The chill of the night cast its steely shadows over the city of Neovidia, that metropolis which knew no taste of sleep. A lifeline of clamorous neon lights pulsed through the veins of its suspended streets, where skyscrapers rose like the fingers of metallic giants, piercing the veil of a sky polluted by factory fumes and 3D billboards that screamed their products in dazzling colors and false promises. In this chaotically organized urban landscape, flying security vehicles hovered like robotic crows, their red eyes scanning for any disruption in the order imposed by the powerful.
High above, far from the din of the lower streets, within the towering 'Arctanac' tower—which seemed like a spear of black glass and polished steel aimed at the heart of the sky—sat a man. He was not just a man, but an entity who imposed his presence with a silence more eloquent than any speech. In his elegant black attire that seemed to absorb the surrounding light, with his sharp features sculpted with harsh precision, and with a gaze that held an icy glint of veiled contempt for all beneath him, for everything that moved or breathed in this sprawling city.
That man was known as Arthur.
This name was not merely an identity, but a brand of terror and power. Arthur was not just a successful businessman managing an empire; he was an actual emperor, though not officially crowned. His empire, 'Arctanac Armaments,' was an industrial behemoth that devoured resources and spat out weapons of destruction. From smart rifles that never missed their mark, through deadly drones that reaped lives in silence, to gravity bombs capable of wiping entire neighborhoods off the map. Every weapon bearing the 'Arctanac' seal was Arthur's signature on the future of a world he saw merely as a chessboard. And he had established himself as an emperor in his own style: with his arrogance, his absolute, undisputed authority, and his ability to pull the strings of politics and economics with a silken glove hiding an iron fist.
Arthur cared little for humans. In his complex calculations, they were mere numbers in equations of profit and loss. His philosophy, which had shaken the foundations of the so-called 'international community,' was not merely a defense of his trade but a harsh worldview. His famous statement, delivered once with icy composure before the 'Global Council for Civil Peace' – that international body convened to condemn his role in fueling global conflicts – its words remain etched in the memory of all who heard them, sending shivers down their spines to this day:
"You speak of peace as if it were an end, and of war as if it were an exception. The truth, gentlemen, is that conflict is the natural state of existence, the engine that refines civilizations and demolishes them to build upon their ruins what is stronger. I do not create conflict; I merely provide the most efficient tools for those who have understood this primordial truth, while you drown in an illusion of morality that neither feeds the hungry nor stops a bullet."
This cold worldview was his shield and his sword, the philosophy by which he ruled his empire.
On that night, destined to be the last in his earthly record, Arthur sat in his opulent office with its panoramic walls revealing a sea of the city's shimmering lights. His office was polished, every piece reflecting the coldness of his personality and the precision of his thought. He was reviewing data of enormous profits, astronomical figures the company had reaped from a new arms deal with one of the warring factions in a distant civil war. He cared not who was victor or vanquished, as long as the demand for the tools of death continued.
A faint chime broke his silence. An automated waiter glided silently across the room, carrying a glass of his favorite Château Lafite Rothschild, a rare vintage that had cost him a small fortune. Arthur picked up the crystal glass, contemplating the reflections of the city lights on its dark crimson surface. A faint smile touched his lips, the smile of a victor who sees the world as a game and himself as its master. He raised the glass high, not towards anyone, but towards the void that, to him, represented the rest of the world.
"To the chaos of the world…" he whispered in a low voice, as if it were a secret between him and the demons inhabiting his soul. "…which I create, and from which I reap the rewards."
And he drank. One sip, then another. The wine flowed down his throat, leaving a bitter taste he had never before experienced from this fine vintage. For a moment, he froze. It was not the usual taste.
A few seconds passed, feeling like an eternity. He felt something strange, savage, gnawing at his insides. It wasn't a sharp pain at first, but a slow tearing sensation, as if an unseen acid had begun to dissolve his internal organs. His eyes widened in surprise, then in suppressed horror. He looked at the glass, then at his hands. The tips of his fingers began to go numb, and a slight tremor ran through his right hand, the one that just moments before had been signing deals worth millions of dollars. His hand trembled, and the glass slipped from his loosening grip, shattering on the polished office floor, spreading a dark red stain like spilled blood.
