Chapter 1: Who Am I? Where Am I? (Part One)

Disoriented, dizzy, lost in a fog, unable to tell east from west.

His consciousness seemed shrouded in a deep, black mist.

In that haze—

He thought he heard something: a sharp, biting voice laced with mockery...

"With your background, you’d better just accept your place as a lowborn!"

He seemed to see something before his eyes: a malicious, sneering face...

"You really don’t know your place, do you? Did you actually think you could ever become someone of standing?"

Amid shifting shadows, dreamlike scenes flickered through the darkness, as if someone was speaking to him. The images had long since faded into obscurity, but the voice—clear, vivid—rose from the depths of his soul. Every subtle trace of ridicule and contempt was as sharp as a blade.

"All that talk about striving for better—it’s not for everyone. Studying, cultivating—people like you shouldn’t even dream about it. Don’t think I’m just saying this for effect. Besides that basic Vitality Nourishing Technique everyone knows, what else can you do?"

"With your savings, being able to buy even a single manual of Basic Boxing is probably your limit. Sure, I admit you’ve mastered it, but so what? Even if you’ve trained it to perfection, basic techniques alone won’t get you into even the lowest-ranked fight club. And if you did get in, you’d just be handing over your money—wouldn’t earn a single star credit."

"Let’s not even mention Strength Arts. In terms of Mind Arts, you’re even less likely to succeed. Look at this—do you even know what this is? It’s an Auxiliary Cultivation Manual! Never heard of it, right? Jealous? Of course you are. With your finances, you couldn’t even touch the lowest-grade manual. Without it, how many years—how many lifetimes—do you think it would take to master even the first level of the Six Fundamental Mind Arts?"

"The Minor Provincial Exam isn’t far off. Can you afford Vitality Supplements? How long would it take you to form your essence into a core? Can you get your hands on an Auxiliary Manual? How long would it take you to reach the second level in at least two of the Six Mind Arts? I doubt you could manage even one. Without that, you’re not even eligible to compete in the exam."

"If you can’t pass the Minor Provincial Exam, you have no path forward. What other options do you have?"

"You’re weak in Strength Arts, so no good sect will take you. Weak in Mind Arts, so no major corporation will want you. If neither will have you, where will you find resources? Twenty, thirty years from now, perhaps others will have risen to prominence, while you’ll still be wallowing in the dust."

"But you can’t really blame yourself—it’s fate."

"It’s not just you. Everyone’s fate is determined by their birth. Take Young Master Shen, for instance—probably raised on Vitality Supplements, tutored daily by scholars, shelves overflowing with cultivation manuals—luxuries you can’t even imagine. As for me, I’m not much better off than you. But unlike you, I understand how to assess the situation. I know when it’s time to kneel."

"If I hadn’t devoted myself to Brother Chong’s service, I’d never have had access to an Auxiliary Manual either. And for someone like you, raised in the Orphanage, it’s not even a possibility. It has nothing to do with hard work—the Orphanage just has nothing to offer you."

"Every year, the head of the Orphanage sends a few kids out, as if giving you a sliver of hope, a path to follow. But let me tell you, without resources, that so-called path was a dead end from the very beginning."

"If fate is against you, don’t talk about dignity or backbone. Stand tall, and you’ll only end up with your skull smashed, your bones broken."

"If you were born to wealth, your ambition would be lauded. But since you weren’t, you’re just overstepping your bounds, not knowing your place."

"And those who don’t know their place rarely come to a good end..."

Then, he seemed to witness a provocation—a rigged contest that turned into a beating. He saw himself resist with all his might, but with meager cultivation, he was ruthlessly humiliated.

Pain and humiliation mingled together; frustration and despair came hand in hand.

The voice faded, the images vanished, and his awareness seemed to submerge once more into that darkness. Yet deep in the heart of that darkness, a flame erupted, swelling outward like an explosion.

Rage—rage at his own fate.

Rage—rage at the mockery and scorn.

But most of all, it was not what others had said that angered him—it was that, in his heart of hearts, he could not deny that what had been said... was true.

His background really was poor. Support for cultivation was out of the question; even the simple act of surviving required a desperate struggle. How could someone like him compete with the privileged? How could he ever stand before those people and declare, with head held high, that fate could be changed, that effort could create a path where none seemed to exist?

The Minor Provincial Exam was fast approaching. It seemed he truly had no chance...

But... but... still...

He was... unwilling to accept it!

A surge of overwhelming fury erupted, as if tearing apart heaven and earth, shattering the mist and darkness that had smothered his consciousness. In an instant, he seized control of his body, his eyes snapping open to a flood of light. He sprang to his feet, legs braced, eyes wide with indignation as the fire in his chest surged upward, exploding in an uncontainable roar.

"Ah—!!"

A clatter, a crash, chaos—and then, sudden silence.

Light poured into his eyes, his pupils adjusting to the glare, shapes sharpening into focus. As his shout died away, the scene before him cleared.

When he finally saw everything clearly, Shi Tiexin was stunned.

This was nowhere he had ever imagined.

He’d expected to wake in his dingy little room, or perhaps in a hospital if some kind soul had brought him there, or most likely, abandoned beside a trash bin in some alleyway—since he couldn’t afford insurance, there’d be no automatic medical response.

But the scene before his eyes was all wrong.

Utterly, completely wrong.

So wrong that Shi Tiexin, who moments ago was roaring in righteous fury, now found himself utterly bewildered.

He was in a well-lit room, lined with neatly arranged wooden desks. The desks were of an unfamiliar design—four wooden legs, two circular holes, the style old-fashioned, reminiscent of props from dramas set in the early days of the Central Star Era.

Behind the desks, rows of young men and women sat, two to a desk, sharing the same long benches, equally ancient in design. Though he’d never seen these people before, words like "classmate" and "desk mate" immediately sprang to mind, an inexplicable sense of familiarity washing over him, as if he’d lived this life countless times.

Were these all students?

A flash of information flickered through his mind, and Shi Tiexin instantly understood: these people were indeed students. Here, however, they weren’t called "students"—they were called "high schoolers."