The world stank of blood.
Jiang Xun's first breath after awakening was a choked gasp, full of rusted iron and bitter ash. His vision swam, painting the sky above him a swirling mixture of scarlet and black, the sun nothing but a faint ember behind smoke-thickened clouds. For a moment, he lay still upon the cold, cracked ground, unable to comprehend why his body felt so broken, so alien.
This isn't...
The thought splintered halfway through his mind.
He wasn't in his bed. He wasn't even in his world.
Pain rippled through every nerve, but it was distant, almost dreamlike, as if he were borrowing the agony from someone else. His arms, lean and sinewed, trembled when he pushed himself upright. His fingers were stained dark with dried blood, some of it his own, much of it not.
Before him, the shattered ruins of a small village sprawled like the corpse of a forgotten dream. Homes had collapsed into splintered heaps, their skeletal frames clawing at the sky. Corpses littered the streets, twisted in final, desperate poses. Here and there, fires still burned stubbornly against the gathering dusk.
A low groan escaped his lips. His throat felt like it had been scraped raw by sandpaper.
He clutched at his chest instinctively and found the fabric of a tattered, once-black robe—bloodstained, with the faint emblem of a slayer's insignia still clinging to the collar. A serpent coiled around a broken sword.
This is not my body...
The realization hit with the finality of a hammer strike.
Memories—not his own—began bleeding into his mind.
A boy kneeling before a towering figure, swearing an oath to protect humanity from the darkness.
A silver blade gleaming under a blood moon.
Screams.
Fire.
The moment of death, when razor-sharp claws had pierced his ribs and torn the life from him.
And yet, somehow, Jiang Xun—no, the man who now was Jiang Xun—lived.
...
The world tilted violently, and he staggered to his feet, barely managing to stay upright. Every muscle protested, every bone ached, but he moved forward. Instinct whispered in his ear: Survive. Keep moving.
Half-dragging one foot behind him, he limped toward what had once been the village center, where a cracked stone well stood surrounded by broken paving stones.
He wasn't sure why, but something—some faint call—drew him there.
As he reached the well, a whisper brushed against the edges of his mind, like the soft susurrus of silk against skin.
Martial Ascension System Initializing...
Scanning Host Condition: Critical. Body integrity: 43%. Martial Foundation: Fragmented.
Activating Emergency Stabilization Protocol...
Welcome, Jiang Xun.
The words weren't spoken aloud. They resonated inside his very bones, as clear and unyielding as a blade's edge.
He blinked. Stared around.
No one.
Only the scorched earth, the broken corpses, and the lingering stench of death.
System? Martial Ascension System?
The words seemed absurd even as he repeated them silently.
And yet, in the corner of his vision, something flickered to life—a simple, translucent panel:
...
Martial Ascension System
Host: Jiang Xun
Cultivation Stage: Bone Tempering (Early)
Body Condition: Injured, Qi Channels Damaged
Martial Techniques:
[Ironblood Saber Arts] — 14% Mastery
[Stone Tortoise Stance] — 22% Mastery
Insights Available: 0
Demon Essence: 0
Objective: Survive. Hunt Demons. Refine Body. Ascend.
...
It was simple. Stark.
And in this shattered hell, it was the first anchor he had.
His mind raced.
He had read about transmigration, reincarnation, systems—fantasy tropes that once belonged only in fiction. Now, somehow, impossibly, he was living it.
But there was no fanfare, no omniscient guide, no boundless cheats.
Only this battered, dying body...
And the promise of strength, if he could claim it.
...
He exhaled slowly, testing the tightness in his ribs. Several fractures, at least. His left shoulder was half-dislocated. Blood loss had weakened him dangerously. And he could feel the sluggish flow of Qi—what little remained of it—struggling to circulate through ruptured channels.
He needed to rest. To heal.
But more importantly—he needed to survive the night.
The village wasn't safe.
Even now, as the sun dipped lower, a chill crept in that had nothing to do with mere temperature. It was the kind of cold that slithered into the soul, whispering of unseen horrors lurking just beyond sight.
The demons would return.
...
He stumbled toward one of the partially intact buildings—a blacksmith's forge, judging by the scorched anvil and shattered tools strewn about. The walls were cracked but still standing. It would offer some shelter.
Inside, the air was thick with soot and dust. Shadows danced across the rubble, twisting into grotesque shapes under the wavering light of the setting sun.
He found a corner and collapsed there, forcing his battered body into a rough meditative posture.
Inhale. Exhale.
The first step of martial cultivation: Regulate the breath.
Stabilize the heart.
Steady the Qi.
He closed his eyes.
The world shrank to the rhythm of his breathing.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, threads of warmth began to gather in his dantian—the core where a cultivator's life force was stored. It was faint, like the dying embers of a fire, but it was there.
[Bone Tempering Stage.]
In this world, the first path to power lay not in summoning lightning from the sky or wielding spells, but in forging the body itself into a weapon.
The bones must be hardened. The blood must run like molten iron.
Only then could one walk the road of martial ascension.
...
Minutes bled into hours.
As darkness fully descended, Jiang Xun became aware of distant sounds—the faint scuttling of clawed feet, the shrill cries of unseen creatures.
Demons, prowling the ruins.
His eyes snapped open, his senses sharpening.
The System panel flickered again:
Alert: Demon presence detected within 500 meters.
Recommendation: Avoid direct confrontation.
He gritted his teeth.
Avoidance was wise. In his current state, even a minor demon could tear him apart.
But deep within, another instinct stirred.
A burning defiance.
You want to survive?
You want to ascend?
Then fight.
He pushed himself to his feet, each movement agonizing. His right hand brushed against a weapon half-buried under debris—a short, battered saber, its blade nicked and worn.
[Ironblood Saber Arts] — a technique imprinted faintly in the muscle memory of his new body.
Clutching the saber in his trembling grip, he stepped into the ruined street.
The moon hung low and blood-red over the village.