A sharp pain split through his skull like a sword cleaving through flesh. He gasped, his body convulsing on the cold, hard ground. His lungs burned as he sucked in air, the damp scent of old wood and incense filling his nostrils. His fingers twitched, grasping weakly at the dirt beneath him as his consciousness wavered between darkness and light.
His head throbbed—no, it felt like it was being ripped apart.
Then, the flood came.
Memories—two sets of memories—poured into his mind, clashing, merging, breaking, and reforming into something new.
One belonged to him: a man of the modern world, a place of science, technology, and logic. He remembered neon-lit cities, the hum of engines, the cold glow of a phone screen, and the crushing weight of an exhausting job. And then… the accident.
The other set was not his—yet somehow, it was.
The second set belonged to Xiao Lan, a noble heir in a world where Dao energy ruled all.
A spoiled brat. A laughingstock. The second son of the prestigious Xiao Clan, known not for talent or strength, but for arrogance and incompetence.
Xiao Lan had status, yet he squandered it. He had resources, yet he wasted them. He had opportunities, yet he never seized them. He was the shame of the Xiao Clan, mocked by rivals, scorned by his own family, and despised by servants.
And now, he was dead.
Or at least, his soul had been replaced.
Xiao Lan's breath quickened as the realization settled. I died… and now I'm here.
He clutched his forehead, feeling the dull sting of a deep bruise. His ribs ached, his limbs were sore, and his clothes—expensive robes once embroidered with pride—were torn and dirtied with blood. His body was weak, pathetic, frail.
But he was alive.
A loud knock suddenly echoed from the wooden door.
"Young Master!" A frantic voice called from outside. "Are you awake? Please, answer me!"
Before he could react, the door burst open, and an elderly man in simple gray robes rushed in. His hair, once black, was now streaked with silver, and worry lined his aged face.
The old man gasped. "Young Master! You're awake!"
Xiao Lan blinked, recognizing the figure from his memories—Uncle Fu, his personal servant.
"Uncle Fu…" he muttered, his voice hoarse.
The old man nearly collapsed from relief. "Oh, heavens! I thought… I thought we had lost you." His eyes darted across Xiao Lan's injured body, his expression darkening. "Those bastards dared to harm the Young Master like this…"
Xiao Lan's memories quickly pieced together the events.
A duel. A humiliation. A beating.
The original Xiao Lan, in his arrogance, had insulted one of the noble heirs of the Bai Clan—a young genius at the Silver Rank. The result? A one-sided beating in an alley, where no one would interfere.
And the worst part? His own family didn't even care.
Xiao Lan exhaled sharply, forcing himself to sit up. His muscles screamed in protest, but he refused to show weakness.
Uncle Fu quickly moved to support him, worry in his eyes. "Young Master, please rest! You're gravely injured—"
"I'm fine." Xiao Lan's voice came out steady, firm.
The old servant froze.
Something was wrong.
The Xiao Lan he knew would be furious. He would be throwing a tantrum, demanding revenge, blaming everyone but himself. Yet, the boy before him… he was calm.
Composed.
Determined.
Xiao Lan took a deep breath, his mind sharper than ever. I cannot be the fool he was. If I remain weak, I will die.
He turned to Uncle Fu. "Tell me everything about the Dao cultivation system."
The old servant's eyes widened. "Dao cultivation?"
"Yes." Xiao Lan's gaze was sharp. "Everything. Now."
Uncle Fu hesitated, but seeing the seriousness in Xiao Lan's eyes, he nodded.
"In this world, strength is everything," Uncle Fu began. "The path of power is measured through Dao cultivation. It determines our survival, our status, and our fate."
Xiao Lan absorbed every word.
"The weakest are Ordinary—those without Dao energy," Uncle Fu continued. "They are mere mortals."
"Then comes Bronze Rank, where one first starts to absorb Dao energy into their body. The weakest cultivators, but still twice as strong as mortals."
Xiao Lan nodded. That must be my current level—no, not even. I can't sense Dao energy at all yet.
"At Silver Rank, a cultivator can begin learning Martial Skills, techniques that allow them to harness their Dao energy offensively."
Xiao Lan clenched his fist. The Bai Clan brat who beat me was at Silver Rank.
"Then there is Gold Rank, where the body and mind become fully attuned to Dao energy."
"What about Platinum Rank?" Xiao Lan asked.
Uncle Fu's brows furrowed. "That… is far beyond your reach, Young Master."
Xiao Lan smirked. Not for long.
Xiao Lan slowly stood up, his body screaming in protest, but he endured it. He refused to remain weak.
"Uncle Fu," he said, his tone unwavering. "Prepare food. And bring me books on cultivation."
The old servant froze.
"You… you want to read?" Uncle Fu asked, bewildered.
"Yes." Xiao Lan's voice was cold, sharp. "If I want to survive in this world, I must become stronger."
The old man trembled. He had served Xiao Lan for years, but this was a young master he did not recognize.
"Very well," Uncle Fu whispered, bowing deeply. "I shall prepare the books."
As the old servant hurried out of the room, Xiao Lan turned toward the mirror.
The boy reflected back at him was pathetic—bruised, weak, and filled with past arrogance.
But not for long.
Xiao Lan narrowed his eyes. This world runs on strength. I refuse to be prey.
If strength was everything, then he would seize it.
No matter what it took.