According to the memories now woven into Grey's soul, the land upon which he stood was no ordinary ruin, but a corroded zone, a scar left behind wherever the blinding radiance of God's power descended. In the ancient histories of this world, such radiance was once revered. Now, it was feared more than death. For wherever that light fell, life did not merely vanish; it was erased, stripped of form, name, and meaning.
Sometimes it perished.
Sometimes it twisted.
Sometimes… it became something that should never have existed.
Above all of this devastation, suspended eternally in the heavens, was the colossal hand.
A hand so vast that mountains looked like mere pebbles beside it. A hand so still and yet so oppressive that even the sun seemed unwilling to shine too brightly under its shadow. It had appeared thousands of years ago, visible from every continent, its fingers curved as if gently holding the sky in its grasp.
With its arrival came beings that defied logic and morality... bizarre existences, born from warped laws and shattered principles, creatures nourished by chaos, corruption, and whatever remnants of sanity mortals once possessed.
The cultivation world, proud and mighty, had never recovered.
Sects that had stood for millions of years fell in mere days.
Experts who once moved mountains fled like frightened mortals, carrying what survivors they could and abandoning vast territories to God's twisted might.
Months ago, God's radiance had struck this city.
Families dissolved in an instant.
Children turned to ash before their screams could form.
Animals twisted into horrors that wandered aimlessly, as though searching for the memories they once had.
Even plants contorted, writhing into silent, motionless shapes that no longer resembled anything born of soil.
Everyone died.
Everyone… except for the boy whose body Grey now inhabited.
Grey did not know why that boy survived.
Perhaps it was luck.
Perhaps it was cruelty.
Perhaps survival itself was just another method of punishment in a world this broken.
But whatever the reason, one truth was clear:
Survival was not a blessing...
In a place like this, surviving only meant living long enough to feel terror again.
The beasts in corrupted zones were not simple creatures. Many possessed intelligence. Many bore grudges. And many, far too many, feasted not on flesh, but on memories, fear, and despair. Even mutated beasts were a luxury; the true horrors were the bizarre existences that slipped between shadows like hungry phantoms.
The boy, the original Grey... had only reached the second level of Qi Accumulation. In this world, that level of cultivation was scarcely a candle against a storm. Not nearly enough to resist even a low–rank beast.
And so, inevitably, he died.
Now it was the new Grey who limped across this forsaken land, the purple crystal clutched protectively in his palm. Each step sent a pulse of agony up his fractured leg, yet he forced himself to walk faster. His memories warned him: beneath the tranquil surface of the blood–red lake lay a seventh–level mutated beast, patient and territorial. If he lingered, it would sense him.
And the sky, already dimming into shades of rust and purple, warned of something else.
Night.
When true night arrived, the bizarre existences awakened fully.
If they found him exposed beneath the open heavens…
His second life would end the same night it began.
His breath grew uneven, each inhale ragged, each exhale shallow. The forest around him grew denser, its branches clawing at the ruins like skeletal fingers trying to drag the dead back into the world of the living. Green foliage grew wild and lush, but here, even beauty felt wrong, like a flower blooming on a battlefield still warm with blood.
Even innocent patches of moss or pools of water forced him to take long, winding detours. In a corroded zone, safety was always a lie. Anything beautiful might be venom. Anything silent might be predatory. Anything familiar might be only wearing the mask of what it once was.
Twilight thickened into a deep murmur of color before Grey finally stumbled upon the shattered remains of a once-proud building. Three fractured walls still stood, leaning inward like weary guardians. It was not safe, nothing here was safe... but it was shelter.
He dragged himself inside, half dead from exhaustion, and crumpled onto the cold stone floor. A spike of pain shot up his spine, turning his vision white at the edges. Sweat beaded across his brow in trembling droplets as he fought to remain conscious.
He groped blindly for debris, broken planks, half–charred stones, fallen beams, and used them to block the doorway. The crude barrier would not stop a beast, but it might misdirect one. Sometimes in this world, the illusion of a wall mattered as much as a real one.
Only after the last piece slid into place did he allow his back to rest against the wall.
'What kind of world did I transmigrate into…?'
As if answering him, the darkness outside stirred.
Groans echoed across the ruined streets.
Whispers slithered through broken windows.
Something with too many legs scuttled silently over shattered glass.
The shrill cry of a twisted beast broke the stillness like a rusted blade scraping against bone.
Grey's heartbeat hammered painfully in his ears. His hands trembled, but he forced the shaking to stop. In a place like this, panic was a luxury only those not facing death could afford. What mattered now was not fear, but survival. And survival required clarity.
His body, however, felt anything but capable.
His leg was broken.
His skin torn.
His muscles close to collapse.
