On a quiet village, near the endless mountains, where life remained untouched by the world's conflicts. A place where the seasons dictated life, where farmers worked in the fields from dawn to dusk, and where the stories of cultivators were whispered like distant legends. Here, monsters were a far more common sight than cultivators, and life could end at any moment because of their lurking danger.
On a certain night, a storm raged outside, the wind howling through the wooden houses, and rain lashing against the rooftops. Within a certain house, the cries of a newborn broke through the roar of the storm. It was a boy, small and frail, with nothing special about him except for his curiosity.
His mother held him close, exhausted but smiling, while his father, a simple farmer, nodded in satisfaction. There was no celebration, only the comforting warmth of a family, a fleeting moment of peace amid the storm.
He was named Sylas, a name that reminded them of the quiet of the forest and the peace found in untouched places. It was a name that symbolized calm, a reminder that even in a world full of monsters and chaos, moments of peace still existed.
Six years passed, and life remained as it always had in the village. Days were spent tending the fields, nights gathered around a dim lantern light, sharing food and laughter. The village festivals were lively, filled with music and simple joys, but beneath it all was the quiet reality of survival. The people worked hard because they had to, because life here demanded effort, and Sylas was no exception.
Even at such a young age, he understood that this world held far more than simple farm life.
Travelers sometimes passed through, their robes fluttering in the wind, swords sheathed at their sides. They spoke of great sects, and their prodigies, along with their fits. The villagers listened in awe, but also with fear. Cultivators were beyond them, beings who lived by different rules. The village chief always showed reverence when a cultivator stopped by, no one ever dared to question their words.
Sylas watched and listened. These cultivators were the rulers of this world, their power dictating life and death. But he was not one of them. He had no talent for cultivation since he was tested once by a cultivator who checked all newborns in the village.
The only thing he had was his memories of a world not of cultivation, but one of science.
It was a world where the human body was bound by its mortal limits, where men could not fly or shatter boulders with a punch. But it was one where if you put enough effort in something, you would get results, and he, before this life, was a gym rat, obsessed with training his body, trying to push himself beyond limits in pursuit of strength.
That part of him had not changed, even thought according to is memories, he died for pushing to hard. He had died of exhaustion.
Here, he was a simple farmer's son, with no grand destiny, no miraculous encounter that would propel him to greatness. If he wanted strength, he would have to carve it out himself, just as he had done before. No shortcuts, no secret techniques, just the slow grind of self-improvement.
So, he trained.
Not for is family, not in defiance of fate, but simply because he could not ignore the need to grow stronger. Each morning before the sun rose, he ran through the village fields, feeling the burn in his legs. Each night, when everyone was sleeping, he pushed his body to its limits doing push-ups, squats, sit-ups, anything that would forge him into something more than what he was. Every single day he would feel exhausted, since he not only trained but also worked in the fields.
While others sought enlightenment through cultivation, Sylas chose a different path, a path of evolution. His goal was not to transcend his humanity, but to perfect it. He would build himself, step by step, trial after trial.
He would not seek enlightenment in the heavens, but mastery over himself. A path not of mystical energy, but of pure physical evolution.