There was no difference between my death and reawakening. I had just had my dantian sealed and my meridians seared from the last of the Immortal Scions, so I suffered mortal wounds and bled out—my new body shared the same complications.

  I was soaked with hot blood, and my meridians burned like smoldering coals. I tried to use my dantian, but it wouldn’t function, and I couldn’t breathe. So I rolled on the floor, seizing until my consciousness dimmed and my physical lungs took over.

  It's a strange thing, breathing. For Immortals who fly through space and fight on uninhibited planets, we must use Qi to regulate our bodies, and so I hadn't breathed with physical lungs for tens of millennia. But there I was, relearning how to breathe, taking time to make it subconscious and calm down. That went on for about ten minutes before I examined my surroundings.

  I found myself in a small room with nothing but a wooden bed and some mining equipment illuminated by a weak glowstone. The wooden floor was jagged and rotted, and blood wafted in my nostrils.

  I didn't know where I was, or why my body wasn't working, so I attempted to use Divine Eyes.

  It worked, but my new body had never activated its rawkan, the organ used for mental augmentation and mental attacks, so flooding it with Spirit Qi stabbed my brain with thousands of pin pricks at the channels formed.

  It was excruciating, but once I finished, Divine Eyes activated, and I could see my body for the first time.

  My situation was bleak.

  The dantian has three layers, and the Inner and Outer layers had been shattered, leaving only the Core Danitan intact. To make things worse, all but twelve of my ninety-eight born meridians and their spirit channels, the pipelines that bring Qi from the atmosphere into your dantian, had been cauterized shut.

  These deficiencies deprived me of the ability to manipulate the elements, fly, or provide my soul core with Qi. The last was particularly nefarious, as it meant that I would get sick, age, and die like humans on the Mortal Plane.

  If most cultivators experienced such a fate, they would kill themselves—and judging by the state of my body, the vessel’s last inhabitant had done just that.

  I touched my neck and felt the sticky groove of a healing laceration on my carotid artery, and when I turned, I saw jutting sprays of blood over the walls. Underneath the bed, I saw the outline of a dagger that the glowstone didn't shine on. Judging by the angle of the cut and the dagger's location, this man had indeed killed himself.

  I didn't know their story, but I didn't share their weakness or despair.

  I still had twelve meridians, and my Core Dantian was intact. Healing my cultivation was possible, and I had the skill to do so. Over my fifty thousand years, I had become a Paragon of Breathing, an Empyreal Alchemist, a low Elysian Healer, and an Exalted Arraymaster, amongst countless other qualifications. I had miraculous techniques and recipes capable of doing what no Mortal could ever dream of—it was just a matter of resources.

  The question was whether I could get them—as I was on the Mortal Plane.

  I know it may sound strange to jump to such a conclusion, but it was obvious. My body had ninety-eight meridians instead of one thousand, and my channels were broken. If I were on any other plane, the Qi would have overloaded my Core Dantian, and I would have died from Rexis.

  I also knew my “second life” wasn't a divine miracle. “Soul swapping”—moving consciousness to another body—is a common technique in the upper planes. Any Immortal with a bloodline could do it, and if they wanted to save me, they would swap me into an Immortal vessel. Heavens knows there were plenty after my final battle. But instead, someone swapped me into the body of a crippled cultivator in the Mortal Plane. My situation was an act of a sadist, not a savior, and I had no illusions about it.

  The only question was how someone reached the Mortal Plane to swap my soul, and I didn't have time to consider it because I was immediately thrust into an existential crisis.

  It started with the door to the room cracking. Someone started shoving it with their shoulder, and it was breaking with every hit.

  I thought.

  I searched through Divine Eyes and saw a cultivator on the other door. I immediately panicked, pushing my creaky, frail body to stand up. It was difficult. My body was weak and anemic, and blood was still draining off my clothing in waterfalls.

  Boom. Crack. The door splintered, and the door handle fell to the ground with a metallic clank.

  With one last shove, the door flew open, and I was face to face with my antagonist.

  My first impression of him was one of disgust.

  One’s appearance is their reputation, and this man had given up on life. He had mangy black hair, poorly shaped muscles, blubbering fat jiggling on his body, and crooked teeth that would have to be yanked free to be fixed with a body constitution. If his black and scarlet cloak covered his entire body, mind, and soul, it would not be enough to save him from humiliation. And while rough appearances can be deceiving, one's cultivation is a true testament to someone's worth — and this cretin was uglier inside than out.

  He had ninety eight meridians, and Qi only passed through sixteen of them. Each was breathing Qi as fast as they could, then coughing it out as if they were chasing the dragon with an opium pipe. The sight was a sardonic tragedy, and I couldn't figure out how such a breathing pattern had come into existence.

