In the remote Qingyang Village, nestled between misty emerald mountains, the name "Su Yang" was spoken with a mix of admiration and pity.
He had arrived in this world not with a bang, but with a choked gasp. One moment, he was a university student in modern-day Shanghai, nursing a lukewarm coffee and doom-scrolling through yet another cultivation novel on his phone. The next, he was a squalling infant, blinking up at the thatched roof of a modest home, his mind a hurricane of confusion. It took him seven years to fully accept the truth: he, Su Yang, had transmigrated.
Yet, this world, at least in the beginning, felt less like a land of immortals and more like a historical drama with bad hygiene. His father, Su Da, was a farmer with hands like worn leather. His mother, Li Qiao, was a weaver whose smile could chase away the morning chill. They were good, simple people, and Su Yang grew up loving them with the fierce, quiet devotion of a soul who had known loneliness in another life.
The "admiration" part came from his intellect. As a former university student, even the most rudimentary concepts of mathematics, logic, and literacy were like cheat codes in a village of farmers. By age ten, he was the unofficial scribe, helping with grain tallies, writing letters for the illiterate, and solving water-diversion disputes with a logic that left the village elders stroking their beards in bewildered approval. "That Su family," they'd say, shaking their heads, "they have a truly smart kid. A pity he's not from a wealthier clan."
The pity was for his circumstances. The Su family was poor. They owned a few acres of thin soil, a single ox, and a modest house. Yet, Su Yang was content. He had a plan: leverage his knowledge to slowly improve their lot, introduce better crop rotation, maybe start a small trade. It was a quiet life, but it was his.
Then, on a crisp autumn day just after his fourteenth birthday, the world ended again.
His parents had traveled to a larger market town to sell a season's worth of cloth and grain, a trip they made once a year. They never came back.
A merchant caravan brought the news. A sudden rockslide on the mountain pass. His father's ox-cart had been caught in it. There were no survivors. The merchant, a kind man with a sympathetic face, handed Su Yang a small pouch—the meager savings his parents had been carrying, and a jade hairpin that had belonged to his mother.
The village helped with the rituals. They offered condolences, shared meals for a few weeks, and then, as life in a subsistence village dictates, they moved on. Su Yang was left with a half-empty house, a few coins, and a chasm of silence where his parents' voices used to be.
For three months, he survived. He worked odd jobs, tended what was left of the fields, and learned the brutal arithmetic of poverty. He was smart, but intelligence didn't fill an empty stomach.
It was a gray afternoon when a rickety medicine cart, pulled by a single, stubborn mule, trundled into the village. The town had no permanent doctor, so the arrival of the travelling physician, Wen Renxuan, was a minor event. Wen Renxuan was a man of indeterminate age, with tired eyes, a perpetually rumpled grey robe, and a sharp, analytical gaze that missed nothing.
He set up in the village square, and Su Yang, eager for any distraction from the echoing silence of his home, went to watch. He didn't just watch; he helped. When the doctor needed clean water, Su Yang was there. When he needed a fire for his remedies, Su Yang had kindling ready. When a patient couldn't articulate their symptoms, Su Yang calmly rephrased the doctor's questions into the local dialect, translating the farmer's grunts into usable information.
By the end of the day, Wen Renxuan looked at the lanky, serious boy with a gaze of newfound respect.
"You," the doctor said, pointing a long, calloused finger. "You're wasted on these turnip fields. You have a sharp mind. My last helper ran off with a merchant's daughter. The position is yours if you want it. Board, meals, and the occasional lesson in medicine."
Su Yang, who had been wondering where his next meal would come from, accepted without a second thought. He packed his meager belongings, gave the key to his empty house to a neighbor, and left the only home he'd ever known in this world.
A month into his apprenticeship, Su Yang lay on his thin mat in the back of the medicine cart, staring at the wooden ceiling as the cart jostled along a mountain road. They were heading toward the small city of Cangwu for supplies. Wen Renxuan was up front, humming a tuneless melody.
Three months as a helper, Su Yang thought, his internal voice laced with the familiar, petulant bitterness he only allowed himself in the privacy of his own mind. Three months, and still nothing. Where is it? The golden finger? The system? The cheat skill?
He had read countless novels in his past life. The transmigrator always got something. A system that dinged with notifications, a heaven-defying cultivation technique, an ancient artifact in a ring. His only inheritance was a jade hairpin and a knack for memorizing herbal remedies.
