In the Falling Star Empire, far from the gleaming palaces and grand flying ships, there existed another world.

Broken cobblestones. Rotten timber shacks. The stench of filth and despair.

And among them was him-a commoner so lowly his name barely mattered to those around him.

He was a servant in the Quan household, a Cultivator Clan, respected by many.

His job was simple: sweep the floors, scrub the stables, polish the boots. A dog’s duty. And yet, even dogs were often treated better.

His wages were nothing-just enough gruel to keep him from starving.

His back bore the scars of years of lashes. He had long since stopped counting. What else could he do?

This was his fate. A commoner’s life, worth less than mud.

That day, however, was worse than any before.

The young master of the Quan family, infamous for his cruelty, had lost a wager.

His fury demanded an outlet, and who better than the worthless servant who stood closest at hand?

The first strike sent him sprawling. The second cracked ribs. The third left him coughing blood.

He did not resist. He never did.

Each kick drove him closer to death, until his vision dimmed and his breath came in ragged gasps.

(Perhaps it’s better this way,) he thought faintly.

(Better to end here than live another day like this.)

The beating dragged on until the servant’s body was nothing more than a sack of broken bones and torn flesh.

At last, the young master of the Quan family drew back his foot.

“Hmph!”

He spat to the side, glaring down with disdain.

“You’re lucky I am feeling benevolent today. Consider this mercy.”

With those words, he flicked his sleeve and strode away, his attendants trailing behind with mocking laughter.

The servant lay there, blood seeping from his lips, his breath shallow.

(Mercy?)

He wanted to laugh, to curse, to spit back the hatred he carried in his heart. But even at the end of his life, he couldn’t summon the courage to voice it. His lips trembled, but no sound came.

He realized then-he had truly become a dog, enduring everything thrown at him without resistance, without pride, without even the dignity of defiance.

His eyes closed. His life faded, the final thread of his existence unraveling into nothing.

A sudden jolt tore through him. His chest convulsed as if dragging in a breath that should not exist.

“-What!?”

A voice gasped, foreign and bewildered.

Eyes snapped open, hazy, bloodied, but no longer the same.

“I… I didn’t dic?”

The soul muttered, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

“Haha… F**King Sovereigns! You all failed!”

For a heartbeat, happiness and excitement reigned. Then-

“Argh! Ouch! What the hell-!?”

He clutched his ribs, grimacing as agony exploded through his battered frame. “Why does it feel like every bone in my body’s been shattered? Damn it, this hurts!”

The soul twisted, dragging himself up an inch before collapsing again with a pained groan.

“What… What is this place? This body? Don’t tell me…”

He stared at his bloodied hands, trembling, the calluses of a lifetime of servitude etched into the flesh.

“I’ve… reincarnated?”

His mind reeled, caught between panic and dawning realization.

Indeed, looking around, the place wasn’t anything remote close to where he was. His toilet was better than such a dirty place.

He groaned, pain still stabbing through his ribs like hot needles.

“Tch… damn it. Out of all the places I could’ve reincarnated, it had to be this filthy pit?”

His nose wrinkled at the sour stench of rot and unwashed bodies that clung to

the air.

The wooden walls around him were crumbling, more like a pigsty than a room meant for humans. His toilet back home was far cleaner than this excuse of a

dwelling.

But still-he was alive.

A crooked smile pulled at his bloodied lips.

(At least… I lived. That means I have a chance. A chance to settle my grudges.

To rise again and get my revenge.)

He tilted his head, inhaling deeply.

The qi in the air here was thin, diluted-nothing like the rich spiritual energy he once bathed in. Still, it was not completely barren.

“Hmph. By my senses, this qi density is… at best a quarter of the Abyssal Fiend

Sect. So this backwater is called…”

His eyes narrowed as fragments of knowledge surfaced in the mind he now occupied.

“The Falling Star Empire.”

So this was his new cage.

(If this is where I’ve landed, then so be it. Even mud can be molded into stone with enough fire.)

But first-he needed to know exactly who he had become.

Closing his eyes, he dove inward, sifting through the fractured remnants of the soul that once owned this body.

Memories surged-half-formed images, broken moments, bitter emotions.

He saw a child, thin and alone, abandoned on a roadside. A hand dragging him to the gates of the Quan family.

Laughter, commands, beatings. Years of servitude-scrubbing floors, mucking stalls, polishing boots until his fingers bled.

He saw the bratty young masters, sneering as they struck him again and again.

Their cruelty only worsened as their cultivation grew, every casual blow laced with qi, every strike leaving wounds that festered for weeks.

