Carlos gritted his teeth as another wave of sharp pain coursed through him. His entire body felt like it had been shattered and pieced back together by an amateur craftsman — every muscle ached, his skin was feverishly hot, and his head throbbed with a dull, pulsing agony. Slowly, he dragged himself upright, breath ragged, chest heaving.
His eyes, adjusted now to the gloom of the basement, flicked over his surroundings once more. Shadows clung to the edges of the room like wary animals. The faint outlines of the formation lines that Han Shan had skillfully unraveled still lingered faintly in the air — streams of energy that Carlos could see, though they felt foreign and unnatural.
Through Han Shan's fragmented memories, he knew this energy had a name: qi. The life force of this world. But knowing the name and truly sensing it were two different things. To Carlos, it was still an alien force, a current pulsing within him that defied everything his old world had taught him.
He grimaced, focusing inward. His body felt... wrong. Not broken, but foreign. He squeezed his hands into fists, feeling the strange weight and tension in the sinew and bone. Despite the scrawniness of Han Shan's frame, there was an undeniable strength coiled beneath the skin — more than he had expected. Compared to an average man from Earth, this frail body still held nearly double the strength. It baffled Carlos. Han Shan's body was poorly fed, undertrained by Earth standards, yet the flow of this world's strange energy seemed to grant him a power that defied natural logic.
"Even like this," Carlos murmured under his breath, voice hoarse, "this body holds more strength than it looks. Han Shan, back on Earth you would've been frail, but here... whatever this power is, it's working overtime. This world's built different."
He took slow, deliberate breaths, cataloging every injury. His ribs were cracked, his side throbbed where the beast's claw had ripped into him, and bruises darkened his limbs like storm clouds beneath the skin. But he was alive.
"Barely," Carlos rasped.
His gaze swept across the basement again, narrowing with purpose. He needed something — anything — to stabilize his condition. His survival instincts screamed for it.
"The bag," Carlos muttered, pushing himself up with a grunt of effort. "Han Shan's bag... there might be a recovery pill. There has to be."
He scoured the dim space, crawling and dragging himself along the rough floor. His fingers brushed cold stone and scattered debris, but the familiar texture of the carry-bag was nowhere to be found.
"No," he growled. "Don't tell me you lost it..."
Frustration burned in his chest as fragments of Han Shan's memories confirmed his fears. In the chaos of the beast wave, in that frantic sprint for survival, the bag had been torn away, slipping from his shoulder in the madness.
Carlos exhaled slowly, controlling his frustration before it boiled over. Anger wouldn't help him now.
He slumped back against the wall, forcing himself to think. His gaze drifted back to the strange threads of energy dancing faintly in the air — the formation residue. His heart pounded with a strange rhythm, not entirely his own, as he turned his senses inward again.
There was energy — something alien and flowing — coursing through his veins like a second bloodstream. He could feel it circulating, feeding his battered flesh, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. It glowed faintly under his skin in places, like threads of fireflies stitched beneath the surface.
"What kind of world is this..." Carlos thought, wonder and grim resolve intertwining in his mind. 'Power running through the body, like blood. And I can see it... I can feel it.'
Despite the strangeness, or perhaps because of it, a flicker of hunger sparked in his chest — not for food, but for understanding. For control. For power.
"This is no drug-fueled fever dream," Carlos whispered, eyes narrowing. "It's real. All of it. And if this world works on power... then I'll make that power mine."
Scattered nearby, he noticed something else — small wooden boxes, half-concealed under a dusty cloth. Sliding them open revealed basic formation materials: spirit-ink brushes, talisman paper, jars of mineral powder, and fragments of spirit stones. Clearly, this had been a working place for a formation practitioner, even if it had been carefully disguised. Whoever had used this space had left behind the essential tools of the trade.
"Well," Carlos mused, eyes narrowing as he examined the supplies, "looks like someone had plans bigger than this village."
His search led him through a narrow doorway into a small adjoining room — a makeshift washroom. On the wall, above a cracked basin, hung a tarnished mirror, its reflective surface dulled but intact. He found himself staring at it for a long moment.
What greeted him in the mirror was his chest — stretched wide and scrawny, but marked by the clear outlines of wiry muscles beneath tanned skin, a deep bronze hue that hinted at long exposure to the sun or perhaps Han Shan's natural complexion. The mirror, fixed to the wall and too low for his height, forced him to hunch awkwardly if he wanted to catch a glimpse of his face. As he bent down, his sharp, gaunt cheeks and the wild tangle of hair matted with sweat and grime came into view.
Through Han Shan's fragmented memories, Carlos recalled how the servants used to whisper about his abnormal height, calling him a "giant among ants," an oddity for someone of such low station. Even among disciples, none reached his stature. Now, seeing himself fully for the first time, he understood why those whispers clung to him.
But it was his eyes that seized his attention.
Deep orange, burning with an intensity that seemed to defy the frailty of his body. Not brown, not amber — but vivid, molten orange, like smoldering embers refusing to die out. Through Han Shan's fragmented memories, he caught a flicker of recognition: such eyes were a rare sight in this world, a phenomenon few could explain and many considered an ill omen or a hidden blessing.
