Rain.

It had always been raining whenever someone died.

The cold drops fell from the endless night sky, washing away blood that refused to disappear, as though heaven itself wished to erase every trace of sin.

A man dressed in black walked silently through the deserted streets.

His footsteps were steady.

His breathing remained calm.

Behind him, inside a luxurious penthouse illuminated by golden lights, twenty-three corpses lay scattered across marble floors.

No screams.

No witnesses.

No mistakes.

Another mission completed.

The underworld knew him by countless names.

The Ghost.

The Reaper.

The Faceless Killer.

No one knew his real identity.

No one knew where he came from.

No one had ever seen him smile.

He was simply a shadow hired to erase other shadows.

His real name...

Had long since lost its meaning.

...

He had never known his parents.

No birthday.

No family.

No home.

His earliest memory was waking up beneath a broken bridge, wrapped inside a torn blanket while winter slowly stole the warmth from his tiny body.

The city never pitied children.

It simply ignored them.

To survive, he stole food.

When stealing wasn't enough...

He learned to fight.

When fighting wasn't enough...

He learned to kill.

At first, his hands trembled.

His heart pounded.

He vomited after taking a life.

Then came the second.

The third.

The tenth.

Eventually...

He felt nothing.

Humans adapted to everything.

Even murder.

Especially murder.

Years passed.

The orphan became a weapon.

His employers praised his efficiency.

His enemies never had the chance to curse him.

Every target died before realizing death had arrived.

People called him a monster.

He never argued.

Monsters didn't care about opinions.

...

Tonight should have been ordinary.

He finished the assassination.

Collected his payment.

Walked home beneath the pouring rain.

Yet fate...

Had something amusing prepared.

Near the sidewalk lay a soaked, worn-out book.

Most people would have ignored it.

He didn't know why he stopped.

Perhaps curiosity.

Perhaps boredom.

Perhaps destiny.

The cover contained only four faded words.

Cultivation Beyond Heaven.

He picked it up.

"...A novel?"

He almost laughed.

Reading stories had never interested him.

Stories were lies.

Reality always ended with someone stronger standing above another corpse.

Still...

For reasons even he couldn't explain...

He took the book home.

...

His apartment was silent.

Small.

Empty.

Cold.

Exactly the way he preferred it.

No family photos.

No decorations.

No unnecessary furniture.

A table.

A chair.

A bed.

A pistol hidden beneath the pillow.

That was enough.

He changed into dry clothes before opening the old novel.

The first chapter spoke of immortal cultivators.

Flying swords.

Spirit beasts.

Ancient sects.

Treasures capable of overturning heaven.

Heaven's chosen geniuses.

Young masters.

Arrogant villains.

Destiny.

Luck.

The Heavenly Dao.

He frowned.

Ridiculous.

Yet...

He kept reading.

Hours slipped away unnoticed.

The more he read, the more disgusted he became.

The so-called "chosen ones" survived impossible situations through luck.

Enemies conveniently underestimated them.

Beautiful women fell in love after a single encounter.

Ancient inheritances appeared exactly when needed.

Every coincidence favored the protagonist.

He closed the book for a moment.

"...Luck."

How absurd.

In his world...

Luck didn't exist.

Preparation did.

If someone survived, they had planned better.

If someone died...

They had overlooked something.

Simple.

He reopened the novel.

By dawn...

He had finished every page.

His expression never changed.

Only one sentence escaped his lips.

"If I were in this world..."

He placed the novel on the table.

"...none of them would survive."

Not the protagonist.

Not the villains.

Not even heaven itself.

The room became silent once more.

Outside...

Rain continued falling.

He stood before the window.

The city lights flickered beneath the storm.

For the first time in years...

He felt strangely tired.

Perhaps death would be peaceful.

Perhaps not.

It didn't matter.

He closed his eyes.

...

Nearly two kilometers away...

A man lay motionless on the rooftop of an abandoned building.

His breathing was slow.

His finger rested lightly against the trigger of a custom-built sniper rifle.

The crosshair settled perfectly on a dimly lit apartment window.

His target stood there without moving.

A calm voice echoed through his earpiece.

"Confirm visual."

"Confirmed."

"Eliminate."

The sniper exhaled.

A single pull.

Nothing more.

Bang.

The suppressed rifle released only a whisper.

The bullet crossed the storm.

Pierced the glass.

Time seemed to slow.

The assassin inside the apartment opened his eyes.

His instincts screamed.

Too late.

The bullet shattered his skull.

