I Prove the Dao with Tattoos

I transmigrated to a world that revered tattoos, where being unmarked made you lower than a dog.

I became a mine slave, with only one tattoo on my body: a slave mark, the lowest kind.

As the old man who shared my bunk died, he told me, "Don't go any deeper. There's something in there."

I didn't listen.

Then I saw it: living patterns on the stone walls, densely packed and writhing.

In the middle of the wall was a human-shaped hollow, with something inside breathing.

Each breath matched my heartbeat.

Later, I discovered that whatever tattoo the tattooists gave someone, I could learn it just by looking.

How to hold the needle, how to mix the ink, how to make a pattern "come alive."

The first time I tattooed myself, the mark began to glow, slowly moving beneath my skin.

Then I heard a voice: "Tattoo me."

I didn't know what it was. But I knew that something was growing inside this body.

For twenty years, I clawed my way out of the mine. From slave to tattooist, from the lowest mark to forbidden patterns.

They called me the Tattoo God.

But I knew that the thing deep in that mine had been waiting for me all along.

Waiting for me to return.

Waiting for me to finish tattooing it.

The tattoo marks the skin, but changes your fate.