The ceiling above me was yellowed with age, stained by leaks that had never been properly fixed. An electric fan rattled overhead, pushing warm air that smelled faintly of dust, old paper, and disappointment. This was where my life had slowly narrowed to a bed, a desk, and a future I'd stopped believing in.
I once told myself I was just between jobs, that this was only a temporary pause in my life. But that "pause" stretched on, year after year, until the lie became a quiet, stubborn truth I carried every day. What started as a simple excuse slowly settled into my routine, shaping my mornings, my conversations, even my sense of who I was or who I thought I was.
The truth was harder to swallow. My résumé had grown stale. The world moved faster every year, and I couldn't keep up. Friends from my youth had long since drifted away, busy with families, careers, and lives that no longer had room for me. I didn't blame them. I wouldn't have known what to say if they'd called. Somewhere along the way, hope had become exhausting.
The pain in my chest tightened, sharp and unforgiving. My fingers twitched, clawing weakly at the sheets as my breathing turned shallow. Each breath felt like work, and I realized with distant clarity that this was what dying felt like, not grand or meaningful, just frighteningly ordinary.
As my vision darkened, memories surfaced uninvited. Not achievements. Not moments of pride. At forty-five, my life ended the way it had been lived, quietly, unnoticed, in a room that felt more temporary than I did.
There was no afterlife waiting for me, no judgment, no darkness that lingered long enough to understand. The moment my consciousness should have ended, it was instead torn loose, dragged into a vast and formless void where direction had no meaning and time refused to flow normally.
As I was moving, endless currents raged around me, violent, unstable streams of chaotic turbulence colliding and tearing at one another like furious seas. My consciousness was caught between them, battered and stretched thin, as though it might scatter at any moment.
The first impact pierced straight through my awareness, sharp and searing, and in that instant my vision, if it could still be called that, expanded violently. I could perceive the turbulence itself, see its structure, its fractures, and the hidden flows beneath the chaos, as though the world had peeled itself open before me.
Perception Eyes awakened, burning into existence, granting me clarity within destruction and order within calamity.
The second was deeper, heavier, a force that wrapped around my very essence, binding heat and cold, light and shadow together within me. Yin and Yang merged not in conflict, but in perfect, terrifying balance, settling into my flesh and bones as a supreme harmony that felt both ancient and absolute.
Yin–Yang Supreme Body Constitution was born in that moment, remaking me from the inside out.
I understood instinctively: had it not been for the chaos turbulence, these powers would never have fused with me. The violence of the passage had shattered something unseen and in that break, I was remade.
Before I could make sense of what was happening, the pull intensified, dragging me into a dizzying descent. My consciousness tumbled downward, untethered and disoriented, until all awareness seemed to vanish. Then, just as suddenly as it had left, sensation returned, sharp, jarring, and disorienting, like waking from a dream I couldn't quite remember.
I gasped and sucked in air that burned my lungs. My eyes flew open, greeted by a low wooden ceiling riddled with cracks and rot. Sunlight slipped through narrow gaps, illuminating dust drifting lazily in the air.
I sat up, my movements swift and unnervingly smooth, this body responding too well, too easily. When I looked down, I saw hands that were younger, stronger, unscarred by time or disappointment, hands that were not mine. I was inside the body of a young man, no more than twenty years old.
I looked around and notice the old hut that surrounded me, its walls warped by time, the air heavy with dust, and the silence broken only by the wind brushing against decaying wood. Whoever this body had belonged to had ended up here alone, just as I once had.
I touched my chest, feeling a steady, powerful heartbeat beneath my fingers, and only then did I notice something else: the world outside looked... different, sharper, deeper and alive in ways I had never truly seen before.
And I knew, without being told, that my second life had begun, not by mercy, but by chaos.
As I steadied my breathing, my gaze swept across the hut's interior once more, taking in every warped beam and dust-choked corner.
Through the strange clarity of my Perception Eyes, the world no longer seemed flat or ordinary, lines, shadows, and subtle distortions emerged as if the space itself were alive, revealing secrets that ordinary sight would have overlooked. Every detail pulsed with a hidden depth, and then, amidst it all, I noticed it.
