From Menial Labor in the Hehuan Sect to Peering into Immortality

In a corner of the servant quarters, Wang Huai swallowed the last bite of his cold, hard coarse bun.

The original owner of this body was also named Wang Huai. Sixteen years old, with an inferior mixed spiritual root, he was among the lowest of the Hehuan Sect’s laborers. Day after day, he cowered in the depths of a lightless mine, digging for spirit ore amid shouts and the shadows of whips. Last night, the supervisor kicked him in the chest, and his injuries proved fatal.

As their memories intertwined, scenes from Earth silently overlapped with the cruelty of the cultivation world. The contemptuous looks from a few people in the student council, Liu Ruyan’s words, “A good-for-nothing should know his place,” and the supervisor’s spittle landing on his face now gradually merged into one.

Wang Huai slowly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. The bewilderment of a college student in his eyes sank little by little into a cold, shadowy glow.

He lowered his head and looked at the thick calluses formed by years of labor on his palms. Slowly, his fingers curled into a fist.

“So the strong make the rules…”

He repeated the words silently as the taste of rust spread across his tongue.

In the distance, clouds and mist swirled around the immortal mountains of the Hehuan Sect’s inner grounds. The clear chime of bells and cauldrons rang through the sky.

That was another world.

His own world, meanwhile, would begin anew in this courtyard piled with mottled ore and filled with dust and the reek of sweat.

That night, Wang Huai gripped the old copper bell tightly. Beneath the whip raised mockingly by the supervising disciple, he slowly lifted his head.

In the dim lamplight, a face strikingly similar to Liu Ruyan’s came into view.

He grinned and laughed without a sound.