If he was still incapable of walking by dawn, he would not live to see a second sunrise. Something out there, anything out there, would kill him first.
Slowly, he uncorked the battered water bottle he'd found. The liquid inside tasted of metal and dust, but he drank in careful sips until the dryness in his throat eased slightly.
Then, taking a deep breath, he straightened his shattered leg.
The agony was instant, profound, all-consuming.
He bit down so hard on his lip that his mouth filled with the sharp tang of blood. His vision blurred. His hands shook as he forced the bone to realign, inch by inch. Time itself seemed to stretch, dilating into an endless river of pain.
By the time he wrapped a strip of filthy cloth around the injury, his whole body trembled. His shirt clung to him, soaked through with cold sweat. His skin had turned pale, like moonlit snow.
At last, he sagged back, panting.
"…Now… I can study this crystal."
His voice was a whisper lost in the rising hum of the night.
He lifted the purple stone, watching the faint light dance across its surface. Under the thin thread of moonlight filtering through a gap in the wall, the crystal appeared quiet, almost ordinary. But Grey had already felt its warmth before… and warmth in a corroded zone was never ordinary.
He touched it gently to his chest.
Light flared.
Soft, but undeniable.
Warm, but ancient.
A soothing sensation flowed through him, uncoiling from the point of contact and spreading through his limbs like a warm tide. The pounding in his skull faded. The burning in his leg lessened. His aching muscles felt almost weightless.
Grey inhaled sharply.
"It only heals… when I touch it."
His gaze deepened.
In a world where treasures were rarer than hope, this crystal was priceless. Something people would kill for, not once, but a hundred times.
'If anyone sees this… they'll rip it from me while I'm still breathing.'
His eyes lowered to the half-healed wound across his chest.
He didn't think.
He didn't hesitate.
He simply pressed the crystal to the wound, hard.
Agony exploded through him, ripping through his body like lightning. Grey clamped both hands over his mouth, holding back the scream that clawed at his throat. Tears spilled from his eyes as the crystal's glow intensified, sinking slowly into his flesh.
Inch by inch.
Moment by moment.
Until the last sliver vanished beneath his skin.
Grey collapsed, shaking violently, his breath coming in shallow bursts. His chest burned, as though a second heart had been forced into him. But the pain soon softened. The crystal pulsed faintly inside him, and before his eyes, his wounds closed.
Not quickly.
Not slowly.
But with a deliberate grace, as though time had decided to be kind for the first time in years.
His bones aligned.
His cuts knitted.
Even the deep gash at the back of his head faded, as though the world had rewound itself.
Fifteen minutes later, Grey lay upon the cold stone,whole.
Not a scar remained.
Exhaustion swept over him in a crushing wave. Despite the cries of twisted creatures roaming the darkness outside, his eyelids grew heavy, and sleep claimed him without mercy.
Grey awoke with a sharp inhale.
For a heartbeat, he expected the familiar ceiling of his old room. But the scent of dust, rust, and dried blood washed over him, grounding him in this new world.
'Ah… yes. I transmigrated.'
He rose slowly, and froze.
There was no pain.
His body felt light, almost unfamiliar in its wholeness. Within his chest, he felt a faint, rhythmic pulse, not a heartbeat, but the gentle thrum of the crystal resting deep within him. It felt… comforting. Alien. Eternal.
"So this… is real."
His fingers brushed the skin over his sternum. No wound, no scar. Only warmth.
Strength hummed softly beneath his fingertips. Not true power, only an illusion born from recovery, but it was still more than he had possessed before.
Finally, he could move.
Finally, he could think.
"While I search for food," he murmured, "I can digest more memories. I need to understand this world."
He rummaged through his pouch, uncovering what few possessions the previous Grey had left behind: a jade slip, a few scattered trinkets, and food so spoiled even desperation could not make it edible.
His eyes landed on the jade slip.
As he focused on it, symbols swam across its surface, foreign, archaic, twisting like serpents of ink. But as he continued to stare, they shifted, reshaping themselves into words he could understand.
His breath caught.
"Sky Mist… Cultivation Art."
The technique the previous Grey had practiced. A method of guiding Qi. A path upward.
The slip said that mist was ideal for cultivation, amplifying progress manifold, but even without it, the method was still usable.
Grey exhaled, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips.
"No mist… but even so, this is priceless."
He was only at the second level of Qi Accumulation, so weak he barely qualified as a cultivator. Yet even this was a beginning. A foothold on the cliff of survival.
All he needed was time.
Time to sense the Qi within him.
Time to breathe.
Time to grow.
For the first time since awakening in this new world, Grey's eyes softened. He had survived. And with the crystal in his chest. With the cultivation art in his hand… He had a chance to climb.
**☺️😉**