The wooden floor near the corner of the hut didn't align properly. The planks were old, but not uniformly so, one section bore faint traces of disturbance, as though it had been lifted and replaced long ago.
I walked over slowly and knelt, pressing my palm against the worn floor. A soft click echoed through the quiet hut as one of the planks shifted, sinking just enough to release a hidden latch.
I pried it open, revealing a narrow compartment concealed beneath the floorboards.
Inside, a small oil-cloth bundle lay carefully wrapped, protecting its contents from the dampness of the old hut.
I unfolded it to reveal several manuals stacked neatly, their covers worn smooth with use, and a few jade bottles sealed tightly, faint spiritual fluctuations emanating from within.
My heart thumped as I picked up the first manual, its title etched in bold, flowing script: Celestial Emperor's Harem Cultivation.
The moment my fingers brushed the cover, a subtle warmth surged through my meridians, resonating with the Yin-Yang constitution within me. The crimson silk cover seemed alive, golden characters glowing faintly in response to my aura.
Inside, the techniques whispered promises of unparalleled dual cultivation, harmonizing yin and yang, amplifying spiritual energy, and unlocking potential I had never imagined, its forbidden power intoxicating, irresistible, and impossibly strong.
The second manual was thinner, its presence sharp and restrained: Void-Striking Sword Manual. Its worn cover was creased from repeated use, carrying the faint scent of ink and aged paper.
Though modest in appearance, it radiated a quiet practicality, perfect for fledgling cultivators seeking to grasp the fundamentals of swordplay.
Inside, each chapter outlined stances, swings, and footwork, emphasizing precision and control over brute strength. Far from legendary, the techniques promised steady, reliable growth for those patient enough to practice.
The pages hummed faintly with low-grade spiritual energy, subtly resonating with the reader's cultivation foundation, as if guiding each movement with invisible hands.
After scanning the manuals, my Perception Eyes immediately revealed the rest of the bundle's contents.
There were;
Food Pills, simple sustenance capable of replacing a day or two of ordinary meals;
Qi Gathering Pills, crude and low-grade, barely effective but usable for wandering or unaffiliated cultivators;
a small bottle of pale crimson liquid, a weak elixir whose unstable spiritual energy could only aid at the earliest stages;
and a handful of low-grade spirit stones, dull and uneven, yet still valuable as basic cultivation currency.
As I set the manuals aside and examined these items, I began to notice the faint hum of energy around each one, subtle fluctuations that hinted at hidden potential if used with care.
I returned my attention to the first manual, curiosity quietly overpowering caution.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I opened the Celestial Emperor's Harem Cultivation and began to read. The words were direct and unapologetic, laying bare a cultivation path centered on dual cultivation, one that emphasized harmony between Yin and Yang through bonds with multiple female cultivators.
Unlike orthodox methods that condemned such practices as taboo or heretical, this scripture embraced them without shame, asserting a single principle: the deeper the bond, the greater the harmony, and the faster the cultivation.
According to the text, true dual cultivation was far more than a simple exchange of qi, it was an act of amplification. By circulating Yin and Yang in perfect harmony, practitioners of these arts would insert their Thick Dao Tool into a partner, carefully maneuvering the flow of qi within them.
When balance and timing aligned, the Thick Dao Tool would then burst out condensed Milky Dao Seeds inside the partner, it is milky, white, of refined essence imbued with personal insight and vitality. These seeds, once inserted into a partner, could later be refined as rare cultivation material, dramatically accelerating one's progress.
Yet their most intoxicating effect was the imprint they left behind, a soft, irresistible brand of loyalty etched deep into the spirit. From that moment on, betrayal would never take root; desire, devotion, and obedience would flow naturally toward the one who planted the seed, as if their fate had always been meant to entwine.
The scripture also stated that cultivation speed increased based on how many partners participated in dual cultivation at the same time. Each additional female cultivator strengthened the Yin–Yang circulation, causing qi to resonate and multiply rather than simply flow.
With proper control, this layered harmony could boost cultivation efficiency from several times faster to a terrifying peak of nearly two hundred times, depending on the number of partners and the cultivator's capacity to endure it.
