In a small wooden hut, barely held together with crooked beams and haphazard planks, the wind howled through narrow gaps. Patches of old cloth and dried moss covered what holes they could, but the bitter cold of the northern wind still crept in like an unwelcome guest.
The creaking of a frail bed broke the silence.
With a groan, Ese stirred. His breath came out in short, visible puffs.
"Wh–what's happening…?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse. "Where am I? Why is it so damn cold…"
His eyes fluttered open, dry and heavy. A dim ray of pale light filtered through a jagged crack in the wall, illuminating dust motes dancing lazily in the air. He blinked, disoriented. The hut around him looked like it had been abandoned for years—broken floorboards, cobwebs in corners, and a rusted lantern lying sideways.
He tried to sit up, but his body screamed in protest. Every joint ached, and sharp pains flared through his limbs, especially around the channels running through his arms and spine. It felt like his very blood was frozen, his meridians tight and inflamed.
He winced.
"Damn… even my soul hurts," he muttered, gritting his teeth as he forced himself upright.
A flood of foreign memories crashed into him—some blurry, some too vivid. He clutched his forehead as faces he didn't recognize flashed in his mind. A name. Ese. That was his name, wasn't it? But not just his. The boy whose body this was… his name had also been Ese.
He leaned against the wall for support, feeling the rough, splintered wood under his palm. The truth slowly dawned on him.
"I died… didn't I?"
Memories from his old world floated up—late nights buried in video games, delivery food stacked on his table, the sound of his mother's laughter long gone. He had wasted away his life after his parents passed, living like a king of rot in his cluttered apartment until a stroke had taken him while he was too lazy to even stand.
Now, he had awoken in this fragile body. Not a dream. Not a game. This was real.
"I transmigrated…"
He glanced around again. His eyes landed on a faded cloth robe hanging by the door, and a chipped wooden basin with stale water. A small shelf with a few scrolls rested on the side. He dragged himself to the edge of the bed, grimacing with every motion. The pain wasn't subsiding—it was the kind that came from a weak, damaged core.
He looked down at his arms—skinny, bruised, and pale. No wonder. This body was pitifully malnourished.
Then, a memory surfaced, not his own—this body's memory. A man with gray robes and stern eyes. A teacher. He had found this boy Ese in a burned village, adopted him out of pity while traveling on business. The sect they belonged to… Mithila Sect.
A low-ranked sect, barely known. Located in the far north of Bugol Planet, in the region even the strong had forgotten.
"So this is my new life, huh?" Ese murmured to no one.
He sat still for a moment, taking it all in. The cold, the pain, the memories, the poverty. It all clawed at him. But strangely, he felt… calm.
His lips curled into a slight smirk.
"I didn't expect my second life to start lower than my first… but maybe this time, I'll crawl upward instead of lying down."
He reached toward one of the scrolls on the dusty shelf. It was titled Basic Meridians Cleansing Technique. Simple. Crude. But when he opened it, his eyes narrowed.
Lines of text flashed before him—and stuck, as if etched into his soul. He blinked once. He had memorized it entirely.
And as he read it a second time, frowning, he whispered,
"This technique is full of holes… no wonder I feel like my veins are tearing apart."
A grin broke across his face, faint and sharp. Something inside him stirred—an instinct.
I can fix this.
Ese clutched the scroll for a moment longer, then slowly lowered it, his gaze dull and distant.
In his mind, echoes of laughter and scorn rang loud and clear.
> "He's the weakest in the sect. Useless."
"Why keep deadweight around?"
"Even his teacher's gone now. What's left for him?"
He remembered the sneers, the subtle kicks during sparring, the way even junior disciples treated him like filth. Rage stirred in his chest—not a fiery, explosive kind, but cold, quiet, like black ink spreading slowly through water.
This body's former owner—his former self now—had tried to prove them wrong. Pushed beyond limits in a desperate bid to breakthrough. Attempted to forcibly rush the second layer of Body Building with barely a working foundation.
It had torn his meridians apart.
And killed him.
Ese clenched his fist. The pain in his body flared in response, but he didn't let go.
"…Don't worry," he muttered under his breath, voice steady. "I'll try my best to get revenge for you. After all, I am you now."
He paused, his expression softening just a little.
"But… as our teacher used to say—'Revenge breeds revenge.' So let's see the situation first. One step at a time."
His voice was calm, but beneath it was a quiet determination. One that wasn't born from justice or pride—but survival.
He forced himself up and limped over to the corner where a faded, patched cloth bag sat. It was old, torn at the edges, tied with a fraying rope. He sat down beside it, breathing heavily as he opened it with care.
Inside were all the worldly possessions of a struggling outer disciple.
Seven low-grade spirit stones, each faintly glowing with residual Qi. Likely the result of years of saving—doing odd tasks, taking beatings, and enduring humiliation.
He took them out slowly, laying them gently on the floor.
Next came a simple iron sword—his only weapon. Common grade. Not forged with special alloys or runes, just a standard-issue tool given to anyone who stepped into the first layer of cultivation.
Ese stared at the blade for a long moment. The hilt was worn, grip faded. There were chips along the edge. It had clearly seen use, but never victory.
"…This was all you had to your name, huh?" he murmured, brushing dust from the blade. "Then I'll start from here."
He gathered the spirit stones, placing them carefully beside him. They were too few to afford a healing pill or hire a physician. But they held enough Qi to nourish his broken body if used wisely.
What he lacked in strength, he now made up for in something terrifying—perfect memory and divine-level comprehension.
That was his gift. His curse. His edge.
He closed his eyes, letting the Basic Meridians Cleansing Technique replay in his mind, then rewrote it in real time—adjusting the flow pattern, reducing strain, correcting the faulty Qi circulation that had led to backlash.
His breathing slowed. Then steadied.
Even if his body was ruined, he could still fix what others couldn't even see.