He transmigrated into the cultivation world as a good-for-nothing with the lowest-grade five-element spiritual root. When he woke, he was lying in a mass grave, his right leg fractured and seventeen corpses piled on top of him.
The System told him: Survive. Save up every sneer, then turn the tables all at once.
So he swept leaves, took bowls of meager relief porridge, and let everyone treat him like a pushover. The girl at the steamed-bun shop by the town gate slipped him an extra half-filling. The innkeeper left him a thin blanket that had been warmed in the sun. An old woodcutter tossed his only waterskin into the corpse pit.
He thought he was just keeping his head down and surviving.
Until one day, an old monster at the Nascent Soul stage crossed the Be Mang Mountains, and no one in Qingzhou dared stand in his way. Then the least noticeable “good-for-nothing” in the world opened the woodshed door and stepped out.
