Better than my old body, stronger, younger, more prepared. The air in this world is heavier, mixed with blood, with an invisible pressure. This world was not governed by the modern laws I knew, but rather by a magical force referred to as Qi; life energy. It flows through invisible pathways in the body, called meridians. And the dantian is the source of the Qi reservoir, it's crucial, although not everything. Those who can control it well are kings without crowns.
This world calls itself Murim, or, Jianghu. Underneath the armor of the various martial arts schools lies conspiracy, dogma, and an eternal war between two sides: The Orthodox who claim to guard the truth, and the Unorthodox who are called barbaric just because they have different methods. But from where I stood, the two were not much different; they were just a collection of power beggars worshipping another name for each other's lust.
I was originally just a beggar's son, not "a beggar's son", because I didn't know my parents. I had no sect, no teachers, no guidelines; just muscle, blood, and painful training. I analyzed every technique logically, looking at how the movement produced results; I calculated vectors, speeds, joint loads, and so on. They called me a genius, but in reality I was just applying practical logic to a more brutal terrain.
My first enemies were the mountain bandits and the people around. Weak, but cruel; they had no style, only a desire for domination. I killed without hesitation, and it was the first time I felt that Qi could react to intention, called the way of the Dao. Whether it was because of this body, or because I was beginning to fit into this world, my physical boundaries were constantly being broken through. Within a year, I mastered three schools of techniques: the open fists of the South, the hard kicks of the East, and the internal defensive style of the Western mountains.
I met many disciples from renowned sects, and they considered me wild. They practiced in luxurious meditation rooms, surrounded by masters and servants, then claimed to be heroes. I was the opposite: sleeping in swamps, eating from carrion, learning from pain... Slowly but surely, I surpassed them.
I challenged them one by one, and defeated them with their techniques after just one night of analyzing the basic moves. Several sects sent assassins, one of the best known as the Night Shadow. It took three days for the poison to completely disappear from my body. It didn't matter, I ended up destroying their base; hunting down all the descendants of its members... Just in case one of them caused trouble later on.
The further I walked, the clearer it became that this world only understood one law: absolute power. Morality is an ornament, an excuse to hide weakness. I began to understand what I had to do. I didn't want to be part of the Orthodox or Unorthodox; I wanted to create a new system, where truth was determined by results, where weakness was given no room to grow.
Time passed... They called me by many names: Celestial Demon, World Savior, Heavenly Demon, and so on; but none of them ever dared to speak it directly. Not even in a whisper. Because one word could mean death, the instant version, without a wound, without a trace. It was as if the world itself rejected your existence, condemning you to death without letting a drop of blood remain.
I'm just pointing out that everything they built is fake. Thousands of years of engineering? Destroyed in one fell swoop. The dogma they worshiped? Abused, spat upon, then buried alive with its creator. I did not come to save or destroy, I came with curiosity.
I came with curiosity, and the world responded with fear.
I never founded my sect, nor did I take on direct disciples; truth be told, I never needed followers. But my influence crept into the minds of a new generation, children began to imitate my gait, old priests began to replace prayers with my words; a single word from me could end a war, or restart it with more embers.
I never considered myself a god, but the world did simply because nothing could kill me. No poison worked, no technique could touch me by a hair. Even time slowed down before me; although there were competitors on my level, they were blinded by fear and isolated themselves from me.
There was once a group that tried to impersonate me. Claiming that they were my disciples, trying to use my name as a shield to plunder village after village. I didn't say anything, because I didn't care. Some time later, the mountain disappeared from the map. It didn't explode, it didn't burn, it disappeared as if it never existed. It wasn't me, it just proved that my name was taboo.
Chroniclers replaced my name with empty symbols, sects called me "The Unspoken One", children were not given names that sounded similar; and those who tried to dig, slowly lost their minds to martial arts.
Strangely, all of this felt natural. Flowed like a part of me. Like I've always been able to do all this: kill, animate, destroy, create; with hands or with mind, with law, or with chaos. My state is not yet clear, but one thing is certain: I can choose this version of myself.