The pure white light gradually began to fade, dissolving into shadows. I opened my eyes with vigilance, as I had always done the moment I woke. My instincts screamed caution. One thing I knew clearly: this was not heaven. There were no beautiful fairies, no dreamlike paradise that mortals imagined.
I could only scream inside my chest—damn, damn, damnnnn—trying to give energy to my body to rise. But I could not. A strange grievance pressed down on me, heavier than anything I had felt before. It was as if the one thing that had supported my moral strength had been ripped away. Confusion gnawed at me. I had lost the opportunity to ascend to heaven, and now I was trapped in something else entirely.
My vision blurred. My head throbbed with heart‑piercing pain. My chest convulsed as new memories poured down like a waterfall. They crashed into me, drowning me in fragments of another life. Emotions tried to slip through, but they could not. My soul was half‑dead, and this body was not yet stabilized as my own.
Yet even in this fragile state, I could see the world's structure. Cultivation patterns unfolded before me like diagrams etched into the air. Common sense of this realm seeped into me. And then came the bitter truth: the family of this body's owner was dead.
There was no revenge path left. His grandmother had died of old age. His grandfather had been betrayed by his own son. His father had been slain by the servant he loved, a woman whose family had been annihilated by her husband's hand. She struck back in vengeance, but the aftermath of her attack left her dead as well. His grandfather had reached Rank 3, his father Rank 2, and his mother had only attained initial Rank 2. Each rank carried its own stages—initial, middle, final, and peak—fairness and hardship woven by heaven itself.
I couldn't help but recall one famous English tragedy, where family betrayal and downfall echoed endlessly.
The place I now stood was one of the most obscure mountains in the land: Lague Mountain. Few lived here, for each habitat was unique, dangerous, and strange. Here grew the dew luck flower, which produced karma stones. These stones could relinquish qi from the body, and qi was the essence that ignited the fires of virtue and sin. But appearances deceived. Though the flowers resembled fire, they were not meant for fire cultivators. Their forms shifted unpredictably, uncertain and strange. Fire was simply the most eye‑catching illusion to human eyes. Without such illusions, humans in their prime could never hope to survive the wilderness.
This mountain produced only enough to sustain a few people. Its scarcity was its shield. Many understood the unspoken rule: do not try to take over Lague Mountain. To do so was to invite ruin.
And so my story began anew.
I was Bayley Lone. My family was dead. And now, in this half‑dead state, I found myself drawn to the death luck grass. I did not know why—it seemed attractive, irresistible. Hunger gnawed at me, senseless and primal. I ate it raw, fried, baked, stewed—every form I could imagine. Only later did I realize the truth: I was consuming something only the wealthy dared to use.
The death luck grass was no ordinary herb. It was ranked as half‑rank, used to strengthen the foundation of cultivation. But it came at a terrible cost: it diminished luck. Only those with immense resources could afford such risk. No cultivator in their prime would dare attempt this idiocy without wealth to shield them. Yet my half‑dead state allowed me to do what others could not.
I devoured it until I reached my limit. My sixteen‑year‑old body stabilized, becoming fully alive. My foundation solidified, enviable and strong. And with that foundation came a glimpse into my own luck.
I saw it—white, thin, fragile. It trembled before my eyes, shaking my heart with dread. I realized then how ignorant I had been, how blissful in my arrogance. My relatives had already taken everything from my house, stripping me bare because I was too young to resist. Whether my cultivation journey would continue or end now rested not in my hands, but in theirs.
The half‑dead state had given me a strange advantage. My soul had been tethered between life and death, allowing me to consume what others feared. But now that I was fully alive, the consequences began to settle. My luck was fragile, my foundation strong but precarious. I could feel the balance of virtue and sin flickering inside me, like a candle in the wind.
I thought of my grandfather, betrayed by his own son. Of my father, slain by the servant he loved. Of my mother, who had never risen beyond initial Rank 2. Their lives had been tragedies, woven by betrayal and vengeance. And now I carried their legacy, standing alone on Lague Mountain.
The mountain itself seemed to whisper. The dew luck flowers swayed, their fiery illusions flickering in the wind. The death luck grass pulsed faintly, as if mocking me for consuming it so recklessly. The karma stones glimmered in the soil, remnants of lives and choices long past.
I clenched my fists. "I am Bayley Lone. My family is dead. But I live."
The words echoed in the empty wilderness. They were not a vow of revenge, nor a promise of greatness. They were simply truth.
Yet truth was heavy. My relatives had already stripped me of everything. My house was empty, my inheritance gone. They believed I was too young to resist, too fragile to fight back. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps my cultivation journey would end before it began.
But as I stood on Lague Mountain, half‑dead turned fully alive, I felt something stir within me. Not hope, not vengeance, but a strange clarity. The world was cruel, unfair, filled with betrayal and injustice. Yet it was also vast, structured, patterned. Cultivation was not merely strength—it was survival, endurance, adaptation.
I had eaten death luck grass until my body stabilized. My foundation was enviable, my luck fragile. I had glimpsed the white thread of fate, thin and trembling. And I knew: ignorance was bliss, but awareness was power.
The wilderness stretched before me, cruel and unforgiving. The dew luck flowers burned with illusory fire. The karma stones glimmered faintly. The death luck grass swayed in the wind. And I, Bayley Lone, stood at the edge of a journey that could end in insignificance—or devastation.