The air in the ruins was thick, heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the musk of something ancient. A group of adventurers scrambled through the crumbling corridors, their boots pounding against the stone as they fled from a nightmare they never expected to find.
"Everyone, move!" Ryan, the group's leader, roared. He slid to a halt, his blade flashing in the dim light. "I'll hold the vanguard! I'll stall this bastard while you escape!"
Lucy, the team's healer, skidded to a stop, her eyes wide with desperation. "No, Ryan! You've already bled enough for us. Please... you have a future. You have to join the West Wing Academy. Let us handle the rest!"
"She's right, sir!" the others chimed in, their voices echoing off the damp walls. "Go! Don't let our journey end here for nothing!"
Ryan looked at his team. There were four of them, all veteran adventurers well over forty. Three were at the Bronze Stage, and one was at the Peak Stone Stage. Despite their age, they looked to Ryan—a seventeen-year-old—as their leader. In this world, age meant nothing; strength was the only currency. Ryan had already reached the Early Silver Stage, granting him the power to shatter boulders with a single, focused fist.
"I... I will never forget this," Ryan choked out, tears streaming down his face. He turned and sprinted toward the distant light of the exit, his silhouette fading into the shadows.
Behind him, the team turned to face the depths of the ruin. A towering shadow emerged—a five-meter-tall Werewolf. It looked down at them with pure disdain, its claws scraping against the stone.
"Let's take this monster with us!" Lucy screamed, her voice filled with a tragic, final bravery. "We go down in glory!"
The moment Ryan crossed the threshold of the dungeon and felt the fresh air on his skin, the mask shattered.
The tears vanished instantly. His face settled into a mask of cold, ruthless indifference. His eyes, once bright with "sorrow," became as dark and bottomless as an abyss. The lives of his teammates—the people who had just walked into their graves for him—didn't matter in the slightest.
Ryan was a transmigrator. He had spent four years in this brutal world, learning a single, fundamental truth: the strong prey on the weak.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out a shimmering, translucent object. "Finally," he whispered, a thin, predatory smile tugging at his lips. "The Silver Pearl is mine."
He looked at the pearl in his palm. In this world, known as the 7-Step Realm, one could cultivate until they walked among the gods. There were seven distinct realms, from the lowest dregs of the 1st Realm to the divine heights of the 7th.
For those in the Lower Realms, the path was clear but steep:
Stone Stage
Bronze Stage
Silver Stage
Gold Stage
Dharma Stage
Nirvana Stage
Void Stage
Each stage was split into Early, Middle, and Peak phases. With the Silver Pearl in his hand, Ryan knew his ascent had only just begun. The "sacrifices" behind him were merely the price of admission.