"What… is this?"
The young man's voice trembled slightly as his eyes fluttered open.
A heavy fog lingered in his mind, memories swirling like broken fragments of a shattered mirror.
The last thing he remembered was standing beneath the heavens, his entire body charred and bloodied, his will locked in a desperate struggle against the final tribulation lightning of the True Immortal Realm—the very peak of cultivation.
"I failed," he muttered bitterly. "I should have been dead."
The memory came flooding back in full force—the endless storm of heavenly might, bolts of divine thunder crashing down upon him with merciless precision.
For twenty-three hours he had endured, every muscle and bone in his body screaming, every strand of his soul stretched to its limit.
Yet, at the final strike, his foundation had collapsed.
His essence had been shattered, his body disintegrated into ash.
"My accumulation wasn't enough…" He sighed, voice tinged with both regret and acceptance.
His eyes dimmed for a few breaths as he let the weight of his failure sink in.
But then, almost imperceptibly, the sadness faded from his expression.
His lips curled into a faint, resolute smile.
"No matter. The heavens may have rejected me once, but I'll ascend again. This time, I'll succeed."
He tried to move, but his limbs felt stiff and heavy, as though they had lain unused for years.
The first few attempts were clumsy—his fingers twitched weakly, his arms trembled—but gradually, strength returned to him.
With effort, he sat up, then stood, his bare feet pressing against the cool wooden floor.
His eyes landed on a mirror nearby.
A young man stared back—a stranger with smooth skin, bright eyes, and a face that could be considered handsome by mortal standards.
Yet he merely frowned. Compared to his original appearance, this one was almost pitiful.
His former self had been a being of ethereal beauty, revered by gods and feared by demons alike.
"This face…" He chuckled softly. "Trash compared to before."
As he studied his reflection, a sharp pain suddenly pierced his mind.
Memories, foreign yet vivid, poured into him—scenes of laughter, drinking, and foolish indulgence.
The final memory was clear: collapsing onto the bed, his heart slowing, breath fading… dying quietly in his sleep.
"What an unlucky young man," he murmured, shaking his head. "To lose one's life to drink—such a pointless end."
But then, a strange silence settled in his mind.
"How… am I alive?" he whispered. His brows furrowed deeply.
The heavens had annihilated his body, his soul scattered amidst divine thunder.
By all laws of nature, he should have ceased to exist.
He sat down cross-legged on the floor and closed his eyes, focusing inward.
Threads of spiritual energy flickered faintly within him—weak, almost nonexistent.
The meridians were fragile, the dantian barely intact. This body was mortal to the core.
"Reincarnation? No… this doesn't feel like it." His frown deepened.
"A chance encounter? Divine interference? Or… did my soul latch onto this vessel by sheer coincidence?"
He could find no answer. The heavens offered no clue, the silence absolute.
After a long while, he opened his eyes again. Despite the mystery, a glimmer of determination burned in his gaze.
"Very well," he said quietly. "If fate has granted me another chance, then I will use it. Whether in this world or the next—I will climb the path to immortality once more."
"Although I'm only in the mortal realm, I should still take precautions," he murmured to himself, tapping his chin thoughtfully.
"Who knows if I'll ever have a third life after this? Dying once was humiliating enough. Twice would just be pathetic."
He looked around the modest room. The faint scent of alcohol and dust filled the air.
"Let's see what I can work with," he muttered, pulling a pen and a few sheets of paper from his bag.
He sat cross-legged, his back straight, his expression calm but focused.
As soon as the tip of the pen touched the paper, his movements became fluid, precise — as though guided by a rhythm older than time itself.
Ancient runes began to take shape, each line drawn with deliberate care.
They weren't ordinary symbols; they carried a resonance that stirred the air, whispering faintly like voices from forgotten eras.
A faint golden light emerged from the first page, and a low hum filled the quiet room.
The entire space vibrated subtly as spiritual energy stirred around him, drawn to the intricate sigils.
He smiled faintly. "Still works… even with this mortal body. So, the laws of this world aren't completely sealed against me."
For a moment, he let his thoughts drift.
Countless memories flashed in his mind — realms of chaos and light, wars between immortals, forbidden techniques whispered by ancient spirits.
Even after all that, he had fallen short of true ascension.
And now, he was here — in a mortal shell, starting from the bottom again.
"Having the knowledge of countless trillions of years should count for something," he said lightly, returning to his task. "Creating a few defensive charms should be child's play."
Time passed unnoticed. When he finally stopped writing, thirty minutes had already gone by.
Before him lay a hundred sheets of paper, each inscribed with glowing runes.
Some emitted warmth, others radiated faint cold, while a few flickered with unstable, chaotic energy.
Each was a masterpiece in its own right — capable of striking down foes, shielding against attacks, or whisking him away in an instant.
"These will do," he said, nodding in satisfaction. "Attack, defense, teleportation… and a few for disguise. A decent start."
He gathered the sheets neatly, sealing them with a small gesture.
The glow dimmed, and the runes became dormant, awaiting his command.
"With this, I should be safe — at least for now." He allowed himself a small smile.
"Even if the heavens reject me again, they'll have to work harder next time."
Just as he was about to relax, a thought struck him. His expression stiffened slightly.
"Wait… something feels off."
He looked around the room again, brows furrowed.
Then it hit him — the faint sound of someone moving about outside.
He stepped into the kitchen — and froze.
The transmigrator's eyes widened, his expression shifting from calm composure to stunned disbelief.
His gaze instinctively dropped, and there it was — his "little brother," in all its unabashed glory, hardening up freely as if celebrating its freedom.