Blood painted the wall.

His body collapsed without resistance.

Silence returned.

The world's deadliest assassin...

Had been assassinated.

...

Darkness.

No pain.

No sound.

No light.

Only endless emptiness.

How long had passed?

Seconds?

Years?

Centuries?

He couldn't tell.

Then...

A voice.

Ancient.

Emotionless.

Impossible to describe.

"You have died."

"..."

"You possess no attachment."

"..."

"You possess no regret."

"..."

"You possess no faith."

"..."

"You possess no fear."

The darkness trembled.

"Interesting."

For the first time...

The voice sounded almost amused.

"You reject fate."

"You reject destiny."

"You reject heaven."

"...Very well."

"If that is your wish..."

"Go."

The endless void shattered like broken glass.

His consciousness fell.

Faster.

Faster.

Faster.

Cold wind struck his face.

Pain returned.

The smell of mud.

Rotting wood.

Smoke.

He opened his eyes.

Gray clouds covered an unfamiliar sky.

Snow drifted quietly through the air.

He was lying inside a ruined alley between ancient buildings built from dark wood and stone.

His body...

Was smaller.

His hands were thinner.

His clothes were nothing more than a torn black robe.

His stomach burned with hunger.

Around him, people walked past without sparing a glance.

Beggars.

Merchants.

Cultivators carrying swords.

Flying spirit beasts crossed the distant heavens.

Just like the novel.

He slowly stood.

"...So."

His lips curved upward.

Not a smile.

Something colder.

Something more terrifying.

"I really came here."

His sharp eyes swept across the unfamiliar world.

The immortal realm.

A place ruled by cultivation.

Power.

Greed.

Hypocrisy.

Exactly the kind of world where only the strongest had the right to live.

He looked toward the endless mountains rising beyond the city.

A faint killing intent escaped his body.

"If this world truly belongs to Heaven..."

His voice was calm.

"So be it."

"I'll begin by destroying everything it believes in."

Far above the clouds...

An ancient pair of golden eyes slowly opened.

Watching him.

Waiting.

As if Heaven itself had noticed the arrival of something it should never have allowed to exist.

And somewhere in the depths of the immortal world...

Countless sleeping monsters opened their eyes.

The gears of destiny had begun to move.

But they had overlooked one fatal mistake.

The man they had summoned...

Never believed in destiny.

Cold.

That was the first thing Mo Wuchen felt.

A freezing wind swept across the narrow alley, carrying with it the scent of snow, damp wood, and smoke from distant hearths. His thin black robe fluttered weakly as he slowly opened his eyes.

His vision blurred before gradually becoming clear.

Ancient buildings lined both sides of the street.

Wooden signboards hung from shops written in unfamiliar characters.

Horse-drawn carriages rolled across stone roads.

Men and women dressed in flowing robes walked by with swords hanging from their waists.

Above them...

A streak of blue light shot across the sky.

Someone...

Was flying.

Mo Wuchen narrowed his eyes.

"So the novel wasn't fiction."

He lowered his head and examined his body.

His hands were rough and covered with small cuts. His clothes were torn beyond repair, and his stomach twisted painfully from hunger. This body had clearly gone several days without proper food.

Weak.

Too weak.

He hated weakness.

In his previous life, weakness meant death.

Nothing had changed.

He calmly searched through the memories left inside this body.

Fragments appeared one after another.

No family.

No surname.

No identity.

A homeless orphan who had wandered from town to town begging for scraps. Beaten by stronger beggars. Mocked by children. Ignored by everyone else.

Three days ago, the boy collapsed from starvation.

Then he died.

Now...

Mo Wuchen occupied the empty shell.

"...Convenient."

He didn't mourn the previous owner.

The dead no longer had use for sympathy.

He stepped out of the alley.

Immediately, countless sounds filled his ears.

Merchants shouted.

Blacksmiths hammered glowing steel.

Children laughed.

Cultivators in luxurious robes walked proudly through the streets while ordinary people quickly lowered their heads.

Respect?

No.

Fear.

Power created obedience.

The city itself revolved around strength.

Exactly as expected.

He quietly observed every detail.

People.

Roads.

Escape routes.

Possible hiding places.

Potential threats.

Old habits never disappeared.

Even in another world, he instinctively analyzed his surroundings like an assassin searching for targets.

A loud slap echoed nearby.

A middle-aged shopkeeper kicked an elderly beggar onto the road.

"You filthy rat!"

"You scared away my customers!"

The old man struggled to stand.

