The first thing Luo Fan noticed was the smell.
It was a thick, choking mix of mold, dried blood, and something that might have been rotting straw. The second thing was the pain—a deep, bone‑deep ache that seemed to live in every joint and sinew, as if his body had been used as a punching bag for a very long time.
He tried to open his eyes. One lid obeyed; the other was swollen shut.
The ceiling above him was a patchwork of cracked timber and missing tiles. Dust motes danced in a single beam of weak sunlight that pierced through a hole in the roof. A few feet away, a rat the size of his forearm nibbled at something unidentifiable in the corner.
Not my apartment, he thought groggily. Definitely not my office.
Memories crashed into him like a wave—but they weren't his memories.
He saw a young man named Luo Fan, an outer disciple of the Fallen Leaf Sect, born to a servant family and discovered at age twelve to have no spiritual roots. The sect kept him because they needed someone to clean beast pens, haul ore, and take the beatings that actual cultivators were too important to endure. He had lived nineteen years in this world—nineteen years of hunger, humiliation, and a slow, grinding erosion of hope.
The original Luo Fan had died last night. A fever, a beating from a senior disciple, or simply the failure of a body that had been starved of spiritual energy for too long. The memories ended in a haze of pain and a whisper of relief.
Luo Fan—the engineer from Earth, the one who had been crossing the street with a coffee in hand when a delivery truck ran a red light—opened his mouth and let out a dry, rasping laugh.
"I'm in a cultivation world," he croaked. "Of course."
His voice was barely audible. The rat didn't even look up.
He lay there for a long moment, cataloging his situation. The body was weak—dangerously weak. His limbs felt like overcooked noodles. Even breathing took effort. A quick mental inventory told him that whatever spiritual foundation the original Luo Fan might have had was long gone; his meridians were withered, his dantian a dried‑up husk.
If this were one of the stories he used to binge during his lunch breaks, the protagonist would have a golden finger—some cheat ability that would let him rise from the ashes.
Yeah, he thought bitterly. Because the universe is that generous.
Then the words appeared.
They didn't come as a sound, nor as a physical text. They simply were—an awareness that bloomed behind his eyes, crisp and impossible to ignore.
---
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]
Demonic Forge System v. 3.17
Host: Luo Fan (Secondary Soul Integration: 100%)
Spiritual Foundation: None (Irreparable)
Cultivation Base: None
Forge Mastery: 0 (Rusty Mortal)
Forge Points: 0
Refined Spiritual Essence: 0
Primary Directive:
The host cannot cultivate spiritual energy through conventional means. All cultivation progress must be achieved through the creation of forged items—pills, talismans, artifacts, arrays, or other spiritual constructs.
Core Mechanic:
Each successfully forged item will release refined spiritual essence (RSE) that will be absorbed directly by the host, increasing their cultivation base in proportion to the item's quality and rarity.
WARNING:
Without a steady infusion of refined spiritual essence, the host's physical body will continue to deteriorate.
Estimated time to total collapse: 71 hours, 42 minutes.
---
Luo Fan stared at the translucent panel floating in his vision. It was real—he could see it even with his swollen eye, could sense the weight of its presence behind his consciousness.
A system. A crafting system.
He had read enough webnovels to recognize the trope. But this one came with a countdown clock. Seventy‑one hours to figure out how to forge something when he couldn't even stand.
"No pressure," he muttered.
He tried to move. The pain was excruciating, but he forced his arms to push against the filthy straw pallet that served as a bed. After three attempts, he managed to prop himself up against the wall. His head swam, and he had to close his eyes until the spinning stopped.
The room was small—perhaps ten feet by eight. A single door, splintered at the bottom. A broken table in one corner. A pile of what might have been clothes or might have been rags. And scattered around the floor, a few rusted tools: a broken awl, a flat stone that might serve as a grinding surface, a chipped bowl.
His "workshop." The original Luo Fan had apparently tried, in his pathetic way, to learn a trade. The memories showed him watching real craftsmen from a distance, picking up discarded tools, dreaming of being useful enough to earn a place.
He had the right idea, Luo Fan thought. He just didn't have a cheat.
He focused on the system interface. A mental nudge opened a sub‑menu.