And yet no one stopped them.

Servants turned their eyes away. The elders ignored it. Even guests of the Quan family barely blinked.

Because this was common in the Falling Star Empire. The strong trampled the weak. The weak endured until they broke.

A bitter chuckle slipped from the new soul’s lips.

“Heh. This is familiar. This world, this family-it’s no different than the sects I knew. Power rules. The weak are dogs. Nothing more, nothing less.”

His crimson gaze flickered with something darker.

“I am a demonic cultivator who has reigned over all the Demonic Cutlviator.”

His palm pressed against his chest, blood sticky beneath his fingers.

“But since I’ve taken this body, I’ll honor its last will.”

His voice lowered, sharp with promise.

“Chong Sheng, I’ll carry your name and hatred for you. I’ll repay every lash, every blow, every humiliation… with blood.”

The air trembled faintly as his killing intent surged, a predator’s promise whispered into the shadows.

“Rest in peace. From here on, your enemies are mine.”

The night dragged on in silence.

Chong Sheng sat cross-legged on the filthy straw mat, his back hunched and trembling. His ribs ached with every breath, but his focus was unshaken.

He closed his eyes.

Inhale! Exhale!

The air of the Falling Star Empire was thin, the qi within it weak-barely a quarter of what he once had in the Abyssal Fiend Sect.

Moreover, Chongsheng being a servant barely crapping by has no pill for Cutlviation.

But it was okay. It might be slow but he knew that he could do it.

Slowly, steadily, he guided strands of Qi into his battered body.

They were faint and impure, yet with each cycle, the pain in his ribs dulled. Bruised flesh knit together grain by grain, torn vessels sealed drop by drop. Hours passed. Sweat soaked his tattered clothes, but when dawn finally spilled through the cracks of the rotting walls, Chong Sheng opened his eyes.

He could breathe without coughing blood. He could clench his fists without wincing.

It was far from recovery, but at least-he could stand.

“Good,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “At least I won’t die crawling like a worm.”

***

The following day, he slipped quietly from the servant quarters, moving with the obedience expected of a slave. None spared him a glance.

The Quan clan’s estate sprawled across mountains and valleys, their territory vast.

Cultivators guarded the main halls and training grounds, but the deeper forests and cliffs remained largely unexplored-too insignificant for true disciples, too dangerous for ordinary servants.

For Chong Sheng, it was an opportunity.

With careful steps, he ventured into the outer mountain forests.

His senses, dulled by this weak body, still carried the instincts of a Sovereign.

He recognized bitter stalks of Ironroot Grass, leaves of Moonlit Orchid, and a patch of Blood Marrow Vine clinging to jagged stone.

Each herb had value. Each carried a trace of spiritual energy-meager, but not useless.

“No disciples come here for scraps like these,” he mused, collecting them into a bundle. “But in the right hand, they are treasures.”

Back in his shack, he set to work.

A cracked iron pot became his furnace. Stones served as pestles.

With calm precision, he crushed roots, ground leaves, and mixed them with spring water he fetched at dawn. The crude concoction simmered, qi bleeding faintly from the herbs.

He guided the process with thin threads of his own qi, purging impurities, coaxing the medicinal essence to remain.

By nightfall, three rough, misshapen pills lay cooling on a broken shard of pottery.

They were ugly, uneven, their surfaces marred with cracks-but they pulsed faintly with medicinal light.

For a servant, they were priceless treasures.

Even if sold for the lowest price, the money would be enough to feed a family for a month without problem.

Chong Sheng swallowed one whole. At once, bitter heat exploded through his chest, flooding his veins.

He clenched his teeth, seizing control of the rampaging energy, and forced it into his meridians.

The pain was excruciating, but he endured.

One night. Two. Three.

He swallowed the second pill, then the third. Each time his body writhed and burned, but each time he tamed the pain.

His bones hardened. His muscles grew firm. The scars on his back faded into faint lines.

By the seventh night, his body had shed its mortal frailty. His dantian stirred like a newly awakened beast, hunger endless.

Then-

BOOM!

A muffled surge of qi erupted from within him. The hut trembled, dust falling from the rafters.

Chong Sheng opened his eyes, crimson light flashing in the darkness.

The frail servant of the Quan family was no more.

He had stepped onto the path once more.

Qi Refining Stage.

A small realm, a weak beginning-but enough to separate him from mortals.

Enough to make those who had trampled him bleed.

Rising to his feet, he clenched his fists, qi humming faintly in his veins.

“The first step is done,” he whispered, a cold smile spreading.

“Now, Quan family… you will learn what rises from the mud.”