  Was it a cruel joke between elders? An accident? A refusal to learn?

  Whatever it was, it was pathetic — just like his anemic face and quivering lips. It seemed that he was terrified at the sight of blood — and I was bathed in it.

  I didn't need cultivation to kill such a creature, so I refused to address him with even the most basic of courtesies.

  “Is there a reason you've barged into my quarters?” I asked.

  His eyes darted around nervously.

  “Didn't think so. Now, if you will…” I glanced down the hallway, telling him to leave with my eyes.

  This seemed to snap him out of his trembling fear because his pale face swirled to life with crimson hues.

  “What?” I asked coldly.

  He didn't look like he wanted to confront me, but it looked like he had a duty to do so. So he wrinkled his pudgy nose, clenched his fist, and said:

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  “I told you to kill yourself.”

  I laughed. “Pardon me?”

  “I said — I told you to kill yourself.” He clenched his fists and trembled. “I won't repeat myself again.”

  I blinked a few times and flashed him a wide smile. Then I reflected on his words, carving them into my soul as I made the connection between this exchange and the apparent suicide. I examined his pathetic cultivation base again, smiled — and hit him in the face.

  I intended to kill him. I really did. If I were an Immortal, I would’ve warped the heavens and hit him in the face so hard that the entire building and nearby landscape would have shaken, buckled, and crumbled under the pressure. I had just been attacked by all the Immortal Scions except Rena’s father, and was sealed. Now, her father had dominion over her, and I was deprived of my ability to cultivate and ascend the heavens to save her. I was furious beyond your wildest imagination, and I had still not processed my new situation. So once I met the man who orchestrated this grim comedy, I reflexively attempted to grant him the death he so desperately craved.

  But I couldn’t.

  My arm erupted in violent pain as I tried circulating Qi into the attack by reflex, and when I hit his face, it was no different than striking a fortified tomb. The attack barely made him stumble, but the impact rattled my knuckles, and the pain made my vision blur.

  My enemy was baffled, scared, and confused as he touched his cheek. But when he saw me gripping my knuckles, his confidence soared, and his lips curved into a sadistic grin.

  “Oh, you're going to pay for that,” he said.

  “I’m sure I will,” I said sarcastically. As I taunted him, I used Divine Eyes to find a stud in my room’s wall—a vertical beam that reinforces the building—and then I backed up against it.

  He took this adjustment as a sign of helplessness — and his reaction was spectacularly stupid.

  The brute charged at me with his head forward, as if to tackle me.

  It was artistically sad to watch. Even without muscle memory or Qi, all I had to do was step out of the way, and the man flew into the stud with superhuman speed. The impact broke the wood and shook the building with a quaking boom, making the people inside cry out in confusion.

  The cultivator was screaming, too. He gripped his head like a traumatized child, crying and shaking as he held his head. It was a tragic sight and I wanted to leave him there, forever scarring him with the sullen shame of knowing that he lost a fight to a cripple by injuring himself.

  But I couldn’t.

  The situation was dire. I had calmed enough to realize that I didn't know where I was and couldn't protect myself with cultivation. Were I to kill a cultivator, I would be imprisoned or killed without question. And even if I bartered arrays and alchemy for my life, people could coerce me into a soul pact. It was not ideal. But at the same time, if I let Renly go, he and his ilk would do everything in their power to destroy me if I didn't eliminate him.

  Shallow victories breed future conflicts. That’s why if you face a problem that you can't win twice — you must win it decisively the first time.

  Seeing him come to his senses, I acted. I grabbed a mining shovel and swung it on the man’s skull. The metal head bent as his face smashed into the floor — and then I continued. I swung it over and over and over, pounding the back of his head until his crying lowered to a whimper — and then I beat him some more. Once the shovel bent beyond use, I grabbed the back of his hair and rolled him on his back to finish the job.

  That wasn’t to say I was going to kill him.

  You should rarely kill anyone in broad daylight. Killing may be more common in the world of cultivation, but there are still laws backed by powerful cultivators who enforce them. And even when you're within the law, those with connections can demand your execution. To kill is to guarantee scrutiny, martyrdom, and retribution. That's why you should never do with killing what you can accomplish better with trauma.

  I straddled his chest, pinning his arms with my knees as I said:

  “Look at me.”

  “No…. I’m sorry,” he cried.

  “I said, look at me.”

  He turned his head and said, “No… no… I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “I said, !”

  He looked at me through teary cataracts.

  “What’s your name?”

  “W-What?”

  “I said… What is your name? You’re completely meaningless, so I’ve forgotten it. So let's reintroduce ourselves, shall we? Tell me: what… is... your… name?”