He tried to rise, to summon his guards, to scream. But his body betrayed him. A sudden heaviness descended upon him, and he fell to his knees with a muffled thud. His voice, which used to command and be obeyed, vanished in his throat as if he had swallowed ash. His hands fumbled at his neck, trying to breathe, but the air had become as heavy as lead. His heart, that tireless engine, began to slow, its beats fading like a distant echo.
"How…?" he whispered with difficulty, the words emerging broken, mixed with the blood that began to trickle from the corner of his mouth. "Who… dared…?"
Those were his last words, the last flickers of his consciousness before a black, dense, bottomless darkness swallowed him. A darkness that ended the empire of a man.
The eternal darkness soon began to fade, not into familiar light, but into a suffocating gray fog. The first thing that returned to Arthur was sound – a distant, incomprehensible hum, like the droning of giant insects, punctuated by sharp, intermittent cries. Then came the sense of touch: the roughness of worn fabric scratching his skin, the hardness of an uneven floor beneath him. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were as heavy as if made of lead.
When he finally managed to blink, he saw a blurry scene, pale colors of primitive shapes. A ceiling of interwoven thatch, and cracked mud walls. A strange smell filled his nostrils – a mixture of mold, burnt wood smoke, and a human sweat he had never encountered before.
I… where am I?
He tried to move, but his body didn't respond as he was accustomed. He felt a horrifying weakness, as if every muscle in him had atrophied. His limbs felt alien, smaller, much less powerful. A dull, faint ache ran through his joints. This is not my body!
A coarse female voice interrupted his attempts to understand. "Has the little monster finally woken up? Get up, you lazybones! The firewood won't collect itself!"
Little monster? Lazy? Who dares?!
Arthur turned his head with difficulty and saw an old woman dressed in tattered rags, looking at him with one half-closed eye, the other covered by a hideous scar. She was carrying an empty basket.
Arthur tried to speak, to issue his usual commands, but what came out of his throat was a dry, painful cough, and a strange, high-pitched voice, the voice of a boy who had not yet reached puberty.
"What…?" he managed to whisper, cold panic seeping into his consciousness.
The old woman cackled drily. "What's wrong with you, Wei Shen? Did you hit your head again while gathering poisonous herbs?"
Wei Shen? Who is this "Wei Shen"?
He tried to stand, but his legs trembled, and he nearly fell. He leaned against the cold mud wall, his heart – the heart of this strange body – pounding violently. He looked at his hands. They were small, thin, covered in old scratches and bruises. These were not the hands that had signed million-dollar deals, not the hands capable of crushing a man's throat in an instant if necessary.
Suddenly, as if a dam had burst in his mind, an overwhelming wave of images, sensations, and information flooded him. These were not his memories, Arthur's, but the memories of someone else. The memories of this 'Wei Shen.'
He saw a wretched mud hut. He saw this old woman's face screaming at him, sometimes hitting him. He saw other disciples mocking him, pushing him, stealing his meager food. He saw himself wearing these ragged clothes, working in barren fields, gathering firewood in a desolate forest. He heard words he didn't initially understand: 'Qi,' 'cultivation,' 'Fallen Leaf Sect,' 'damaged spiritual root.'
It was like having a massive data program uploaded directly into his brain – painful, confusing, and humiliating. The flood lasted for minutes that felt like an eternity, and when it ended, Arthur was panting, drenched in cold sweat, his head feeling as if it would explode.
Now he understood. Or at least, he began to understand part of the catastrophe.
He, Arthur, emperor of armaments, had died, poisoned in his own world. And somehow, in a way that defied all his logic and knowledge, his consciousness had awakened in the body of this miserable boy named Wei Shen, in a primitive, entirely different world. A world where power came not from technology or money, but from something called 'cultivation' – absorbing a natural energy called 'Qi' to strengthen the body and spirit.
