Lin Feng's eyes fluttered open to the cracked beams of a roof that looked ready to collapse. Dust drifted down from the rafters, catching the weak light that filtered through holes in the walls. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of rot and old straw. He lay on a rough wooden bed, its frame splintered, the thin blanket stiff with age. This was his home — a shack at the edge of Stone Willow Market, a place so broken it mirrored the life of the boy who had lived here before him.
For a moment, he lay still, disoriented, as if clawing his way back from drowning. Then the flood came — memories, sharp and merciless, crashing into him all at once.
He was not only Lin Feng, the "trash" of Stone Willow Market. He was also a man from Earth — thirty years old, a weary work slave shackled to endless overtime, betrayed by the woman he thought he loved. His girlfriend had cheated, his dignity had rotted, and his life had been nothing but exhaustion and bitterness. That life had ended in despair, but now, somehow, he had awakened here, in this frail body, in this world where strength was everything.
The memories of his predecessor bled into his own, stitching together two lives into one. He saw parents who had sacrificed everything for him, only to watch him fail at the sect recruitment. That day of humiliation replayed vividly: the elder's sneer, the crowd's laughter, the verdict of "five spiritual roots" — a death sentence for talent. In this world, one root meant genius, two meant promise, but five? Trash. A cultivator doomed to mediocrity, mocked by peers, despised by elders.
The humiliation had not ended there. Gang members from the market had mocked him, stolen from him, beaten him down. Their malice had been relentless, their fists merciless. He remembered the sharp crack of bones, the taste of blood, the jeers of those who watched. And finally, the predecessor's death — cornered, beaten, discarded like refuse. A life extinguished in cruelty, forgotten by all.
Lin Feng's fists clenched. His breathing steadied, and his glowing eyes hardened with a new resolve. So this is the world I've inherited. A dog‑eat‑dog pit where weakness is mocked and strength devours all.
But unlike his predecessor, he was not broken. He carried thirty years of bitterness from Earth, the scars of betrayal, the rage of wasted life. He would not bow again.
He sat up slowly, scanning the shack. The walls were patched with mud, the floor uneven stone. A single wooden table leaned against the wall, its legs cracked, its surface scarred by years of use. He remembered — or rather, the predecessor remembered — how his parents had built this home with their own hands, pouring their meager savings into it. It had been a place of hope once, a shelter for a family that dreamed their son would rise through cultivation. Now it was a cage, a reminder of failure.
Lin Feng's gaze lingered on the doorway, where the gangs had once barged in, mocking him, stealing what little he had. He could almost hear their laughter echoing in the silence. His jaw tightened. Never again.
"From today," he whispered, voice hoarse but sharp, "I live for myself. I'll avenge the humiliation of the one who came before me. I'll rise in this ruthless world, no matter how many corpses I must step over."
The hut around him was silent, but outside, the market stirred. Hawkers shouted, gangs prowled, sect disciples strutted with arrogance. The same world that had spat on him yesterday now awaited his return. Lin Feng rose slowly, body weak but spirit blazing.
He jogged through the fragments of memory, piecing together the life he had inherited. His parents — poor, desperate, clinging to hope that their son might one day bring honor. The sect recruitment — a stage where geniuses were celebrated, where scions flaunted their bloodlines, where chosen ones basked in destiny. And there he had stood, trembling, only to be branded trash. The laughter had cut deeper than any blade.
The gangs had followed, sensing weakness like wolves. They had stripped him of dignity, of possessions, of hope. Their malice had been a constant shadow, their fists a reminder of his helplessness. And in the end, they had killed him.
But Lin Feng was not the same boy anymore. He was a man forged in the bitterness of Earth, tempered by betrayal, hardened by despair. He had lived through humiliation once — he would not endure it again.
The shack creaked as he stepped outside, the market air thick with dust and noise. The stalls were crowded, the hawkers loud, the gangs prowling like predators. He felt their eyes on him, mocking, dismissive. But he no longer cared. He was awake, alive, reborn.
The path ahead was merciless. But for the first time, he welcomed it.