The sky above the ancient mountains was heavy that night.
Clouds rolled low, thick and dark, as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath. Thunder growled in the distance, but no rain fell. In the silence between the echoes, a single thought lingered—old, cold, and unyielding.
So this is death.
In his previous life, he had stood at the peak.
He had broken sects with his fists, crushed geniuses beneath his feet, and walked a cultivation path no scripture dared to record. He bowed to no Heaven, acknowledged no law, and refused every so-called "chosen" destiny.
That was why they erased him.
Not defeated.
Not surpassed.
Erased.
When the final heavenly tribulation descended, it was not meant to test him. It was meant to delete him—body, soul, and name.
Or so Heaven believed.
A cry tore through the night.
It was raw, weak, and unfamiliar.
His consciousness snapped awake, dragged violently into a body that was far too small, far too fragile. Breath burned in his lungs. Cold air stabbed his skin. Every nerve screamed.
He opened his eyes.
Firelight flickered above him. Rough wooden beams. Cracked stone walls. The smell of blood, smoke, and damp earth filled his senses.
A hut.
A poor one.
A woman lay beside him, her face pale, sweat-soaked hair clinging to her forehead. Her chest rose and fell weakly as she turned her head, eyes trembling as they focused on him.
"A… a boy…"
Relief washed over her exhausted features.
He tried to move, but his limbs barely responded. His body was heavy, numb, like it didn't belong to him.
Reincarnation…
The realization came instantly.
Not shock.
Not confusion.
Acceptance.
His soul was far too old to panic over something so trivial.
He turned his attention inward—and immediately felt it.
Cracks.
This body was wrong.
Meridians thin and twisted. Blood sluggish. Bones brittle, as if they had failed to form properly. His dantian—where cultivation should one day take root—was silent. Empty. Worse than empty.
Defective.
In his past life, such a body wouldn't even qualify as a servant.
Interesting.
The woman reached out, trembling fingers brushing his cheek. "Live… please live…"
Her voice broke.
He did not understand the language consciously, yet meaning flowed naturally into his mind. The soul and the body were already fusing.
Footsteps rushed outside. The door creaked open.
An old man entered, his hair gray, eyes sharp despite his age. He took one look at the newborn, then frowned.
"Another weak one?" he muttered.
He placed two fingers on the child's chest, closed his eyes, and sent a thread of energy probing inward.
The moment that energy touched the boy's body, it recoiled.
The old man's eyes snapped open.
"…This child," he said slowly, "has flawed bones."
The hut fell silent.
The woman's breath hitched. "Elder… what does that mean?"
The old man hesitated, then sighed. "It means his cultivation path is broken before it begins."
A death sentence in this world.
Outside, thunder finally roared.
Years passed like drifting ash.
The village was called Stone Root Village, tucked deep within the mountains where ancient beasts roamed and powerful clans never looked twice. It was a place of hunters, not cultivators.
And he grew.
Slowly. Quietly.
By the age of three, he had already confirmed it.
This world was savage.
Children stronger than adults wrestled beasts. Bloodlines determined destiny. Those born "perfect" were taken by clans. Those born flawed were left behind—or worse.
He belonged to the latter.
While other children trained their bodies, he was forbidden from joining. While they practiced breathing techniques taught by wandering cultivators, he was told not to bother.
"Your bones can't handle it."
"Don't dream too high."
"You'll only cripple yourself."
He listened.
He smiled.
He obeyed.
And at night, alone in the dark, he cultivated.
Not qi.
Not yet.
First, he observed.
His ancient soul unfolded quietly, peeling back the laws of this world like brittle parchment. The cultivation here was crude—reliant on bloodlines, Heaven's favor, and borrowed power.
They called it perfection.
He saw it for what it truly was.
A leash.
So Heaven here still fears freedom.
He began with the only thing this body could endure.
Pain.
Every night, he forced his weak muscles to move beyond their limits. Every breath was measured. Every heartbeat counted. He refined his body not with techniques—but with survival.
His bones screamed. His blood burned.
Several times, he nearly died.
But each time, something deep within his soul responded.
Not a system.
Not a voice.
A scripture.
Ancient.
Silent.
Unyielding.
Words that were not written, yet engraved themselves into his being.
A cultivation path that did not ask Heaven for permission.
When he was five, the first sign appeared.
The village's strongest hunter returned wounded, blood soaking his arm.
"A beast," he gasped. "A horned lizard… near the eastern ridge."
Panic spread.
That beast was known. A minor ancient descendant. Its blood alone could strengthen a cultivator's body—if they survived.
That night, while the village debated sending help, a small figure slipped into the forest.
Barefoot. Silent.
The boy moved through the shadows like a ghost.
He tracked the beast not with strength, but patience. Observed its breathing. Its habits. Its weakness.
When it finally noticed him, it was already too late.
The fight was ugly.
No techniques. No glory.
Only blood, dirt, and teeth.
When dawn came, the horned lizard lay dead.
And the boy knelt beside it, hands trembling as he pressed his palm against its warm corpse.
Slowly, carefully, he refined its blood into his own.
His bones cracked.
His body convulsed.
But deep inside—
Something awakened.
For the first time, his dantian stirred.
Not bright.
Not pure.
But alive.
He looked up at the pale morning sky, eyes calm beyond his years.
"Perfection," he whispered softly, voice steady despite the blood on his hands.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Is a lie."
And somewhere far above, beyond clouds and law, Heaven shuddered—
just a little.