It's funny, isn't it? One moment, you're complaining about your aching back after a long day at the office, wondering if you should finally splurge on that fancy ergonomic chair.
The next, you're a squalling baby, staring up at a thatched roof, and realizing your biggest concern is whether the giant, glowing bug flying past the window is going to zap you.
Spoiler alert: it wasn't a bug. It was a cultivator, and he wasn't glowing, he was just really, really fast. And probably annoyed I was staring.
My first year in this new, wild world was a blur of fear and confusion. I remember the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke, the constant chill that seemed to seep into your bones no matter how many rags they wrapped you in.
I remember my father, a man whose face was already etched with lines of worry even then, sitting cross-legged in the corner of our tiny hut, his breath coming in slow, deliberate gasps.
He called it cultivation, a way to gather the spiritual energy of the world into himself, to grow stronger. He was trying, bless his heart, but even to my infant eyes, he looked… tired. Like he was fighting a losing battle against the very air.
Then there were the screams. Not just the usual village squabbles, but the kind that made your blood run cold.
I remember my mother, her usually gentle hands trembling, clutching me close, her face pale with terror. She'd be out there, with the other women, kneeling in the dust, begging.
Begging the powerful figures who descended from the sky like Vengeful Spirits, their robes swirling, their eyes cold and dismissive.
Begging them not to kill everyone, not to burn our homes, not to take what little we had. I saw a lot of things in that first year.
Too much for a baby, or for a man who'd lived a quiet, unremarkable life.
Back on Earth, I was just… basic. John Smith, accountant, lived a decent life, died peacefully in his sleep at 62 after a hearty meal of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
No grand adventures, no world-changing discoveries, just a solid, dependable existence.
And then, poof!.. Reborn. A second chance, they say. But this wasn't some idyllic fantasy.
This was a ruthless world, where strength was everything, and weakness was a death sentence.
It took me about five years to truly grasp the scale of it all. Five years to shake off the last vestiges of my past life's comfort and truly open my eyes to the brutal beauty around me.
I saw slaves, their eyes hollow, their bodies marked by chains, being marched through the dusty roads like cattle. I saw massive, ornate airships, powered by what they called 'spirit stones,' carrying entire sects through the sky, their disciples looking down on us common folk with an air of detached superiority.
And then, one clear morning, I saw it. Not a mirage, not a dream. A dragon. A colossal beast, scales shimmering like emeralds, wings vast enough to blot out the sun, soaring majestically above our tiny village. It wasn't a myth here. It was real. And it was terrifyingly beautiful.
My name in this world is Wu Zhen. And my family? Well, we're about as poor as you can get without actually starving.
My mother, bless her tireless hands, spends her days at the loom, weaving the rough, scratchy cloth that barely fetches enough coins to keep us fed.
Her fingers are calloused, her back perpetually hunched, but she never complains. She just hums old folk songs, a quiet strength radiating from her.
And my dad… he's a cultivator, technically. But calling him 'basic' would be an overstatement.
He's stuck in the Skin Tempering realm, the very first layer of cultivation.
It's like being a beginner swimmer in an ocean full of sharks. He tries, he really does.
Every morning, before the sun even thinks about peeking over the distant mountains, he's out there, doing his forms, trying to draw in the wisps of spiritual energy that float around.
He's got the dedication, but the results? Not so much.
He's been in Skin Tempering for as long as I can remember, and he's almost forty. In this world, that's practically ancient for someone still at the starting line.
Most people who haven't broken through by their late twenties are considered lost causes.
"Wu Zhen! Are you daydreaming again?" My mother's voice, warm and slightly exasperated, pulled me from my thoughts. She was kneading dough on a worn wooden board, her movements fluid and practiced. The scent of fresh bread, a rare luxury, filled our small hut.
"Just thinking, Mama," I mumbled, picking at a loose thread on my threadbare tunic.
She chuckled, a soft, tired sound. "Thinking won't fill your belly, little one. Go help your father with the firewood. He's been out there since dawn."
I nodded, scrambling to my feet. My father was indeed out, chopping wood near the edge of the forest.
He used a dull axe, his movements slow and deliberate, each swing a testament to sheer willpower rather than cultivated strength. The wood was for our own fire, not for sale. We couldn't afford to waste a single piece.
As I walked towards him, the familiar ache settled in my chest. It wasn't just the physical hunger, but a deeper, more profound one. A hunger for change. I'd lived one life where I was content with being basic, with letting the world happen around me.
I wouldn't make that mistake again. Not here. Not when my family's survival, and my own, depended on something more than just showing up for work.
"Ah, Wu Zhen! Perfect timing," my father grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His face was streaked with dirt and exhaustion. "This old body isn't what it used to be."
He forced a smile, but his eyes held a flicker of resignation.
I picked up a few smaller logs, stacking them neatly. "You're doing great, Papa. Just a few more."
He sighed, leaning on his axe. "Great? Son, 'great' is when you can split a tree with a single punch, not hack at it like a common lumberjack for hours."
He looked at his calloused hands, then at the distant, towering peaks where the powerful sects resided. "Sometimes I wonder if I was just born without the talent. Or perhaps… this world just isn't meant for ordinary folk like us."
His words, though spoken with a weary jest, hit me hard. That resignation, that quiet acceptance of their lot – it was what I couldn't stand.
My past life, with all its mundane comfort, had taught me one thing: even basic people could achieve extraordinary things if they just tried hard enough, if they pushed past their limits.
Here, in a world where power literally meant survival, that lesson felt amplified a thousandfold.
"It's not about talent, Papa," I said, my voice firmer than I intended. He looked at me, surprised. "It's about… finding a way. A different way, maybe. There has to be one."
He blinked, a faint smile touching his lips. "Always the dreamer, my boy. That's good. Don't let this world take that from you." He picked up his axe again, but there was a hint of something new in his eyes, a spark I hadn't seen in a long time.
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythmic thud of the axe against wood, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.
The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. It was a beautiful sight, a stark contrast to the harsh realities of our lives.
As we gathered the last of the wood, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the ground. My father, attuned to such things, stiffened. "Did you feel that?"
I nodded, my heart quickening. It wasn't an earthquake. It was something else. A distant rumble, growing louder.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over us. Not the shadow of a cloud, but something vast and fast. We looked up, shielding our eyes.
Streaking across the sky, far faster than any dragon I'd ever seen, was a streak of pure, vibrant green. It was shaped like… a ball? No, a sphere, but it was moving with impossible speed, leaving a shimmering trail behind it.
And it was heading straight for the distant mountains, towards the very heart of the powerful sects.
My father gasped. "A Spirit Orb! And such a powerful one! What could be happening?" His voice was filled with awe and a touch of fear.
I, however, felt something else. A jolt of excitement. A strange, almost primal urge to follow it. This wasn't just another display of cultivation power. This was different. It felt… purposeful. Like a signal.
And then, as quickly as it appeared, the green orb vanished behind the mountains, leaving only a faint, lingering glow in the twilight sky.
But before it disappeared completely, I saw it. Just for a split second, a faint, almost imperceptible symbol etched onto its surface. It looked like… a stylized boot. Or perhaps, a foot kicking something.
My father was still staring at the empty sky, muttering about omens and powerful cultivators.
But I knew. I didn't know how, or why, but I knew that green orb, that strange symbol, was connected to my future. It was a sign. A challenge. And maybe, just maybe, the beginning of a path that wasn't about simply surviving, but about truly living.