Maybe I didn't get it yet, he mused, shifting as the cart hit a rut. In the village, everyone was mortal. No spiritual energy, no cultivators. It was like a blank zone. Maybe the golden finger needs spiritual energy to activate. Maybe it's like a phone that needs a signal. Once I find a place with a signal…
His thoughts were interrupted by Wen Renxuan's voice from the front. "We're almost at Cangwu. Keep your wits about you, boy. It's a small city, but a den of wolves compared to your village."
Cangwu was a revelation. The walls were tall, the streets were paved with stone, and there were… cultivators.
Su Yang saw them as they entered the city gates. A young man in pristine white robes flew overhead on a sword, a streak of silver against the grey sky. A woman in green walked past them, her feet not quite touching the ground, her presence causing the air to shimmer with a barely perceptible heat. Su Yang's jaw went slack. He froze in the middle of the bustling street, his cart of herbs nearly colliding with a merchant selling spiritual beast skewers.
There! His heart hammered against his ribs. The signal!
That night, while Wen Renxuan was organizing his herbs in the small inn room they'd rented, Su Yang couldn't contain himself any longer. The doctor was a man of the world. If anyone knew, he would.
"Master Wen," Su Yang began, his voice tentative but earnest.
The doctor didn't look up from the bundle of dried star-anise he was separating. "I'm your employer, not your master. What is it?"
"The people we saw today. The ones flying on swords and walking without touching the ground. They're cultivators, right?"
Wen Renxuan paused, his fingers hovering over the herbs. He finally looked at Su Yang, his tired eyes holding a flicker of something—amusement, or perhaps pity.
"They are."
Su Yang leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "I want to be one. I want to cultivate."
A dry chuckle escaped the doctor's lips. He set down the herbs and sat back, folding his arms. "You and half the population of this world. Su Yang, listen to me. You're smart. The smartest boy I've met in a long time. But being smart has nothing to do with cultivation."
He paused, his gaze turning serious. "Do you know the chances? For a mortal to have a spiritual root, the very foundation needed to even begin? One in a hundred thousand. That's the optimistic estimate. And having a root is just the first step. The quality determines everything. A poor root might get you into a minor sect as a laborer, to live a life even harder than a farmer's. You'd be a servant for decades, hoping for a single pill that could advance you one minor stage."
He held up his hand, showing five calloused fingers. "In my sixty years of travel, I have seen exactly three people with the potential to become true cultivators. Not one of them made it past the Qi Condensation stage. They died in secret realm trials, or were killed by other cultivators for a single spirit stone, or simply… failed."
The doctor's words were cold water, but they did nothing to douse the fire in Su Yang's chest. A system needs a signal. A cultivator needs a spiritual root. The math is the same. I just need to find the signal.
"But there must be a way," Su Yang persisted, his voice steady. "A test. A way to know for sure."
Wen Renxuan studied him for a long moment, seeing the stubborn set of the boy's jaw, the fierce light in his eyes that reminded him of his younger self. He sighed, a long, weary sound.
"There is. Every major city holds a Sect Selection ceremony once a year. All the great sects send representatives with spirit-testing stones. It's open to anyone under the age of eighteen." He rubbed his temple. "The next one is in three months, in the major city of Yunzhou. It's a two-month journey from here."
He stood up and walked to his medicine chest, pulling out a small, worn ledger. He flipped through it, his expression unreadable.
"I have a circuit to run. Patients expecting me in the towns east of here. I can't take you to Yunzhou."
Su Yang's face fell.
The doctor held up a hand. "But," he said, his voice gruff, "I can get you to the crossroads at the Jade River. From there, you can take a merchant caravan the rest of the way. The road is dangerous, but it's the safest route for someone with no money or protection."
He pulled a few silver taels from his pouch and placed them on the table, along with a small, rolled-up map. "This is for your passage. Consider it severance for your help. You're a good lad, Su Yang. But I'm a healer of mortal ailments. I can't help you with this dream."
Su Yang stared at the silver and the map. It was more than his parents had left him. It was a lifeline.
He bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the rough wooden floor. "Thank you, Master Wen. I won't forget this."
"Don't thank me yet," the doctor muttered, turning back to his herbs. "You're walking away from a steady trade for a one-in-a-hundred-thousand chance. But…" He paused, and for a moment, his voice softened. "I've seen that look before. The ones who have it are either fools or destined for something greater. I'm not sure which you are, Su Yang."
That night, as the sounds of Cangwu city drifted in through the window, Su Yang lay on his mat, the silver coins tucked safely against his chest. He could still hear the doctor's words: One in a hundred thousand.
He closed his eyes, focusing inward. He imagined a dormant program, a slumbering system deep within his soul, waiting for a spark of spiritual energy to boot up.
It has to be there, he told himself, the thought hardening into a vow. It has to be.