Chapter 1: Almost Burned
On the outskirts of Laut City, in Tern County, a minor territory of the Fifth-Tier Kingdom of the Southern Continent, stood a small, unremarkable two-storey wooden house.
The house was old but well maintained. Its wooden walls were darkened by time, the roof tiles uneven, yet sturdy enough to withstand wind and rain. A faint oil lamp glow leaked from one of the second-floor windows, barely noticeable against the vast darkness of the night.
Night had already fallen.
The sky was pitch black, dotted with distant stars. A cold wind swept across the plains, rustling dry grass and brushing against the wooden walls with a low, hollow sound.
Inside the house, on the second floor, in a small but tidy room, a child sat cross-legged on a wooden bed.
He looked no older than nine years old.
The boy wore a simple woolen shirt, slightly loose on his thin frame, its color faded from repeated washing. His black pants were plain and practical, tied securely at the waist. He wore no shoes—his bare feet rested lightly on the bed, steady and unmoving.
The room itself was modest.
A wooden table stood near the wall, holding a few worn books and an oil lamp. A small window was left slightly open, allowing cold night air to flow in. The scent of wood, oil, and faint herbs lingered in the room.
The boy's eyes were closed.
His posture was straight, his back firm despite his age. His breathing was slow, deep, and rhythmic—each inhale calm, each exhale measured, as if following an ancient, invisible pattern.
With every breath he took, something strange happened.
An invisible white mist gathered around his face.
It drifted toward his nostrils, swirling gently like thin smoke, before being drawn into his body. The mist was faint, almost impossible to see unless one watched closely, yet it carried an unnatural stillness, as if the surrounding air itself was being pulled toward him.
The room grew quieter.
Time passed without sound.
One hour.
Two hours.
Then several more.
The boy did not move.
Gradually, a change occurred.
A faint redness appeared on his skin—first on his cheeks, then spreading to his neck, arms, and bare feet. His woolen shirt began to darken with moisture as thin wisps of steam rose from his body.
The steam thickened.
The air in the room grew warm… then hot.
The wooden bed beneath him began to creak softly. Black scorch marks slowly spread where his legs and palms rested, the surface of the wood charring as if burned from within.
His breath remained steady—but his body was reaching its limit.
The temperature surged.
The oil lamp flickered violently, its flame stretching unnaturally as waves of heat distorted the air. The window rattled softly. The room felt like a sealed furnace.
Moments later—
Bang!
The door was suddenly pushed open with force.
A man rushed inside.
The instant his eyes landed on the child, his expression changed completely—shock, fear, and urgency flashing across his face. The scorching heat hit him like a wall.
Without wasting a single second, he turned and sprinted toward the washroom.
Water sloshed violently.
He returned almost immediately, gripping a wooden bucket filled to the brim. With no hesitation, he lifted it high and poured the water over the child in one swift motion.
Hiss—!
The water didn't fall.
It evaporated instantly, exploding into thick white mist the moment it touched the boy's overheated skin.
---
The water evaporated the instant it touched the boy's skin, bursting into dense white mist that filled the room. The sizzling sound echoed briefly before fading away.
Slowly, the unnatural redness on the boy's body receded. The steam thinning around him until only faint warmth lingered in the air. The scorching heat that had filled the room moments ago weakened, leaving behind an oppressive, heavy stillness.
A sharp smell of burnt wood and scorched cloth lingered in the room.
The boy's woolen shirt was no longer intact. The fabric had darkened in several places, edges curled and hardened from the heat. Small holes had formed near his shoulders and chest, the wool stiff and brittle where it had nearly ignited. His black pants were wrinkled badly, the cloth warped by extreme temperature, faint burn marks spreading across the surface.
The wooden bed beneath him was charred black.
After a few quiet minutes, the boy slowly opened his eyes.
They were clear—far too calm for a child who had nearly burned alive.
He lowered his gaze, taking in the cracked, blackened bed, the drifting mist, and the faint smoke curling near the ceiling. Finally, his eyes settled on the man standing in front of him.
His father.
The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his figure sturdy from years of labor. He wore a simple linen shirt, loose and worn, the sleeves rolled up. Dark trousers clung to his legs, damp at the edges from spilled water. His hair was slightly unkempt, and his face—weathered but firm—still carried traces of lingering fear.
Without hesitation, the boy slid off the bed.
Despite the weakness in his limbs, he stood straight and bowed deeply.
"Father… thank you for interrupting me," he said sincerely.
"If you hadn't come tonight, I would have died. It was too dangerous."
His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the truth behind it.
His father let out a slow sigh and stepped forward. He placed a rough, calloused hand gently on the boy's head, careful not to touch the scorched skin beneath the damaged fabric.
"Son," he said softly, "strength can be obtained with time. There is no need to push yourself like this."
His hand trembled slightly.
"Your father is still alive. You don't need to worry about anything."
The man bent slightly, meeting the boy's eyes. Those eyes—so young, yet carrying a depth that did not belong to a child—made his heart ache.
"Just take your time," he continued, his voice growing gentler.
"One day, you will stand at the top of this planet. There is nothing wrong with being a normal child."
The boy raised his head.
His face was pale, his hair damp with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead. His eyes were sharp and steady, burning with determination that far exceeded his age.
"Father," he said firmly, "this world is too dangerous."
He clenched his fists, the faint smell of burned wool rising as the fabric tightened.
"I hate dangerous things. I don't want my life to be under another person's control."
His voice did not shake.
"You can ask anything of me, and I will accept it. But this—this path—I will not change my mind."
He looked straight into his father's eyes.
"If I am born into this world, then I must become a strong man."
The room fell silent.
The father's grip tightened for a brief moment before loosening. His eyes grew moist, reflecting the dim light of the oil lamp.