---
Available Schematics (Unlocked):
1. Minor Qi‑Gathering Talisman
· Category: Talisman (Mortal‑rank, Basic)
· Materials: 1 beast‑skin scrap, trace spirit ore dust, 2 drops of user's blood
· Crafting Time: 30 minutes
· Effect: Enhances a single Qi‑based attack by 10%. One‑time use.
· Forge Points Gain: 5
· Refined Essence Gain: 2
Additional schematics can be unlocked by increasing Forge Mastery, discovering blueprints, or synthesizing existing designs.
---
One blueprint. That was it. But it was enough.
Beast‑skin scrap. Spirit ore dust. His own blood.
He looked around the room. The broken awl could serve as an engraving tool. The flat stone might work as a makeshift anvil. But the materials… he had none. The original Luo Fan had been too poor to even own a change of clothes, let alone crafting supplies.
His stomach clenched. Seventy‑one hours.
Think. You're an engineer. You've solved problems with less.
The door slammed open.
Luo Fan's body went rigid—a reflex inherited from the original owner. The man who stepped through the doorway was young, perhaps twenty‑five, with sharp features and the arrogant bearing of someone who had never been told "no." He wore the gray robes of an outer disciple, but the fabric was finer than most, and a small jade pendant hung at his waist—proof of some minor wealth.
His name surfaced from the borrowed memories: Lu Chen. Qi Condensation, third level. A bully who had made the original Luo Fan's life a living hell, extracting "protection fees" that the servant could never pay, then taking his payment in humiliation and pain.
Lu Chen's eyes swept the room, landed on Luo Fan, and curled with disgust.
"Still alive, trash?"
The voice was casual, almost bored. It was the tone a man used when addressing something he planned to step on.
Luo Fan's heart hammered, but his engineering mind was already working. Assess the threat. Find the leverage.
Lu Chen was a cultivator. Even at the lowest rung of the cultivation ladder, he could crush a mortal with a flick of his wrist. Direct confrontation was suicide. But the system had given him one tool: the promise of a talisman.
"Alive," Luo Fan said. His voice was hoarse, but steady. "Disappointed?"
Lu Chen's eyebrows rose. The trash had never spoken back. He took a step forward, and the faint pressure of his Qi pressed against Luo Fan's chest like a hand.
"Watch your mouth. I came to collect your weekly contribution. Ten low‑grade spirit stones. You're three weeks behind."
The words were rote, rehearsed. The original Luo Fan had never had spirit stones. The "contribution" was a fiction, a pretense for the beating that was about to happen.
Luo Fan didn't bother denying it. He knew what was coming. But he also knew that Lu Chen was, above all, greedy.
"I don't have stones," he said. "But I can make you something better."
Lu Chen's hand, already raised to strike, paused. His eyes narrowed. "What?"
Hook him, Luo Fan thought. Make it impossible to refuse.
He gestured weakly toward the broken awl and the flat stone. "I've been studying the old texts. Formation patterns. The ones the sect uses for talismans." He let out a cough that was only half‑acted. "I think I've found a way to imprint them without a Qi infusion. I just need materials."
Lu Chen's expression flickered between suspicion and curiosity. "You? Make a talisman? You can't even circulate Qi, you useless—"
"Try me." Luo Fan met his eyes. "Give me a scrap of beast hide and a pinch of spirit ore dust. If I fail, you can break my hands. If I succeed…" He let the implication hang.
The silence stretched. Luo Fan forced himself not to look away. In the background, the system's countdown ticked: 71:12:04… 71:12:03…
Finally, Lu Chen's lips curled into a smile. It was not a kind smile. "You've grown interesting, trash." He reached into a storage pouch at his belt—a real storage pouch, the kind that cost more than the original Luo Fan had earned in a lifetime—and produced a crumpled piece of cured beast hide and a small leather pouch. He tossed them onto the straw pallet.
"One hour," he said. "Don't disappoint me."
He left, but not before delivering a parting kick to Luo Fan's shin that sent fresh agony lancing through his leg. "If this is a trick, I'll take both hands. Then I'll take your tongue."
The door closed. The room fell silent.
Luo Fan sat motionless for ten seconds, letting the pain subside. Then, with shaking hands, he reached for the materials.
He had one hour.
He had one chance.