And this body, Wei Shen's body, was considered trash even by the standards of this primitive world. 'Fifth-grade damaged spiritual root,' the lowest possible grade, meaning he could barely sense Qi, let alone absorb or use it. He was an outcast even within the poorest and weakest of sects, the 'Fallen Leaf Sect.'
"What irony…" Arthur whispered in Wei Shen's faint voice, a bitter smile playing on the boy's thin lips. "From an emperor who controlled the fates of worlds, to an insect barely able to survive in a tenth-rate sect."
The old woman looked at him suspiciously. "Have you gone mad, boy? Talking to yourself and grinning like an idiot! Come on, move! If you don't bring enough firewood today, there'll be no dinner for you."
Arthur didn't reply. His mind was working rapidly, analyzing the flood of new information. Wei Shen's memories were like a primitive map to a harsh and brutal world. A world where the strong preyed on the weak, and where the mercy or morality he had mocked in his previous life held no value. At least, that part hadn't changed much.
Wei Shen was merely an outer disciple, the lowest of the low in the sect. His daily tasks were collecting firewood, cleaning the spiritual poultry coops (which were just scrawny chickens), and serving the more talented inner and learned disciples. He was everyone's punching bag and a constant source of ridicule.
"This situation cannot continue," Arthur decided coldly. The despair that had permeated Wei Shen's memories found no echo in Arthur's soul. He had never known despair, only calculations of strength and weakness, opportunities and risks.
The Fallen Leaf Sect. A miserable place, scarce resources, and foolish, arrogant elders and disciples. Nothing of value could be achieved here. He had to leave. But where to? The wilderness surrounding the mountain was dangerous, filled with wild beasts and bandits, according to Wei Shen's trembling memories. And lone wandering cultivators rarely survived long without the backing of a strong sect or family.
"I must be careful," Arthur thought. "This body is extremely weak. Any mistake could be fatal, and this time, there might not be another world to transfer to."
'Wei Shen' finally rose, ignoring the old woman's sharp gaze. He moved slowly, his body still adjusting to Arthur's strong consciousness. He exited the wretched hut into the pale sunlight. The outer disciples' area was a collection of mud huts scattered on dusty ground. He saw other disciples, some practicing rudimentary techniques, others squabbling over a piece of moldy bread.
Deep contempt filled Arthur. These were the 'cultivators' who aspired to immortality? Mere dregs fighting over scraps.
But he remembered something from Wei Shen's memories. Whispers among the outer disciples about the 'Forest of Lost Souls' located behind the sect's northern mountain. A place most disciples avoided due to its ill repute – said to be haunted by evil spirits and strange beasts. But... it was also said that some rare spiritual herbs sometimes grew there, or that some weak beasts, manageable even for an outer disciple, carried crystal cores that could be sold for a few low-grade spirit stones.
Wei Shen would tremble with fear whenever he heard the forest's name. But Arthur saw something different.
'A place others avoid... untapped resources... calculated risks…'
He had almost no other choice. Staying in the sect meant a slow death, either from hunger and neglect, or at the hands of a bullying disciple. Expulsion was only a matter of time, especially since Arthur had no intention of playing the role of the submissive 'Wei Shen' forever.
He made his decision with his customary coldness.
That night, under the cover of darkness, 'Wei Shen' slipped out of his hut, carrying a small bundle with all his 'possessions' – a piece of dry bread he had stolen from the kitchen, and a cracked clay water flask. He had no weapons, only a sharpened stone Wei Shen used to cut small branches.
He stood for a moment at the sect's border, looking at the dark forest stretching before him like the gaping maw of a beast. He didn't feel the fear he had expected from Wei Shen's memories. Instead, he felt something akin to... cold anticipation.
"Chaos is the engine of evolution," he recalled his own words. And now, he was stepping into the heart of chaos.