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Heavenly Root: The Peasant’s Harem path

Joody
14
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 14 chs / week.
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Synopsis
Dying was easy. Living again, in a world of swords and spirits, is the real punishment. When Han Li, a burned-out delivery driver from modern-day Earth, wakes up in the dying body of a dirt-poor farmer in an ancient cultivation realm, he barely survives. Worse, he must hide the truth — in this world, strange souls are called demons. Possession means death. To stay alive, he fakes the old Lin Xun’s memories and grits his way through backbreaking farm life… until a sensual voice echoes in his mind. > “The Heavenly Root System has been activated.” With every intimate encounter, his strength grows. Every pleasure brings him closer to power. And every woman he touches may bind him — or betray him. In a world ruled by martial sects, spiritual beasts, and brutal clans, Lin Xun must climb from the mud using the only weapon this body was ever blessed with… His root. From village girls to arrogant princesses and dangerous assassins, Lin Xun’s harem will be both his strength and his curse. Pleasure is his path. Power is his prize. But if he slips, he’ll lose more than his life — he’ll lose his soul. — A mature harem cultivation novel packed with martial arts, betrayal, taboo love, and a forbidden system that feeds on lust. [18+] Dual Cultivation | Rebirth | Martial Arts | Harem | Romance | Ancient China-Inspired Fantasy | Hidden Identity | Cultivation System
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Chapter 1 - One

Dying was easy. Living again—in a world of swords and spirits—was the real punishment.

Rain tapped through the thatched roof, dripping onto the dirt floor beside Han Li. Each drop formed a shallow puddle, reflecting the flickering glow of a dying oil lamp. The air reeked of mold, pig dung, and something sour—like sickness baked into old wood.

His body ached.

No—this body ached.

It wasn't his.

Groaning, he tried to sit up. Pain lanced through his ribs like a mule's kick.

"What the hell…" His voice was hoarse. Foreign. Slurred, like someone who hadn't spoken in days. He touched his chest—felt a bird-thin ribcage, skin stretched tight over bone. His hand was calloused, cracked. The nails yellowed with dirt.

Then came the memories.

Not his own.

Flashes. Blurred. Chaotic.

A scythe. A collapsed rice field. Blood in the mud. A woman screaming. Then—nothing.

The last thing he remembered was a delivery truck, a blinding light, and the crunch of metal on bone.

"Shit."

This wasn't a hospital. Or a dream.

Somehow, Han Li had woken in the broken body of a dying peasant, worlds away from ramen nights, city horns, and takeout apps.

Welcome to hell—or something like it.

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The village, if it could be called that, was a cluster of mud huts clinging to the edge of a mountain. Outside the single window, rice paddies stretched beneath misty hills. Crooked fences. Scarecrows with missing limbs.

No electricity. No running water. No Wi-Fi.

Just chickens. Lots of chickens.

One strutted into the hut like it owned the place and pecked at his foot.

"Hey!" Han Li kicked weakly. "I'm not dead yet, dammit."

The chicken squawked and left in a huff, feathers and pride trailing behind.

He tried to stand again—slower this time. His knees buckled. He leaned on a cracked wooden beam to steady himself.

In the corner, a rusted pot sat over a cold hearth. Inside, a stale chunk of rice. Moldy. Green and fuzzy.

He bit into it anyway.

Hunger made monsters of men.

He staggered outside, barefoot on wet earth. Villagers paused to gawk—wide-eyed children, bent-backed elders, a woman with a basket of herbs.

"Isn't that Old Lin's boy?"

"Didn't he die two nights ago?"

"He's cursed. Marked by spirits."

Han Li met their eyes. Didn't blink. Didn't speak.

They looked away.

So much for a warm welcome.

He reached the well, scooped water into his hands, and drank. Cold relief washed down his throat. He splashed more on his face.

Then he saw himself—reflected in the water.

Sunken cheeks. Gaunt frame. Long lashes above tired eyes. Something soft, almost feminine, about the face—but hardened by sun and struggle.

This was Lin Xun.

A peasant. Barely twenty. Body breaking down from hunger and work. Abandoned. Alone. Already half-dead when Han Li's soul took root.

Lucky bastard. You got out easy.

He didn't know this world's rules, but one thing was clear:

If he wanted to live, he had to adapt. Fast.

That night, the fever returned.

He tossed in bed, drenched in sweat, the frame creaking under him. Dreams—or visions—raked his mind.

Monsters with jade eyes. Humans flying on swords. Floating temples. Armies tearing mountains apart with bare hands.

And then—a tree.

Massive. Blinding. Silver roots twisting through space and time.

A voice whispered from the dark. Feminine. Ancient. Amused.

> "You reek of desire, lost soul. Let us see if you are worthy of the Heavenly Root."

A jolt tore through his spine.

He woke with a gasp.

On the ceiling, a glowing lotus symbol pulsed once, then vanished.

The pain in his chest—gone.

He looked at his hands.

They were glowing.

Only for a moment. Then—nothing.

Morning brought a knock at the door.

"Lin Xun?" A woman's voice. Hesitant. Kind. "Are you… alive?"

He cracked the door.

She stood in the mist—older than him by a few years. Gentle eyes. Wet hair clinging to her cheeks. A bundle of herbs clutched to her chest.

"I brought willow root," she said softly. "For your fever."

Han Li blinked. "Mianhua?"

The name came unbidden.

She looked startled, then nodded.

He remembered now. Or Lin Xun did. The shy widow who brought herbs. Her husband died in a flood. People whispered about her—said she was unlucky.

She frowned. "Your eyes… they look different."

Han Li smirked. "Everything looks different after almost dying."

She tilted her head. "So… you really came back from the dead."

"Something like that."

She handed him the herbs. "Boil them. You'll feel better."

"Thank you," he said. "Really."

She lingered, gaze drawn to the strange calm in his face. Then she turned and walked away, the scent of wet jasmine trailing behind her.

That night, Han Li sat cross-legged by the cold hearth, the pot of herbs boiling.

He stared at the ceiling—at nothing—and then down at his hands.

"I don't know what's going on," he whispered. "But if this is a second life…"

His voice firmed.

"I won't waste it rotting in the dirt."

A faint wind swept through the hut.

Far in the mountains, a celestial root stirred.

The Heavenly Root Dao System was listening.