Zhao Tiezhu had been an ordinary painter in modern society, earning a living at construction sites in the city through backbreaking work every day. To make a little extra money, he had even risked taking jobs painting the outside walls of buildings while suspended from a harness. But fate seemed to love playing tricks. That day, as usual, he was working high above the ground when disaster struck. His foot slipped, and he plunged straight down from the 18th floor. The wind roared in his ears. His heart filled with fear and unwillingness, but before he could think another thought, everything went black and his consciousness faded away.
When Zhao Tiezhu regained consciousness, he found himself in a strange place, surrounded by an air of ancient mystery. Looking down, he realized he had become a boy of only six, so frail that a gust of wind might knock him over. Before he could figure out what was going on, memories that did not belong to him flooded into his mind like a tide. Only then did he understand that he had transmigrated to the Xuantian Continent. The original owner of this body had an exceedingly poor spiritual root, a complete piece of trash. He was often bullied by children his own age and had ultimately died bearing a grudge after enduring unbearable humiliation. That was how Zhao Tiezhu had come to possess this body.
In this fantastical world where strength reigned supreme, the quality of one's spiritual root directly determined one's prospects for cultivation. Those with excellent spiritual roots were sought after by the major sects from childhood and carefully trained, with limitless potential ahead of them. Someone like Zhao Tiezhu, with a trash spiritual root, was destined to lead an ordinary life, and might even struggle just to survive.
At last, his System Dad awakened, and he embarked on a path that defied the heavens.