After a long silence, he nodded.
"…Alright, son," he said quietly.
"Do whatever you want. I won't stop you."
The faint smell of burning still lingered in the air—but so did something else.
Resolve.
---
At that moment, a third figure entered the room.
She paused at the doorway.
Her eyes swept across the room—the lingering mist, the scorched wooden bed, the blackened floor, and the faint smoke still curling in the air. Her brows knitted together instantly.
She was a hard-working woman, her body lean but strong from years of household labor. She wore a simple cotton dress, faded from countless washes, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Strands of hair had slipped loose from her tied bun, framing a face marked by exhaustion—but also sharp authority.
"Why are you two fighting again?" she asked, her voice flat but edged with warning.
The boy reacted instantly.
"Mother, we're not fighting," he said quickly.
"We're just sharing our thoughts—making our positions clear."
Her gaze shifted.
It landed on the bed.
The charred wood.
The burned patches on the woolen shirt.
The warped, wrinkled black pants.
The unmistakable smell of burnt cloth and scorched timber.
Her eye twitched.
Without a word, she bent down and picked up a thin wooden stick lying near the wall—used earlier to poke the firewood into place.
The boy's heart skipped.
Before he could react—
Smack!
She grabbed him by the ear and yanked him forward.
"Ow—! Mother! Mother, forgive me!" he cried, immediately abandoning all dignity.
The father opened his mouth. "Wife—"
She shot him a single look.
He closed it.
"This is not the first time, is it?" she snapped, her grip tightening.
"Burning the room, ruining clothes, filling the house with smoke—do you think this place is made of stone?!"
Smack! Smack!
She brought the stick down twice—not hard enough to injure, but more than enough to hurt.
"I told you before!" she scolded.
"Cultivation or not, you will not burn my house!"
The boy nearly cried.
"Mother, I was wrong! I won't do it again!"
Only after he begged repeatedly—voice hoarse, eyes watery—did she finally release his ear.
She crossed her arms, breathing heavily, anger still burning brighter than the scorched bed.
"Next time," she said sharply, "if you want to practice, go outside."
She pointed at the door.
"And if you burn something again, I'll make sure it's your backside, not my house."
With that, she turned and left the room, her footsteps heavy as she descended the stairs.
The father sighed helplessly and followed shortly after, casting the boy an apologetic glance before closing the door behind him.
Silence returned.
The boy stood alone in the damaged room, rubbing his ear.
Slowly, he clenched his fists.
One day…
I will be the strongest being in this world.
The faint smell of burning still lingered—but his resolve burned far hotter.
---
Silence filled the room once more.
The boy stood still for a long moment, the faint smell of burned wood lingering in the air. Slowly, his clenched fists loosened, and his gaze turned inward.
He recalled his past.
He had been born on Earth.
Back then, by chance—or perhaps fate—he had obtained a mysterious space. It was neither material nor illusionary, existing somewhere beyond normal perception. Driven by curiosity, his original body had tried to explore it.
That single act had changed everything.
His consciousness had split.
One part remained behind.
The other crossed worlds.
That was how he arrived here.
In the beginning, he had no memories. He lived like an ordinary child, ignorant of his origin. But when he turned four years old, his father taught him a breathing method passed down through generations.
A method meant to awaken the body.
Within just one year, he succeeded.
He extracted Blood Energy from his body, forming a faint but real stream of cultivation power. Step by step, he crossed into the First Level of Body Refinement—something most children could not even sense.
Not long after that, his sealed memories awakened.
Earth.
The mysterious space.
His divided consciousness.
Only then did he understand the truth.
He had been reborn in another world, carrying a golden finger—a hidden space embedded deep within his mind.
From books and the stories his father told him, he learned how vast this world truly was.
Laut City was nothing more than a speck.
The empire itself was insignificant.
Beyond it lay thousands of empires, millions of continents, and powers so terrifying that even names failed to describe them.
How could he allow himself to be weak?
His mind drifted to a memory that still made his chest tighten.
One day, an Energy Condensation Master passed through the city.
Without reason, without warning, he wiped out an entire wealthy family—men, women, elders, and children alike. Blood stained the streets.
No one stopped him.
No one dared.
That was when the thought burned itself into his heart.
How can I allow my life to be controlled by another being?
I must be the strongest.
Through constant self-hypnosis and relentless cultivation, he came to believe in his limitless potential. At only nine years old, he had already reached the Ninth Level of Body Refinement, shocking even his father.
Slowly calming his mind, he turned his thoughts toward his golden finger—the mysterious space that could store anything.
But it was sealed.
It would only fully open when he turned ten.
He exhaled softly.
Three more days.
Before then, I must reach the perfection of Body Refinement.
---
With that thought, he left his room.
He stepped into the dim corridor and began walking downstairs. The wooden steps creaked softly beneath his feet, each step steady despite the fatigue lingering in his body.
The warmth of the kitchen reached him before he even arrived.
Light spilled from the dining area, accompanied by the familiar scent of food.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw his parents already seated at the wooden dining table. The table was simple but clean, polished smooth from years of use.
Dinner had been prepared.
There was a bowl of steamed rice, a plate of stir-fried vegetables, and a simple soup made from herbs and roots. For his father, who needed strength for physical labor, there was a modest dish of cooked chicken, the meat lightly seasoned.
It was ordinary food.
Nothing luxurious.
Yet it was warm.
He walked over and sat in his usual place.
As they began eating, his father took a bite and smiled.
"Honey, this food is amazing," he said sincerely.
"Your hands truly have magic."
His mother laughed softly, pride flickering across her tired face.
The boy lowered his head slightly, embarrassed.
Inside his chest, something eased.
After fire, danger, and fear—
this simple dinner felt like an anchor.
Warmth spread quietly through his heart.
---