"The life of a mortal... not even fate bothers to glance at it."
Rain slashed like blades.
The wind howled like wailing ghosts.
Shen curled up in the darkest corner of a ruined temple, his frail, skeletal body wrapped in filthy rags.
His fingertips were long frozen stiff.
Blood crawled sluggishly beneath his skin, and several wounds had crusted over, festering with infection.
But none of that was the worst part.
The worst... was hunger.
His stomach had long been empty. The last of his bile was vomited up days ago.
Now, only a searing, gnawing pain churned inside, devouring what little remained of his sanity.
He no longer remembered how many days he'd gone without food. Three? Five?
No one would tell him.
No one cared.
---
This body was named Shen.
Fifteen years old.
Orphan.
No spiritual root.
When his distant relatives tossed him into the ruined temple, bound in a burlap sack, they said only one thing:
> "Alive, you're a burden. Dead, you're a relief."
He was only eight at the time.
He cried until his lungs gave out.
But that man never looked back.
That day, Shen understood:
In this world, without a spiritual root, even existing was a mistake.
---
The temple walls groaned as the storm raged on.
The wind tore through the cracks, rattling the broken roof and decayed statues.
Even the gods seemed to have abandoned this place.
Shen's body shivered—
Not from the cold.
But from hate.
He hated his weakness—how he was cursed and kicked just for begging.
He hated those cultivators who wouldn't even spare him a glance as they stepped over him.
He hated this world that never left him even a sliver of hope.
Once, driven by madness and hunger, he'd crawled into a wealthy household's kitchen to steal a bun.
He barely got a bite before a servant caught him.
That man—just a low-ranked cultivator—sent him flying with a single slap.
Two ribs cracked.
As Shen lay on the ground, coughing blood and sobbing, the man merely frowned.
> "A filthy beggar with no spiritual root dares to enter a cultivator's home?"
"You're not even worth the dirt on a dog's paw."
Shen never cried again.
---
He grew used to it.
No one would feed him.
No one would speak for him.
Everyone despised, exiled, or ignored him.
He was like discarded data in the spiritual root system of this world—
A bug in the grand cultivation code.
---
That night, the wind and rain howled louder than ever.
With a bang, the temple door burst open.
Shen's eyes snapped open.
Dead. Hollow. Like still water.
And then—
Agonizing pain exploded in his skull.
It was as if thousands of steel needles stabbed into the base of his brain, shredding his mind.
He screamed, clutching his head, rolling on the ground, limbs spasming.
His eyes rolled back.
Something was tearing at his soul.
Fragments of memory—images, sounds, blood—flooded his mind:
Gunfire.
Explosions.
Combat.
Poison.
The silent slice of a curved blade across a throat.
Ambush.
Lures.
Disguises.
A silver breathing mask as he beheaded a foreign dictator amid the flames of war.
He was Shadow.
Earth's deadliest assassin.
Feared by governments, mobs, militaries alike.
His missions never failed—until the last one.
A suicide bomb. A mutual death.
Then... darkness.
Until now.
He was reborn.
---
Shen collapsed to his knees, gasping, drenched in cold sweat.
He looked up, and for the first time—
There was light in his eyes.
But it wasn't hope.
It was murder.
This world had never once smiled at him.
So why should he look up to it?
---
The next morning.
Shen stood at the village square, eyes blank, watching as a flying vessel descended from the sky.
The Lingyun Sect had arrived.
This time, they weren't here to recruit disciples—
They were here for someone newly tested with a Heavenly Water Root.
Wan'er.
Wan'er was the only person who still spoke to Shen.
They'd grown up together.
Picked wild fruits together.
Hid from storms in caves.
She once sneaked him food and whispered:
> "When I get into the sect... I'll come back and save you."
But she never got the chance.
She was taken—
Forcefully.
Without mercy.
A gray-robed cultivator slapped her across the face and said,
> "With a spiritual root, you belong to the sect. It's not your choice."
She screamed and struggled.
> "I don't want to go!"
In the crowd, Shen stood silently at the back.
His fists clenched so tightly that blood oozed between his fingers.
And in that moment, he finally understood:
This world was never about choices.
It was about orders.
---
That night, Shen didn't sleep.
He sat before the fire, unmoving, eyes locked on the stone tiles of the ruined temple.
After a long while, he reached out.
With a piece of charred wood, he began sketching—
Tactical models from his past life.
Bit by bit, he redrew the techniques of death:
Breath Suppression
Bone-Needle Footwork
Curved Blade to the Throat
Poison Mist Assault
Gun Disassembly into Explosive Traps
A beggar.
A cripple.
A "zero-root mortal."
In the darkness, he drew in silence—
And the gods didn't dare look directly at his face.
---
He whispered:
> "If this world insists on grinding mortals into the dirt…"
"Then I'll crawl out of that dirt...
And crush your lives beneath my feet."
---
That night, the fire in the ruined temple never went out.
Shadow—reborn.