23:40. The city lights bled onto the cold, rain-slicked asphalt.
Ardam Ganz was a ghost in a suit—twenty-two years old, shoulders perpetually hunched, eyes glazed with the kind of chronic fatigue that sleep couldn't fix. His hands were raw from the biting cold, fingers numb from a day spent hammering away at a keyboard. He had stayed late again, unable to refuse his colleague David's desperate plea: "I need to be with my family, please, cover my shift." Ardam was cursed with kindness, a trait he was only now realizing was a slow-acting poison.
He stopped in front of the panoramic window of a lavish restaurant. Inside was another world. Warm gold light, crystal decanters, and the roar of expensive laughter. There, at the center of the crowd, was David—the man who "needed to be with his family"—toasting with a glass of cognac. No one had invited Ardam. They had simply buried him in work so they could celebrate without him.
His gaze shifted to table four.
Jacob. The department head. A forty-five-year-old predator with a balding crown and fleshy, grasping hands. Only days ago, Ardam had handed over a project he'd spent years perfecting, sacrificing every night of his youth for its details. Today, Jacob had been promoted for that very project. When Ardam tried to claim his due, the office had turned on him like a pack of wolves, labeling him a "selfish player who didn't understand teamwork."
But the true blade went deeper.
Selmina. The brilliant, beautiful light of the department. The girl Ardam had loved in silence.
She was sitting on Jacob's lap. Jacob's thick, damp fingers were sliding brazenly beneath her skirt, trekking up her ivory thighs. Selmina didn't flinch. She leaned in, wrapping her arms around Jacob's neck with a soft, practiced smile.
Jacob spotted Ardam through the glass. His face contorted into a triumphant, wretched smirk. It was a silent decree: Your mind, your work, your girl—they all belong to me. You are nothing but a beggar in the rain.
Ardam couldn't stay, but he couldn't leave either. His brother's medicine, the rent, the groceries... his life was a handful of sand slipping through his fingers.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
David was at the window, grinning drunkenly, beckoning Ardam inside with a mocking wave. Every gesture was a calculated insult. Rage flared in Ardam's veins, his fists tightening. David was bigger, stronger. Realizing a physical confrontation would solve nothing, Ardam simply turned his back.
As he walked, he devoured himself with self-loathing.
Then, a screech of twisting metal tore through the air. A massive advertising banner, loosened by the wind, was shearing off the side of a skyscraper. Below it stood a girl, oblivious, her world muffled by headphones.
Ardam didn't think. The last spark of his humanity propelled him forward. He lunged, shoving the girl clear.
Then, the world collapsed.
The sound of snapping bone. The crushing weight of steel. The air fleeing his lungs.
As Ardam lay in a widening pool of his own blood, the agony was total. He looked up, waiting for help. People gathered, but no one called an ambulance. Instead, a forest of smartphones rose. They were filming the spectacle of a dying man. He saw the girl he had just saved. There was no gratitude in her eyes, only the frantic excitement of a "content creator" getting the perfect shot for a viral trend.
Damn you all... Ardam thought as the light faded. If I get one more chance... I will never live like a victim again. I will be the strongest. I will stand above everyone.
Darkness.
When Ardam opened his eyes, the world had shifted.
The first thing he saw was a face of impossible beauty. A woman held him as if he were a priceless jewel. Is this heaven? He tried to speak, but only a nonsensical "Gugu-gaga" left his lips. His hands were tiny, soft. He reached out, touching the woman's breast—it was warm, solid. Real.
"Ardam... your name is Ardam Cray," the woman whispered.
A ten-year-old girl and a fifteen-year-old boy approached. "Meet your new brother," the woman smiled.
Ardam understood. He had been given the second chance he had screamed for in the dark. He had been reborn.
Years passed.
Urmis Province. The desolate courtyard of the Shadow Sword Sect.
The now twenty-five-year-old Ardam Cray leaned on his broom, staring at the jagged mountain peaks in the distance. The sky seemed fractured. High above, two grand cultivators were clashing; waves of raw energy distorted the air, making the earth tremble with every strike.
Though twenty-five years had passed, the volcano in Ardam's soul—the hunger to conquer this world—still burned. But the reality of this realm was a daily slap to the face. Cultivation was as natural as breathing here, yet for Ardam, it was an unreachable summit. He had only managed to open two Erta Meridians. The sect's sixteen-year-olds had already opened their third and were on the cusp of the fourth: the Warrior Rank.
On his eighteenth birthday, a golden display had materialized before his eyes. He had expected a "System" like the ones in the web novels of his past life—a shortcut to godhood. But for seven years, the cold interface had displayed only one word: [Calculating...] It felt like a cosmic joke, fueling the fire of his resentment every time he saw it.
"Ardam..." A steady voice pulled him from the abyss of his thoughts.
Ardam turned. Elder Bermis, one of the sect's most influential figures, stood there. Ardam bowed with genuine respect. Since his mother's passing, this stern but just old man had been his only shield.
"Health to you, Elder," Ardam said.
Bermis glanced at the titans fighting on the horizon. "The old snakes are at it again?" he asked, bored.
"They show off their power every morning," Ardam replied. Then, unable to contain his curiosity: "Tell me, if you fought them, who would win?"
Bermis stroked his white beard, a thin smile playing on his lips. "Even if they joined forces against me... I am still the stronger." It wasn't a boast; it was a cold, hard fact.
"Hey, janitor!"
The arrogant shout came from across the courtyard. It was Clay, Ardam's nineteen-year-old cousin. He strutted forward, radiating pride. "I opened my third meridian this morning!" Clay sneered, puffing out his chest. "Kneel and call me 'Master'!"