  “R-Renly.”

  “Renly what?”

  “Renly.” He swallowed. “Caro.”

  “Renly Caro… Okay, Renly. I’m going to spare your life today. Do you know why?”

  He spat micro bubbles from his lips as he fought to answer. Then he took a wheezing breath and said, “W-Why?”

  I grinned and said, “Because you’re so pitiful that killing you would tarnish my reputation, you fat, useless fuck.”

  I punched him in the eye, and he screamed. He tried to cover his face, but he was pinned down. He was a cultivator, so simply circulating Qi from his Inner Dantian would have allowed him to throw me off — but he didn’t. There was no fight in him.

  Such was the power of trauma.

  “That…” I continued, alternating fists between words. “And I want… you… to… understand… the shame… of knowing… that someone… with a shattered dantian… is taking pity… on you.”

  Once I finished, I put my hand over his mouth so he could listen over the sound his crying.

  “I’d love to see your friend’s faces when they learn that you were broken by a cripple. I’d rather die, personally. In fact… I would probably kill myself before suffering that type of humiliation.”

  I slammed him in the cheekbone with my right elbow, the deciding blow that cracked his cheek and ended the fight.

  I stood as he whimpered, gurgling blood, coughing out phlegm. Renly Caro was a disgusting sight from start to end.

  I picked up the pickaxe and scraped the tip against the floor to maximize the terror.

  “I’m not joking, Renly. You really should kill yourself. But if you don’t? I recommend that you pretend I died and suffer the consequences if people find out later. Because if anyone learns you got trounced by a cripple, they'll mock you, humiliate you, shun you, beat you, and make you their whipping post. Your partner will leave you if you have one; you'll never get one if you don't. You’ll only know isolation and suffering until the day you die. So if I were you, I would take this humiliation to the grave and pray that my ancestors would still welcome me.”

  He moaned like a dying animal as I plunged the pickaxe into a pressure point, saving him from his cruel state of consciousness. Then I stood there, reflecting on my situation.

  My blood curled and pumped, and my heart pounded violently in my chest. I could now hear people talking outside — no Spiritless was foolish enough to come between a fight with a cultivator, but they didn't need to.

  I thought.

  The walls were paper-thin, so they heard everything. For all I knew, they watched the old me go into that room. So if there was an investigation, I would be outed. If Renly’s acquaintances returned, I would suffer gravely. My only hope was to avoid an investigation by letting him go, and then praying his pride and trauma prevented him from telling anyone.

  I looked at Renly.

  I rummaged through his pockets, robbing him of a bag of coins. I hoped it was standard currency, but when I pulled them out, I saw they were chips with numbers and the name “Scarlet Moon” written on them.

  I clicked my tongue. I looked toward the door.

  I pocketed the loot, found the dagger I ostensibly cut my throat with under the bed, and then snapped the shovel’s handle off with my foot, and stuffed the pieces into the mining bag. I stripped Renly’s oversized cloak, and put it over me and the backpack. I popped the hood and finished by pulling off his shirt and wrapping it around his face so no one could see it.

  Preparations complete, I dragged Renly’s body into the hall.

  Miners stood in their rooms’ doorways nervously, suddenly wishing that they hadn't volunteered to become witnesses. They avoided looking at me, hoping to prove they wouldn't say anything. Many closed their doors. Neither would have mattered in most situations.

  I dragged on—but I didn’t make it far.

  My body was weak, and this fat sack of flesh was heavier than a planet. Each pull dragged loudly in the hallway, smearing blood everywhere. It wasn’t sustainable, so I dropped his body with a thud and turned to the witnesses.

  “Which one of you is going to save the rest of your lives?” I asked in a baritone voice.

  No one answered.

  “I’ll repeat myself — a cultivator has fallen victim in your quarters. If he’s discovered here, you will die. Which one of you has common sense? Speak now, or I’ll start killing people until someone answers.”

  I turned to a man, and they flinched.

  I turned again, and it was the same.

  Finally:

  “I can do it.”

  I heard a deep man’s voice at the other end of the hall. I turned and saw a man I'd later know as Rex, a simple yet dependable man with a mild temperament.

  “Wise call,” I said. “Hide this man in your room until he wakes. Keep his face wrapped. Once he wakes and realizes he’s hidden, he’ll be grateful. Help him leave and you’ll gain his favor instead of his wrath.”

  I kicked Renly’s body. “Now move.”

  I opened the exit as they set to work.

  “Don't just stand there!” Rex demanded. “Help me!” He set to work brilliantly as I left, entering the crisp springtime air around the Scarlet Moon mountain.