"Damn," Carlos muttered, his voice a rasp in the quiet room. "Han Shan... you look like hell. But tall as a devil. And those eyes..." A faint smirk curled his lips. "No one's going to forget them soon."
He tore his gaze from the mirror and returned to the main room, settling cross-legged onto the mat, determined to understand this new vessel. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, focusing inward.
There — beneath the weariness and pain — he felt it.
Qi.
He had felt it earlier — that strange flow, alien and alive inside him. Now, with focus, it revealed itself fully. Qi.
It coursed through him like an underground river of warmth and power, threading through his veins alongside his blood. He could almost see it, pulsing faintly beneath his skin, flickering like embers in a dying fire.
"So this is qi," Carlos thought, wonder sharpening his focus. He traced its flow mentally, feeling it move sluggishly through battered channels. "Fuel for strength, power running through every inch of flesh. No wonder even a beaten frame like this can stand."
Driven by instinct, Carlos inhaled deeply, this time with intent. He drew the faint traces of qi from the air into his body, guiding it along the sluggish pathways. As he focused, memories from Han Shan began to surface—fragmented teachings of internal flow, of meridian channels and the vital center known as the dantian. Carlos latched onto them, tracing the qi toward his lower abdomen, feeling the warmth pool faintly in that elusive core. It was crude, unrefined, and his control was far from perfect, but as he cycled the energy through his meridians and anchored it in the dantian, a subtle warmth spread through him.
His injuries, while still severe, eased imperceptibly. The throbbing ache in his ribs dulled just a fraction, the tightness in his muscles loosening ever so slightly.
"If I can control this... if I can shape it," Carlos thought, determination hardening, "then this world's power will be mine."
The fire inside him refused to die.
As Carlos sat there, breathing slow and deep, another wave of memories crept forward — clearer this time, more personal.
Han Shan's early years in the sect were painted in bleak, bitter tones. From the moment he had arrived as a mere boy, expectations were low. Scrawny, with no apparent talent, he had struggled desperately to cultivate like his peers. For three long years, he pushed himself to the brink, but his progress had been painfully slow — barely advancing, while others soared ahead, sneering at his futile efforts.
The taunts still echoed in Carlos's mind, sharp and cruel.
"Waste of resources."
"Why bother feeding a cripple?"
"Servants like him should know their place."
Han Shan had endured it all. He had scraped together meager contributions to afford even basic cultivation aids, only to feel them slip uselessly through his fingers. His qi veins, though intact, seemed stubbornly resistant to improvement. Despair had stalked him like a hungry wolf.
But one day, everything had changed.
On a routine errand near the sect's entrance formation, Han Shan had caught sight of an elder at work. The elder's gestures were fluid, precise, weaving energy through the air to adjust the complex web of the sect's protective array. Curiosity, and a flicker of yearning, had sparked within him.
'If my body refuses to obey,' Han Shan had thought back then, 'perhaps the world itself will listen.'
From that moment, he had turned to the sect library, scavenging what scraps of formation knowledge he could find. He studied tirelessly in secret corners, poring over brittle scrolls and worn manuals. Though he had little guidance and less support, the elegant patterns of formations had begun to unfold in his mind, offering him a path outside brute cultivation.
Carlos absorbed these memories with growing respect. 'You weren't just a survivor, Han Shan,' he thought, his lips curling into a grim smile. 'You were stubborn as hell. You carved your own path when the heavens slammed every door shut.'
Feeling a strange kinship with the dead servant whose body he now inhabited, Carlos's resolve crystallized.
"Good," he muttered aloud. "I'll take that stubbornness and build something stronger. Much stronger."
With renewed determination, he let his breath steady once more, focusing again on the sluggish qi inside him, and began to shape the flow with purpose.
But as he slowly guided the flow of energy, an undeniable human need clawed its way to the surface — hunger, sharp and gnawing, accompanied by a thirst that parched his throat raw.
"This body survived beasts, traitors, and death," Carlos rasped, forcing himself upright with effort. "I'll be damned if I die of hunger."
Gritting his teeth, he began to explore the basement more thoroughly. Near the rear wall, partially hidden behind a collapsed shelving unit, he found a narrow doorway that led to a side room. Stepping inside, he discovered what appeared to be a small study room — modest, but purposefully arranged.
A wooden table stood in the center, stained from years of ink and mineral powders. Shelves lined the walls, filled with old scrolls, scattered formation diagrams, and, to his relief, jars of preserved grains. Dust covered everything, but it was clear this room had been designed for long hours of study, not for desperate survival.
In the corner, a low-grade formation cupboard pulsed faintly with residual energy. The preservation array etched into its surface, though faded, had done its job well enough. Opening it, Carlos found dried fruits, rough brown loaves of spirit grain bread, and — most precious of all — strips of dried spiritual beast jerky.
He took one piece, chewing slowly, the tough meat filling his mouth with a salty, smoky flavor.
"Not bad," Carlos muttered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Better than prison food back home."
Relief settled into his bones. Whoever had used this room had prepared it not for hiding, but for focus — a place of solitude, learning, and quiet endurance. The supplies were modest, likely intended for study breaks rather than survival rations, but they would suffice.
For now, they would more than suffice.
And Carlos would make sure of it.