"I... I was only asking for food..."

Another kick landed on his ribs.

"Know your place!"

Pedestrians merely watched.

Nobody intervened.

Mo Wuchen kept walking.

Compassion accomplished nothing.

The old man wasn't weak because he was unlucky.

He was weak because he lacked power.

Powerlessness invited cruelty.

It was an unchanging law.

As he passed the crowd, he noticed something interesting.

A steamed bun had fallen from a nearby cart during the commotion.

No one had noticed.

Without hesitation, he picked it up and continued walking.

His movements were smooth.

Silent.

Invisible.

Years of surviving on the streets had never left him.

Several minutes later, he sat beneath a dead tree outside the city walls.

He calmly ate the bun one bite at a time.

Every movement conserved energy.

Every bite was measured.

Rushing only wasted strength.

After finishing the last piece, he closed his eyes.

The novel's memories resurfaced.

Cultivation.

Qi.

Meridians.

Spirit roots.

The path to immortality.

According to the story, ordinary people absorbed spiritual energy from heaven and earth before refining it into Qi.

Simple.

At least in theory.

Mo Wuchen crossed his legs.

He slowed his breathing.

His heartbeat became steady.

His mind emptied.

The world around him faded.

A faint current brushed against his skin.

Invisible energy drifted through the air like countless tiny stars.

"So this is spiritual energy..."

Instead of forcing it into his body as described in the novel, he merely observed it.

He remembered something from his life as an assassin.

Never rush into unfamiliar territory.

Watch first.

Understand first.

Act later.

That principle had kept him alive for years.

It would keep him alive here as well.

Hours passed.

The winter sun slowly descended.

Without realizing it, Mo Wuchen discovered something strange.

The spiritual energy around him wasn't uniform.

Some streams felt warm.

Others were sharp like blades.

A few carried an eerie darkness that frightened nearby beasts away.

Interesting.

Most cultivators probably absorbed whatever spiritual energy they encountered.

He refused.

If there was a better choice, he would find it.

If there was a stronger path, he would create it.

At that moment, hurried footsteps echoed through the forest.

Three young men wearing green robes burst through the trees.

Each carried a sword.

Blood stained their sleeves.

One of them shouted,

"Search everywhere!"

"It escaped this way!"

Mo Wuchen slowly opened his eyes.

A wounded shadow stumbled out from the bushes.

A girl.

She couldn't have been older than seventeen.

Her white robes were soaked in blood.

She clutched a small jade box tightly against her chest.

The moment she saw Mo Wuchen, hope appeared in her eyes.

"Please..."

She staggered toward him.

"They're trying to kill me..."

"If you help me escape..."

"I'll reward you with anything."

Behind her, the three swordsmen drew closer.

Their killing intent filled the air.

Mo Wuchen remained seated.

Expressionless.

He looked first at the girl.

Then at the jade box.

Then at the three pursuers.

Within seconds, countless possibilities unfolded inside his mind.

Who was stronger?

Who was lying?

Who held the greatest value?

Who was most useful?

He wasn't deciding whom to save.

He was deciding who should die first.

A faint smile cold enough to freeze the winter wind appeared on his face.

For the first time since entering this world...

An opportunity had arrived.

Silence settled over the forest.

The cold wind carried the scent of blood and pine.

The young woman staggered toward Mo Wuchen, her trembling hands clutching the jade box as if it contained her entire future.

"Please..." she whispered. "Help me."

Behind her, the three disciples emerged from the trees with drawn swords.

Their robes marked them as members of a minor cultivation sect.

The tallest among them laughed.

"So that's where you ran."

His gaze shifted toward Mo Wuchen.

"A beggar?"

He sneered.

"Boy, step aside. This doesn't concern you."

Mo Wuchen slowly rose from the ground.

His black robe swayed gently in the wind.

His expression remained unreadable.

He looked at the frightened girl.

Then at the three disciples.

No anger.

No sympathy.

Only calculation.

The girl suddenly stepped closer.

"If you protect me, my family will reward you. Spirit stones... cultivation manuals... anything!"

The three disciples laughed.

"You actually think a starving beggar can save you?"

Mo Wuchen finally spoke.

"You all talk too much."

The forest became quiet.

The disciples frowned.

"What did you say?"

Instead of answering, Mo Wuchen took one slow step backward.

His movement caused all four of them to instinctively glance toward him.

That single moment was enough.

The girl's grip on the jade box loosened slightly.

One disciple shifted his footing.

Another lowered his guard.

