The first thing Mo Han felt was the taste of blood.
Hot. Metallic. And bitter.
His eyes opened slowly, as if each eyelid were made of stone. A harsh light filtered through the treetops—blinding, brutal. The air was dense, heavy with humidity and something else... something he couldn't define. It was as if the very atmosphere had weight.
Pain.
His entire body screamed. Muscles in collapse. Fractured bones. Uneven breathing.
"He's awake." The voice dripped with disdain. Young, sharp as a fine blade.
Mo Han turned his head with difficulty. Five figures surrounded him. Red robes with golden trim. The crest of the Mo Clan. One held a coiled whip, stained with blood. The others laughed.
"This trash dares to keep breathing, huh?" said Mo Ren, the young man in the center. Tall, handsome, with eyes brimming with arrogance.
"Even insects don't know when to quit," said Mo Qing, emotionless. She looked at Mo Han as if she were staring at a cracked wall.
Mo Han tried to move. A mistake. A sharp stab pierced his abdomen like an icy sword. He coughed. Blood. So much pain.
"Where am I? Who are these people...?"
The memories came in fragments. He... was Noah Graves. No. Now he was Mo Han. A strange name, stuck in his mind like a badly written label. He remembered laboratories, equations, mental simulations. An explosion. The sensation of falling. And then... nothing.
Now, he was here. In a ruined body, in a world he didn't understand.
"Look at him, he can't even stand up." Mo Ren kicked his ribs. Mo Han screamed. More laughter.
But even amid the spasms of pain, something flickered.
An observation.
Mo Ren always used the same motion to attack. Right leg first. Weight on the heel. Easily predictable. Inefficient.
The thought felt strange. As if it wasn't his. Or as if it were... ancient.
Another kick. Another wave of pain.
"Enough." The voice cut through the air. Deep. Cold. Mo Jian, the Disciplinarian, approached. "The Patriarch said not to kill him. Not yet."
Mo Han couldn't see him. But he could feel him. The man's presence was like the pressure of an oncoming storm.
"This trash... is a genetic mistake," Mo Ren spat to the side. "If he weren't the Patriarch's bastard son, he'd already be buried."
The word pierced something inside him.
Bastard.
He didn't know exactly what it meant in that context. But he understood the weight. The contempt.
Mo Han tried to stand again. And failed. His body wouldn't respond. And no one helped him. No one even looked at him with pity.
"Take him back. If he survives, he can clean the stables. If not, all the better."
His consciousness wavered.
...
Hours later, he woke up on dirty straw, surrounded by animals. The pain was constant, throbbing. Every movement made the world spin.
But now he was alone.
And he began to think.
Analysis:
Body: unstable
Qi: nonexistent
Dantian: fractured
Resources: none
Social status: lower than pigs
By traditional logic... this was the end.
"But what if the logic is wrong?"
He stared at the rotting wooden wall of the stable.
He remembered an old concept: "cultivation is the absorption of Qi and refining it in the dantian."
But what if Qi was just a type of energy...And the dantian was merely a converter?What if...
...I could simulate this process with another structure?
He laughed. A hoarse, broken sound. He was delirious. He had nothing. No energy, no allies, no hope.
But he still had one thing.
Calculation.
The pain became data. The breath became rhythm. The discomfort became stimulus.
He closed his eyes.
And began to count.
...
Outside the stable, Mo Mei watched in silence. Her sweet eyes hid sharp intentions.
"Let's see how long you last, 'little brother'..."
She smiled and vanished into the darkness.