PROLOGUE

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.

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