Every unnecessary movement became information.

His former life had taught him one lesson above all others.

People revealed their weaknesses while speaking.

Corpses did not.

...

The leading disciple rushed forward first.

His sword flashed through the air.

Fast.

But predictable.

Mo Wuchen twisted his body just enough for the blade to miss his throat by a fraction.

At the same instant, he grabbed the disciple's wrist.

Using the man's own momentum, he threw him directly into the second disciple.

The two crashed together.

Before either could recover—

Mo Wuchen picked up a broken tree branch from the ground.

It wasn't a sword.

It didn't need to be.

He drove the sharpened end into the throat of the nearest disciple.

The man's eyes widened in disbelief.

He collapsed without another sound.

The remaining two reacted instantly.

"Cultivate—"

Before the warning could finish, Mo Wuchen kicked the fallen sword toward himself.

The blade slid across the frozen ground.

He caught it effortlessly.

Now armed.

Everything changed.

The second disciple attacked recklessly.

Steel collided.

Sparks burst into the air.

Mo Wuchen had never used spiritual techniques.

But swords...

Swords were universal.

Distance.

Timing.

Balance.

Those principles never changed.

Three exchanges later—

The disciple overextended.

A single opening.

Mo Wuchen stepped inside the man's guard.

One clean strike.

The disciple fell.

The forest returned to silence.

Only the leader remained.

His confidence had vanished.

"You..."

"You're just a mortal!"

Mo Wuchen tilted his head slightly.

"And yet you're afraid."

Fear spread across the disciple's face.

He turned and ran.

Mo Wuchen did not chase immediately.

Running prey made predictable choices.

The disciple sprinted between two ancient trees—

Exactly where the roots broke through the ground.

His foot caught.

His balance failed.

Mo Wuchen appeared behind him almost silently.

The disciple barely had time to turn before the sword flashed once.

The body collapsed onto the frozen earth.

...

The young woman stood motionless.

Her face had turned pale.

"You..."

"You killed them..."

She took several cautious steps backward.

"I... I can still reward you."

"I swear."

"My clan—"

Mo Wuchen interrupted calmly.

"Why were they chasing you?"

"They wanted the inheritance."

She raised the jade box.

"My master entrusted this to—"

"Liar."

Her pupils shrank.

"You hesitated."

"I..."

"You lied before finishing the sentence."

His voice remained flat.

"The box belongs to someone else."

The girl's breathing became uneven.

"You don't understand..."

"I had no choice."

"They betrayed me first."

"I only wanted to survive."

Mo Wuchen nodded slightly.

"So did I."

Before she realized what he meant—

His sword moved.

One strike.

The jade box slipped from her hands.

She stared at him in disbelief.

"...Why..."

Her voice grew weaker.

"I asked... for help..."

Mo Wuchen caught the falling jade box.

"You asked the wrong person."

The girl collapsed.

The forest became completely silent.

Snow continued to fall.

Mo Wuchen stood among the five bodies without the slightest change in expression.

He looked at each of them only once.

Dead.

No further threat.

He crouched beside them and searched every body with practiced efficiency.

Three storage pouches.

A handful of low-grade spirit stones.

Several medicinal pills.

A worn cultivation manual.

A map.

A sect token.

Finally...

He opened the jade box.

Inside rested a single black fruit no larger than a fist.

Dark spiritual energy slowly circled around it.

"So this is what they killed each other for."

He closed the lid.

Human greed never changed.

Different world.

Same nature.

He gathered everything into one bundle before walking deeper into the mountains.

He never looked back.

The dead no longer mattered.

Only the living could become obstacles.

As the evening sky darkened, Mo Wuchen found an abandoned cave hidden behind hanging vines.

He entered cautiously.

No beast scent.

No footprints.

Acceptable.

After blocking the entrance with loose stones, he placed the spirit stones before him.

His sharp eyes settled on the cultivation manual.

Basic Qi Refinement Art.

He read every page.

Then read it again.

By midnight, he quietly closed the manual.

"It has flaws."

The breathing pattern wasted spiritual energy.

The circulation route was inefficient.

The author had accepted the method because it was tradition.

Mo Wuchen accepted nothing without questioning it.

If this world followed rules...

Then rules could be improved.

Outside the cave, snow continued to fall.

Inside, a pair of emotionless black eyes slowly closed.

For the first time since arriving in this world...

Mo Wuchen began cultivating.

Not as a disciple.

Not as a chosen genius.

But as a man who intended to rewrite the path to immortality itself.