Liu Qi, the Primordial World's Eighth Sage, was kicked into a space-time rift because the Heavenly Dao could only accommodate seven Sages.
When he opened his eyes again, Blue Star was still there, but it was no longer the Blue Star he knew.
People soared through the sky on flying swords. Beast-eared girls sold milk tea on the street. Old Wang next door could smash a fake boulder with a single tai chi move.
Transmigrators were everywhere. Beast tamers were raising pigs, armor summoners were hauling bricks, and fire-element ability users were setting up barbecue stalls.
And he, a mighty Sage, had been injured by the space-time rift and had his cultivation suppressed by the world's will. All he had left was a pixel-chick System, so worn down it could only say "Ding."
"Host, you're nothing but a Foundation Establishment-level weakling now."
"A weakling?" Liu Qi looked at the A-rank demon beast charging toward him, its power comparable to a peak Nascent Soul cultivator. He punched straight through its head. "You call this a weakling?"
He's an incurable social butterfly and a meme-obsessed jokester. He knows he should keep a low profile, but his strength lets him show off.
In this stitched-together world, he'll teach everyone a lesson with his fists: what it means to be the Eighth Sage, and what it means to use one punch to crush all the flashy nonsense.
Once, the Heavenly Dao couldn't tolerate him. Now this world is close to reaching its limit, too.
