The heavens have fallen.
Their rigid fates, their crushing decrees, their cruel limits imposed on humanity… mean nothing now. Brother Sect Head has done it. He completed the Will-Harvesting Formation.
For as long as time has dragged its carcass forward, we—humans—have been nothing but worms trampled beneath the weight of monstrous beings and their divine privilege. But we've endured. Survived. Even when Heaven spat in our face, we bared our teeth.
Now… now we spit back.
This formation will show those twisted, lizard-skinned bastards the true shape of human will. They've paraded their ability to cultivate, flaunting their beast-blood lineage, mocking humanity's fragile, mortal shell. But no more. With this, we will rise—soar—higher than any of them.
To you, my descendant—if you ever read this—know that I, Liú Huá, and Brother Sect Head, gave up everything for your future. So climb. Defy. Tear down any arrogant scum who looks down on our kind.
The formation took sixty long years to create. Every scripture, every symbol, revised not thousands but millions of times. But with it, we can finally tear the bloodline from beasts and bind it to ourselves—for humanity's sake. Their power will be the wind beneath our ascent. The power of the demonic beasts will be ours.
No more will we be less than those desert lizards from the western wastes. No more will we trail behind the beastfolk of the Zuaren continent. No more.
I've long pondered what beast's will shall become my own, what vital foundation I'll build my soul upon. And I've decided.
I'll honor the name of our sect.
I'll take the will of the Three-Headed Earth Dragon—Longgu, the cursed one cast out by the Heavens.
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What the hell is this guy rambling on about? I probably should've started from the first page.
But—if I'm understanding this right—humans couldn't cultivate at all before this formation? They had no method, no path. Just trapped in mortality while other races... just could? Born with cultivation in their blood?
And this book's just... here? Tucked away in the third floor of a forgotten pavilion? Why hasn't the Master found it? Why hasn't anyone read it?
The moonlight poured in through the warped wooden window, its pale blue hue stained at the edges with the faintest tint of pink. Dawn creeping up from the edges of night.
A new day was coming.
I tucked the book deep into my robes, made sure the pages wouldn't slip out, and began running—quiet as I could—back down the steps and into the tunnel.
The run was brutal.
My feet bled on the jagged stone. The cold tore into my lungs, scraping the air from my throat. The grey walls blurred as I pushed through the dark, torchless tunnel, nearly collapsing from the pain. My legs screamed, breath shallow, the cold cave swallowing every sound.
I rounded the corner—no sign of him. The taoist guard was gone. Maybe he'd gone with the others.
Slipping into the main chamber of the cave, that same stale, damp air settled over me like a wet blanket. I could hear the others still asleep—soft breathing, the occasional shift. They hadn't stirred.
In the furthest corner of the cave, I crouched down, pulling the journal out again. This time, I started from the beginning.
From the first word.
Because something told me this book wasn't just forgotten but fates helping hand maybe this was his golden finger like those other transmigrator?