I Transmigrated, So Why Cultivate Immortality? Let's Do GL Instead

I transmigrated to a world of cultivation, where everyone else was refining Qi, building foundations, forming golden cores, and birthing nascent souls.

Then I discovered my bones were made of blue-patterned steel, the same material as that door in the sky.

That door is a machine. It has been running for three thousand years, its welds are crooked, its gears have missing teeth, and its drive shaft is overloaded.

The first three "ascenders" burned to death inside it. I'm the eighth.

The entire cultivation world is waiting for someone to walk through it. They call that ascension, and consider it an honor.

I picked up a wrench. I call it a high-risk piece of equipment that needs to be fixed before the deadline.

But the bigger problem is that the door is about to collapse.

And the entire cultivation world lies beneath my feet.