Pain arrived before consciousness did.
It seeped in slowly, like cold water filling a sealed space, pressing in from every direction. There was no sharp edge to it—no single point he could focus on. Instead, it was everywhere, heavy and suffocating, wrapping itself around his thoughts and dragging them down.
Lin Xuan tried to breathe.
The attempt failed.
Air entered his lungs in a shallow, burning gasp, as if his chest refused to expand any further. His throat felt dry, raw, carrying a lingering bitterness that made his stomach churn. The taste clung stubbornly, coating his tongue, making even the act of swallowing uncomfortable.
…Alive?
The thought surfaced weakly, without certainty.
His mind felt fractured, as though someone had taken his awareness apart and stitched it back together improperly. Each attempt to think came with resistance, like forcing open rusted hinges. He could sense his body, but it felt distant, unresponsive, obeying him only reluctantly.
There was weight beneath him—soft, uneven, yielding slightly when he shifted his focus toward it. Fabric. Cushioned. Not concrete. Not the cold floor he remembered collapsing onto.
He tried to move his fingers.
Nothing happened.
Not numbness—something worse. A delayed response. As if the connection between intent and action had been weakened, stretched thin to the point of failure.
A flicker of alarm rose instinctively.
But it didn't bloom.
Not because the situation wasn't dire, but because panic had never helped him survive before.
In his previous life, panic had been a death sentence.
Images surfaced unbidden.
A dimly lit room.Muted voices layered with false casualness.The faint scent of metal, oil, and stale smoke.A familiar presence standing just behind him—too close.
Trust.
Then—
Cold.
A sudden, burning sensation piercing through his back. Not fast. Not clean. Deliberate.
There had been a moment—brief, fleeting—where he had considered turning, reacting, doing something. But his body hadn't moved in time.
So that's how it ends, he had thought distantly, as strength bled out of him along with warmth.
No dramatics. No final words.
Just betrayal.
Then darkness.
That memory alone was enough to convince him of one thing.
He had died.
Lin Xuan had been a hitman—someone who lived in the margins, whose existence depended on caution and efficiency. He had accepted long ago that death would eventually come for him. What he hadn't expected was for it to come from the hand that paid him.
And yet…
Here he was.
Painfully, unmistakably conscious.
His eyelids fluttered.
Light filtered through, dull and unfocused, forcing him to squint. Shapes slowly took form—blurred outlines that gradually sharpened as his vision adjusted. The light was soft, diffused, not harsh or clinical.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar.
Wooden. Intricately carved. Patterns spiraled across its surface, subtle yet deliberate, the kind of craftsmanship that took time and money. Too refined. Too… old-fashioned.
This wasn't any hospital he recognized.
His breathing steadied slightly as he forced himself to remain calm. He listened.
No alarms.No machines.No distant beeping or muffled voices through thin walls.
Only silence.
A deep, enveloping quiet, broken occasionally by the faint rustle of fabric somewhere nearby and the barely perceptible sound of air moving through the room. Not forced ventilation—natural airflow.
The scent reached him next.
Subtle. Herbal. Medicinal.
Not antiseptic.
This isn't my world.
The conclusion settled quietly, without shock.
His instincts told him something was deeply wrong—not in the sense of immediate danger, but in the way reality itself felt misaligned. The temperature, the smells, even the way the light entered the room felt… off. As if the rules he had lived by no longer applied cleanly.
He attempted to turn his head.
Pain flared instantly, sharp enough to draw a faint hiss from his throat. His neck protested violently, muscles trembling as though they had been overworked for years and then left to rot.
He stopped moving.
Weak, he noted calmly.
Not injured.
Weak.
That distinction mattered.
His body felt hollow, depleted, as though something fundamental had been drained from it long before he woke up. Each breath required conscious effort. His lungs felt shallow, inefficient. His limbs were heavy, sluggish, barely responding to his intent.
This wasn't the aftermath of a single attack.
This was long-term deterioration.
Poison.
The realization came with certainty.
Not the kind meant to kill immediately.
This was slower. Insidious. Designed to erode, to weaken over time. To leave the victim alive but useless.
Someone wanted this body crippled.
Before he could follow that thought further, something shifted inside his mind.
At first, he thought it was another wave of pain.
Then he realized it was… rhythmic.
A pulse.
Steady. Precise. Detached.
Not a heartbeat. Not blood flow.
Something else entirely.
System Activated.
The words appeared without sound, forming directly within his awareness.
Lin Xuan went still.
His breathing slowed.
Suspicion overtook confusion almost instantly.
A hallucination?
Dying brains were known to conjure all kinds of things. Voices. Images. Entire conversations. He had seen it happen before—targets muttering nonsense in their final moments, reaching for things that weren't there.
But this felt different.
There was no emotional weight to it. No distortion. No echo.
Just clarity.
User Identified: Lin Xuan.Status: Alive.
Condition: Severe Weakness.Potential: High.
The pulse remained, unwavering.
If this were a hallucination, it was far too orderly.
He didn't respond.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't panic.
He simply observed.
His thoughts felt sluggish, but they were intact. Logic still worked. Awareness still functioned. Whatever this "system" was, it wasn't forcing information into him. It wasn't demanding attention.
It was simply… there.
Waiting.
Time passed.
Minutes, perhaps longer. It was difficult to tell.
He drifted in and out of shallow awareness, never fully unconscious, never fully alert. Each time his thoughts began to scatter, he anchored himself by focusing on sensation—the weight of the blankets, the faint ache in his joints, the slow rhythm of his breathing.
As his mind slowly stabilized, more details surfaced.
This body wasn't just weak—it was frail.
Not from recent injury alone, but from long-term neglect or deficiency. His muscles lacked density. His stamina was abysmal. Even his heartbeat felt faint, as though it lacked conviction.
This body had never been strong.
That realization settled heavily.
A second pulse rippled through his consciousness.
Daily Objective Initialized.
The message appeared briefly before fading, leaving behind a vague sense of direction rather than concrete instruction.
Lin Xuan frowned faintly.
A system. Objectives. Status.
None of it made sense within the context of his old world.
Which meant this place operated on rules he didn't yet understand.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax.
Rushing to conclusions had never saved him before.
If he was alive, then survival came first.
Understanding could wait.
His eyelids grew heavy again, exhaustion pressing down on him with renewed force. The effort of staying conscious was becoming unbearable. His body demanded rest, and for now, resisting would only worsen his condition.
As darkness crept back in, a final thought surfaced—calm, measured, and resolute.
I died once already.
If this is another chance… then I'll treat it like one.
The pulse in his mind continued, steady and patient, as his consciousness slipped away once more.
Somewhere beyond the veil of sleep, the world waited.