My heartbeat quickened, not with desire but with clarity, as I felt the steady circulation of Yin and Yang within my body. A Yin–Yang Supreme Body Constitution, paired with a harem cultivation.
This path was never meant for the righteous, it was meant for those willing to walk where the heavens chose not to look.
I exhaled softly, murmuring that if I didn't take this path, then this second life would truly be wasted, and with that thought anchoring me, hesitation finally faded.
I took out a Food Pill and swallowed it dry; it dissolved quickly, spreading a dull warmth through my stomach as the gnawing hunger vanished, replaced by a plain, functional fullness that was enough to sustain me.
Only then did I take a Qi Gathering Pill, its bitterness lingering on my tongue as its thin, uneven spiritual energy seeped into my body, clearly low grade, yet precious all the same, and I carefully guided every wisp inward, unwilling to waste even a fraction.
I tried to cultivate exactly as the manual prescribed, following each diagram and breathing cycle with meticulous care, but reality was far less dramatic than the scripture's promises. Compatibility did not equate to speed.
Without a partner, the scripture's true efficiency remained sealed, and each circulation only strengthened my meridians by a small margin, polishing my foundation grain by grain.
There were no sudden breakthroughs or explosive surges of power, only repetition, steady and unyielding.
Day after day passed in the old hut.
I relied entirely on Food Pills to survive, swallowing one every couple of days to keep my body from weakening, and when my qi circulation grew sluggish, I carefully used a low-grade Qi Gathering Pill, wary of overconsumption that could damage my fragile foundation.
The hut became my entire world, morning light slipping through cracked planks marked the start of cultivation, while nightfall brought it to an end.
Sleep was shallow and brief, broken by endless cycles of meditation and adjustment, my body aching not from injury but from forcing progress with inadequate resources.
By the tenth day, something finally changed: as I completed another circulation, the scattered qi in my dantian condensed into a clearer, denser thread.
My senses sharpened, my breath deepened, and my heartbeat grew stronger.
I opened my eyes slowly, 2nd Stage Body Tempering, solid… and yet incomplete.
I could feel third stage hovering just beyond reach, a thin barrier that refused to yield no matter how carefully I circulated my qi.
The reason was obvious, low-grade pills could only take me so far, and the few remaining bottles and spirit stones would never be enough to push through another bottleneck.
Continuing like this would mean weeks, perhaps months, for a single stage. Worse, this was a path not meant to be walked alone; practicing a dual cultivation technique solo was inefficient and wasteful.
I stood and stretched, feeling the subtle strength in my body, already certain of what I needed next, better materials, and partners who could awaken the true speed of this path.
My gaze lingered on the hut's broken doorway, beyond which stretched an unfamiliar world, and I quietly realized that remaining here would only turn opportunity into stagnation.
I closed my eyes and finally turned inward, probing the fractured memories of this body, memories shattered by some past trauma, leaving behind only hazy fragments and empty gaps.
They surfaced like broken dreams: a life lived quietly and without roots, no sect, no master, no remarkable talent, drifting from place to place simply to survive.
Among those scattered impressions, one detail remained clearer than the rest. From the fragments I could piece together, the nearest place of shelter and people was a town called Sanlu Town.
Sanlu Town was a small settlement on the edge of the cultivation world, a place where mortals and low-level cultivators mingled out of necessity.
It had a market selling low-grade pills, basic manuals, talismans, and spirit stones, with the occasional wandering cultivator or minor sect disciple passing through, making it the most realistic destination for someone like me.
The journey would take about seven days on foot, risky but unavoidable. Staying in the hut was worse; without resources or contact, my cultivation would stall completely, and this old hut offered no protection if danger found me first.
I gathered what little I owned, carefully wrapping the manuals in oil cloth and securing the jade bottles and low-grade spirit stones close to my body, leaving behind nothing but the empty hut and its silence.
Standing at the doorway, I took one last look inside, this place had given me a beginning, but Sanlu Town would decide whether I could move beyond it.
Murmuring "Seven days..." I stepped outside and set my direction, following faint borrowed memories toward Sanlu Town, toward the first real crossroads of my second life.