Ardam looked Clay in the eye. Without a word of warning, his right hand blurred through the air.
CRACK.
The slap was so violent it whipped Clay's head back. The boy was sent tumbling, crashing into a stone wall five meters away. He scrambled up, eyes watering, face a mask of shock and terror. He hadn't expected the "trash" to strike back. Stammering, he fled the courtyard.
"Another fight?" Bermis asked, watching the retreating boy. "Your character is like fire, boy. You boil too quickly."
"I will never let anyone look down on me," Ardam said, his gaze shifting to Bermis. "Not even you."
Bermis looked surprised, then let out a soft chuckle and walked away.
Lunchtime. The sect's kitchen was a cacophony of noise.
Suddenly, a dust-caked boot slammed onto the table where Ardam sat alone.
Karot. Clay's twenty-three-year-old brother.
Both were the sons of Ardam's uncle, Drake, the current Sect Leader. Ardam's father had died mysteriously three months before Ardam was born, allowing Drake to seize the throne and cast Ardam and his mother into the shadows.
The noise in the kitchen died instantly. The air grew heavy, as if the walls were closing in. Karot was a true prodigy—at twenty-three, he had already opened eleven Erta Meridians and ascended to a Second-Rank Warrior. The cold pressure radiating from him made the servants gasp for breath.
"I hear you've forgotten your place," Karot said, his voice like grinding ice.
Ardam calmly set his spoon down. His eyes locked onto the muddy boot. "Don't you know it's foul-mannered to put your feet on a dining table, little brother?"
"You are no brother of mine!" Karot roared. "You are filth! A stain on our bloodline. To strike the Sect Leader's son is a crime. Kneel. Now. Beg the Young Master's forgiveness!"
Karot's aura exploded. The kitchen groaned under a localized tremor; plates shattered on the floor. Ardam's lungs constricted, veins pulsed on his forehead, and beads of blood leaked from the corners of his eyes. Even as his bones creaked under the weight, Ardam stood up.
"I said kneel!" Karot's fist tightened, ready to obliterate him.
"No," Ardam hissed through gritted teeth.
Just as Karot launched his strike, a voice like thunder rolled through the room: "Enough!"
Karot's fist stopped inches from Ardam's nose. A fraction further, and Ardam's skull would have shattered. Karot turned. Standing in the doorway was Ardeyn Cray, Leader of the Shadow Fist Sect and one of the nine Great Elders of the Shadow Sword.
The room fell to its knees. "Health to the Great Master!" they shouted in unison.
Ardeyn's cold gaze fell on Ardam. This was the brother who had once carried Ardam on his shoulders, promising to protect him forever. Now, he looked at Ardam as if he were a piece of rotting refuse.
"Karot, Clay, follow me," Ardeyn commanded. He stepped closer to Ardam. "Order and subordination—these are the rules of our sect. If you cannot follow them, I will not care that you are my brother. Show Karot the respect he is due. Even Clay stands above you now."
As Ardeyn turned away, a bitter bile rose in Ardam's throat. The betrayal of his own blood cut deeper than any physical blow.
Evening.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the lake. Ardam sat by the water, his mind a storm of rage and despair.
"Why so gloomy, young man?" a melodic, sultry voice asked.
Ardam didn't even look up. "Keep moving, lady."
The next moment, Ardam was weightless. With a flick of her finger, a woman pulled him through the air toward her. Ardam found himself hovering, face-to-face with a vision. She wore expensive silks and a delicate veil, her beauty radiating even through the lace. Ardam's eyes instinctively drifted to the deep curve of her ivory chest.
Thud. He hit the ground.
"Your blood has been poisoned. Your Erta Meridians are burned," she said. Ardam's eyes widened. "What? How do you know that?"
"It can be fixed." She stepped closer, her perfume intoxicatingly sweet. "Have you heard of Dual Cultivation? I know a technique that can purge the poison and rebuild your meridians."
"What's in it for you?" Ardam asked, wary.
"The first cultivation of a virgin male releases a surge of primal energy. I need that energy," she smiled. "Besides... you are quite handsome."
Ardam weighed his options. If he didn't get stronger, this world would eat him alive. "I agree."
The woman let her silk robe slip to the grass. Her body was a masterpiece of divine art. With another gesture, Ardam was pinned to the ground, his clothes unraveling as if by magic.
The cultivation began. Warm ERTA energy flooded into Ardam's body. The woman's soft moans filled the air. The pressure around the lake surged, and for the first time in his life, Ardam felt powerful. Every movement felt like a surge of pure ecstasy.
Then, the world twisted.
A horrific pain erupted in his chest. Every time the woman moved, it felt like his very soul was being ripped out. He tried to push her away, but his limbs were bound to the earth by glowing Erta threads.
The woman tore off her veil and pressed her lips to his. It wasn't a kiss—it was an extraction.
Ardam felt himself withering like a plant in a drought. His flesh shrank until it clung to his bones. The woman drank his life essence with a terrifying hunger.
After several minutes of agony, she stopped. She rose calmly and dressed. On the ground lay not a twenty-five-year-old man, but a shriveled mummy, gasping for its final breaths.
"Wh-why?" Ardam croaked.
"There was no poison," the woman laughed. "I was going to force you, but seeing your despair, I decided to give you a little 'hope' first. It makes the energy taste so much sweeter. Thank you for the meal."
She pulled a massive fan from her spatial ring and took to the sky. Ardam was left alone on the cold earth. Am I dying again... having achieved nothing? Darkness claimed him.
[DING! Calculation Complete!]
[Connection with Host: 100%]
[Welcome to the "Affinity System"!]
[Analysis: You have engaged in intimacy with a 9.8-Grade Genius female.]
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