy had no techniques, no manuals. He'd need to acquire them—through theft, trade, or deception.
As the sun climbed higher, voices echoed from the village square. Lin Xuan crept closer, hiding behind a thicket. A group of burly men, led by a scarred brute named Wang Er, were harassing a farmer. "Your tribute's short again, old man! The sect demands more spirit stones this month."
The farmer bowed low, trembling. "Please, we've had poor harvests. The beasts—"
A slap silenced him. "Excuses! Pay up or we'll burn your fields."
Lin Xuan observed coldly. Wang Er was the village enforcer, a low-level cultivator at the first stage of Qi Gathering. His aura flickered faintly, a sign of rudimentary power. The sect's influence loomed large; they controlled the region, recruiting talents and extracting resources.
*Opportunity.* If he could undermine Wang Er, gain leverage... but not yet. He was too weak. Premature action led to downfall.
Retreating to his hut, Lin Xuan sat cross-legged, experimenting with Qi absorption. Hours passed in focused meditation, the trickle growing slightly stronger. By evening, exhaustion claimed him, but his mind buzzed with plans. Tomorrow, he'd scout the village properly, identify weaknesses, perhaps pilfer a basic manual from the headman's library.
As sleep tugged at him, a distant roar echoed from the hills—a spirit beast, perhaps. The villagers would cower, but Lin Xuan saw potential. Chaos bred openings.
In the darkness, his lips curved into a faint, calculating smile. This world was a chessboard, vast and unforgiving. He would master it, one move at a time.
But unknown to him, in the shadows of the hut, a faint wisp of darkness stirred—unseen, ancient, watching.