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The world swam into focus through a haze of pain. A sharp, coppery taste filled his mouth, mingling with the stench of dust and unwashed bodies.
"Look at him, Zhong Yuan the Trash, groveling in the dirt where he belongs!"
A sneering voice cut through the fog in his mind. A foot, clad in a worn-out cloth shoe, stamped down next to his head, sending a spray of loose soil into his face.
"He stinks worse than Old Man Li's pigs," another voice jeered, followed by cruel laughter.
"Take this!"
A fist, surprisingly hard for a boy no older than fourteen, slammed into his ribs. The impact stole what little air he had, sending a spiderweb of agony through his chest. The boy who was being bullied, the boy whose body this was, was named Zhong Yuan.
He was fourteen years old and… and…
Wait.
A dizzying wave of vertigo washed over him, far more disorienting than the punch. One moment, he was a 40-year-old corporate slave named Zhong Yuan, slumped over his desk after a 72-hour work marathon, the fluorescent lights of the office humming his funeral dirge. The next…
Where am I? Why am I here? This pain… it's too real.
This wasn't a dream. The grit in his teeth, the searing pain in his side, the raw, earthy smell of the village—it was all terrifyingly solid.
Suddenly, a torrent of information, not his own, flooded his mind. It was a deluge of fourteen years of hardship, of hunger, of loneliness.
Ye Kingdom. Luo County. West Brown Village.
The images were sharp and painful: A father, face grim and determined, heading into the misty forest with a hunting bow, never to return. A mother, her face pale with exhaustion, whispering his name with her final breath after childbirth. He was an orphan, a beggar, a ghost at the edge of the village, surviving on scraps and enduring the casual cruelty of others. This body belonged to a boy who had never known a full meal or a kind word.
The new Zhong Yuan, the soul of a world-weary office worker, felt a cold dread seep into his bones. His past life had been a hell of spreadsheets and soul-crushing deadlines. This new life was a hell of literal dirt, starvation, and violence.
Clarity returned with a jolt as the lead bully, a stout boy named Lei Bao, crouched down, his face a mask of smug contempt. "What's wrong, Trash? Cat got your tongue?"
Survival instinct, honed not by fighting beasts but by dodging tyrannical bosses, screamed in Zhong Yuan's mind. He didn't think. He reacted.
With a desperate scramble, he kicked his legs out, sending dirt flying into the bullies' faces. They sputtered and cursed, momentarily blinded. It was the opening he needed. He surged to his feet, his malnourished body screaming in protest, and ran.
He fled without a destination, his bare feet pounding against the packed-earth streets of West Brown Village. The world was a blur of crude, thatched-roof huts, the pungent smell of woodsmoke, manure, and poverty hanging thick in the air. Chickens scattered from his path, squawking in alarm. He ignored the burning in his lungs and the stabbing pain in his side, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other.
The bullies gave a half-hearted chase, their laughter echoing behind him, but they were well-fed and lazy. They were satisfied with their "victory" and soon let him go, their taunts fading into the distance.
Zhong Yuan didn't stop until his legs gave out, collapsing behind a dilapidated, abandoned woodshed at the edge of the village. He pressed his back against the rough, splintered wood, gasping for breath, his heart hammering like a war drum.
He looked down at his own hands—small, grimy, and covered in scrapes. This was his new reality.
"Fuck," he rasped, his voice raw. He laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "Thirty years in the east, thirty years in the west. My old life was a nightmare, and this new one is even worse. Don't bully the poor young man… they say. What a joke. Life itself is the biggest bully."
He gingerly touched his ribs. A fresh, ugly bruise was already forming on his pale skin. "Ugh, that punch hurts. It wouldn't have done a thing to my old, flabby body… but this one is just skin and bones."
It was in that moment of despair, a raw flicker of defiance against his fate, that a sound echoed from deep within his mind. It wasn't a voice, not yet. It was a clean, crisp chime, like a single drop of water falling into a perfectly still pond.
A cold, mechanical sensation bloomed behind his eyes.
[Residual Willpower detected. Latent Potential unlocked.]
[Proficiency System activating…]
Zhong Yuan froze, his breath catching in his throat. "Who's there? Am I hallucinating? Did that punch knock my soul loose?"
A serene, genderless, and utterly impersonal voice responded, not in his ears, but directly in his consciousness.
[Greetings, Host. I am the Proficiency System. I am not a hallucination, but a manifestation of universal laws bound to your soul.]
Before his bewildered mind could even formulate another question, a transparent blue panel shimmered into existence in his field of vision, visible only to him.
[Host: Zhong Yuan]
[Condition: Malnourished, Minor Internal Bruising, Exhausted]
[Cultivation: None]
[Skills: None]
[Lifespan: 14 / 39 Years]
Thirty-nine years. The number was a death sentence. He was destined to die before he even reached the age of his previous life. The despair was so thick he could taste it.
"System? What… what is this?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
[This is a Proficiency Panel,] the system explained patiently. [It is a tool to quantify your efforts and abilities. Every action you take with intent and repetition can generate proficiency. As proficiency grows, your skills will upgrade, granting you greater power and understanding.]
Zhong Yuan's mind, accustomed to processing data and finding loopholes, began to race. "Proficiency from effort? So if I practice punching, I'll get a 'Punching' skill?"
[Correct. Furthermore, the system has analyzed the residual efforts of this body's previous occupant. His fourteen years of struggle were not in vain. The constant running from bullies, the scavenging for food, the sheer endurance of hardship—all of this has created a foundation of latent proficiency that you, the new Host, can now access and build upon.]
This was the spark. The previous Zhong Yuan's suffering wasn't for nothing. It was a legacy—a bitter, painful, but usable legacy.
"What can I do with this? What's 'Cultivation'?" he asked, latching onto the most intriguing word on the panel.
[Cultivation is the path to transcending mortal limits. In this world, the most fundamental path is Body Cultivation. It is the process of strengthening the mortal shell to its absolute peak, creating a foundation for all higher arts. It is divided into five primary realms:]
The system's voice was like a master lecturer, clear and concise.
[1. Skin Tempering: Toughening the skin until it is as resilient as cured leather, granting resistance to cuts and impacts.]
[2. Flesh Forging: Condensing the muscles and tissues, granting immense physical strength and explosive power.]
[3. Bone Reinforcement: Hardening the skeleton until it is as strong as steel, providing an unbreakable frame and enhancing impact force.]
[4. Tendon Stretching: Increasing the elasticity and durability of the tendons, granting superior speed, agility, and flexibility.]
[5. Blood Marrow Cleansing: Purifying the blood and invigorating the marrow, resulting in boundless stamina, rapid regeneration, and a greatly extended lifespan.]
Each word landed in Zhong Yuan's mind like a hammer blow on an anvil, forging a new reality, a new hope. The pain in his ribs, the hunger in his stomach, the memory of Lei Bao's sneering face—it all began to fade into the background.
This wasn't just a system. It was a blueprint. It was a path laid out before him, a ladder leading out of the pit of despair he had been thrown into. His past life was about powerlessness. His new life, starting now, would be about seizing power.
A slow, fierce grin spread across Zhong Yuan's face, a startling expression on the boy's usually timid features. It was a grin of pure, unadulterated determination.
He looked at the panel, at the stark "Skills: None," and felt not despair, but a thrill. It was a blank slate.
"Good," he muttered to the empty air, his voice low and steady. "Let's begin."