Rain fell steadily onto the broken stone.
Yuan Shen opened his eyes.
He remained still for a few moments, letting his senses adjust. Cold rain struck his face through the open ceiling, and water had already soaked through his robe. The temple around him was a ruin—small, isolated, long since abandoned. Moss covered the walls. Roots split the tiles underfoot. A faceless statue with broken arms slumped at the far end, partially buried under rubble.
He sat up. His body had no injuries and was just as he remembered. His cultivation remained intact. His Nirvana core burned steadily at his center, its flow uninterrupted. There were no signs of damage or backlash.
The transfer technique had succeeded.
He rose from the altar and stepped down. Water ran across the floor in uneven streams, winding through the cracks. He ignored the cold, crossed the shattered threshold, and stepped out into the storm.
The temple was situated high on a narrow ridge. Below him, mountains stretched outward beneath a dense veil of fog. Trees covered the slopes like a drowned forest, their branches heavy with rain. Thunder echoed far off in the distance.
He looked out in silence.
The Qi of this world wasn't bad for a lower realm. Not pure, not refined, but enough to cultivate without restriction. A good place to begin.
He turned and descended the steps carved into the cliffside. Each was worn and uneven, but still intact. His steps were light. His breathing shallow. He didn't waste energy. The robes clung to his skin, and his hair pressed to the back of his neck, but he made no effort to dry himself.
Lower worlds were crude, but not useless.
He had no plans to stay. But there were resources here. Cultivators. Techniques. Lives.
He walked without hurry.
His mind drifted as he moved. The transfer had been clean. The Patriarch's technique had relied on absolute sacrifice, and it delivered as promised. No one could trace him here. Not by karma, not by essence. Unless he drew attention, even those who feared him most would overlook this realm for centuries.
That suited him.
He didn't need revenge now. He needed cultivation. Strength. Authority. The capacity to erase everything above, completely, on his own terms.
The True Scripture of Dao Harvesting stirred quietly inside him. It was embedded behind the Nirvana core, dormant for now. Its Mortal Chapter was active, but there were no suitable targets. He had no interest in harvesting the weak. Not unless he was bored, or it was efficient.
At the base of the path, the forest thickened. Tree trunks rose in twisting clusters. Mud and roots filled the gaps between exposed stone. The trail turned into a narrow path barely visible under the moss.
He followed it anyway.
From the marks in the dirt and faint impressions in the rain-soaked grass, a beast had passed through the night before. Probably mid-tier. The trail had already faded. Its presence wasn't worth investigating.
Eventually, the path ended near a ravine. A river cut through the forest below. There were no bridges. He walked down the slope and crossed directly. Water reached his knees. He emerged on the far side dripping, but unaffected.
He found a road not far from the river. It was poorly maintained but structured. Likely used by local sects. Cart ruts and formation residues indicated active use. A minor route. Still useful.
He began walking.
Yuan Shen's thoughts turned, silent and cold.
He had once cultivated atop the celestial peaks of the Immortal World, where even the clouds obeyed the will of power. There, his future had stretched endlessly before him—until it was cut short. The memory of that final day still lingered, though he no longer felt the pain.
The sects that joined hands to destroy his clan had feared potential more than reality. That was always the truth in the Immortal World. Potential was a threat. Possibility was dangerous. He had not yet reached that realm, but the fact that he could… that alone was enough to justify eradication.
He no longer hated them.
He would still kill them all.
One day, their divine palaces would burn. Not out of vengeance, but because they were in the way. He didn't plan to reclaim anything. He would build higher than they ever had and step on the pieces they left behind.
There were an immeasurable number of worlds beneath the Immortal World, each ruled or influenced by those who styled themselves as gods. He had no interest in them beyond what they could offer him. This one—the Hongmeng World—was the highest among them, closest to the heavens, thick with opportunity.
He would make use of it.
He paused at the edge of the road, where a half-buried stone marker leaned against a tree. The writing was faded, but part of a name remained carved into the surface. A sect name, perhaps. It didn't matter.
His foot crushed the moss as he stepped over it.
The road curved down through another pass. The fog had thickened, and the sky above remained sealed. No stars. No moon. The world felt forgotten. That suited him.
His hand shifted slightly, drawing a rune in the air. A thin layer of mist parted ahead of him. He didn't bother suppressing the movement. No one who saw it would survive, and anyone who could survive wouldn't care.
At some point, he would need to gather information. Find a map. Learn the sect structures here. Identify the strongest and locate the paths to higher cultivation. But not yet.
Right now, he walked.
The True Scripture stirred again, sensing his thoughts. It was a greedy thing, but not sentient. It responded to intent. His desire to climb. His willingness to kill. That was enough for it to remain still. It knew he wouldn't waste its power on insects.
The rain began to thin as morning approached. A faint gray light touched the edges of the horizon. Birds stirred in the trees, but none approached. Some creatures of this world still remembered what fear was.
He saw the remains of an old formation circle embedded into the stone by the roadside. Worn down to near uselessness. A travel node, perhaps. Or a defensive array. Its glyphs had faded beyond repair. He didn't stop.
His goal was not revenge. Not legacy. Not even peace.
He walked to destroy the ceiling itself.
If that required cultivating on the bones of the weak, so be it.
Hours passed without interruption. The trees gave way to a slope of smooth black stone, slick from constant rain. In the distance, faint lights shimmered beneath a stretch of clouds. A settlement, perhaps. Mortal or weakly cultivated. The exact distinction was unimportant.
He didn't change direction.
He stopped at the edge of a high ridge. Below, the valley dipped into terraced fields half-submerged in water. Dozens of huts clung to the hillside like fungi. A faint barrier formation flickered above them, too weak to block even a Nascent Soul cultivator.
He watched for a moment, then turned away.
There were no targets worth killing. No techniques worth stealing. No pressure worth challenging. Not yet.
His footsteps continued, steady and without urgency.
He recalled the realms of cultivation. From Body Tempering to Mahayana, the path of mortals. Nirvana marked the threshold of true power. Beyond that—Earth Immortal, Heaven Immortal, Mystic Immortal, and further into the layers of immortal evolution. Immortal King was the limit of this world.
Weak, Immortal Kings are weak in the Immortal World.
In the Immortal World, those at the Immortal King Realm were the backbone of any sect. Nothing impressive. Cannon Fodder.
There was no safety above. No future in compromise.
Power wasn't given. It was seized, consumed, and refined.
He would devour his way to the top.
As the sun finally broke through the thinning clouds, a single ray of light struck the mountainside. The rain faded. Mist retreated.
Yuan Shen kept walking.
He hadn't come here to rest.
He had come to cultivate.