Wudi Egun slammed the door to his room with enough force to make the ornate hinges groan in protest. His hands trembled slightly as he engaged not one, but three separate locks, followed by a chair wedged firmly beneath the handle—a precaution that would have been laughable against someone of the Tyrant's caliber, but which nonetheless provided a thin veneer of psychological comfort.
"Of all the rotten, miserable, cosmically improbable coincidences," he muttered, pacing the plush carpet of his accommodations. "First the Ancient Li Family, and now the Tyrant? Is the universe running a special promotion on 'Ways to Terrify Wudi Egun' that I wasn't informed about?"
The room itself was undeniably luxurious—a testament to the small fortune he had spent securing it. For the princely sum of one hundred High Grade Refined Jades—currency that could have purchased a modest estate in some of the outlying districts—he had obtained the finest suite in the Drunken Immortal Inn. Silk tapestries adorned walls of polished rosewood, while the furniture had been crafted from materials harvested from spirit trees that had absorbed celestial essence for at least a millennium.
The massive bed was dressed in sheets woven from the cocoons of Moonlight Silkworms, creatures that fed exclusively on moonbeams and morning dew.
All of these extravagances were currently lost on Wudi as he continued his agitated pacing, one hand clutching the metal bowl he had brought from the tavern below.
"This is fine," he told himself, in the tone of someone for whom things were decidedly not fine. "Perfectly manageable situation. Just a casual run-in with one of the most notorious villains in the entire novel. Nothing to worry about. He probably accosts silver-haired strangers with mysterious swords all the time. It's probably his hobby. Terrorizing random inn patrons between massacres."
The Time-space Sword on his back vibrated once, a short, sharp pulse that seemed almost like a snort of derision.
"Oh, you're awake now?" Wudi glared over his shoulder at the weapon. "Convenient timing. Where was all that legendary power when the walking catastrophe was breathing down my neck? Taking a nap?"
The sword remained stubbornly silent, which only irritated Wudi further.
"Some legendary weapon you are," he scoffed, finally dropping onto the edge of the bed. "I bet the other mythical artifacts never have to put up with this kind of performance anxiety. I don't see the Heaven-Splitting Axe freezing up at the first sign of danger. Or the Universe-Devouring Cauldron getting stage fright."
With a deep sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body, Wudi turned his attention to the metal bowl in his hands. Now that he was away from the immediate threat, he could examine it properly. The bowl was deceptively ordinary at first glance—a simple steel vessel, worn smooth by what appeared to be years of handling. But the skull imprint on the inner edge told a different story.
This was no ordinary begging bowl. This was the Refining Bowl, a Saint Artifact of terrifying power.
According to the novel "Immortal Journey To Myriad Wonders," the Refining Bowl's primary ability was to steal fate, destiny, luck, fortune, and karma. Anyone unfortunate enough to drop alms into it would find themselves targeted by its power, their essence slowly drained until nothing remained but an empty husk.
The Tyrant had used this very bowl against the Supreme Saint when he was still known as the Heavenly Celestial Master, back when he was merely a powerhouse of the Nirvana Realm. Disguised as a beggar, the Tyrant had tricked the future protagonist into donating alms. From that moment, the Heavenly Celestial Master's luck and fortune began to disappear, his fate and destiny withering, his karma fading from existence.
If not for the mysterious power his father had used to protect his soul before his reincarnation in the Myriad World, the Heavenly Celestial Master would have perished long before becoming the Supreme Saint.
A single act of charity had nearly ended the protagonist's journey before it truly began. Such was the terrifying power of the Refining Bowl.
But as Wudi stared at the bowl, his initial fear began to give way to something else—a slow-spreading grin that stretched from ear to ear, transforming his expression from terror to manic glee.
"Oh, you magnificent, broken-toothed bastard," he whispered, turning the bowl in his hands. "You have no idea what you've just given me."
Because while the Refining Bowl was indeed a weapon of terrible destruction, it also possessed another ability—one that the Tyrant had perhaps forgotten, or simply never mentioned in the original story.
The bowl had an Innate Ability to refine anything into an edible liquid.
And that was precisely what Wudi needed.
With newfound purpose, he reached into his left sleeve and withdrew a small object—a crimson sphere approximately the size of a marble. Despite its diminutive size, the orb radiated an aura of such intense death energy that the very air around it seemed to warp and distort. The sphere was split into two perfect halves, yet they remained suspended together as if the division was merely an illusion.
This was a fragment of the Crimson Death Moon—the same celestial body that had been cleaved in two by the legendary Sword Saintess with a single slash of her blade. When Wudi had fled the ruins of the Trinity Heaven Saint Kingdom, he had taken everything of value he could carry. This fragment, small enough to conceal yet potent beyond measure, had been his most precious acquisition.
"What kind of idiot would I be to leave something like this behind?" he murmured, holding the fragment up to catch the light. "I may be new to this whole 'descendant of a villainous dynasty' business, but I'm not completely incompetent."
The plan had been forming in his mind since he first learned about the cultivation system of this world. The beginning stage—the Immortal Meridians Forging Realm—focused on establishing a solid foundation for the body. Cultivators at this level worked to refine their mortal meridians into proto-immortal conduits capable of withstanding divine energy.
This realm was further divided into sub-stages: Bone Cleansing, Blood Tempering, Meridians Forging, and finally, Meridian Expansion. The ultimate goal was to achieve fully awakened Immortal Meridians that could channel celestial qi.
Wudi intended to use the refined liquid from the Crimson Death Moon fragment to clean his bones, the first step in this process. Bone Cleansing was fundamental—the density and quality of one's bones determined the strength a cultivator could achieve at this stage.
"Most cultivators gain between one and three tons of strength from cleaning a single bone," Wudi muttered, recalling details from the novel. "The main protagonist managed five tons per bone. Absolutely ridiculous, of course. Plot armor at its finest."
But even the protagonist's achievements paled in comparison to the Paragon—a monstrous genius who had cultivated with Saint Law and achieved ten tons of strength per bone cleaning. The Paragon had been so formidable that throughout the entire novel, from his first appearance to the final chapter, he had only lost three battles out of dozens of clashes with the protagonist.
And all three defeats had come when he fought alone against overwhelming odds.
"The first time, the protagonist ganged up on him with all his friends," Wudi recounted, ticking off on his fingers. "The second time, the protagonist teamed up with his own enemy. And the third time, he had to call in daddy and the entire family cavalry." He snorted. "And they call that a fair fight."
But there was one crucial similarity between the Paragon and Wudi Egun—they both had access to Saint Law for cultivation. In Wudi's case, it was his family's True Legacy: the Celestial Death Dao.
The principles were deceptively simple: Inhale Death, circulate Lifeforce, and Breathe Life. Empty your shell and replace it with death.
By inhaling Death, one needed to circulate Lifeforce to refine it. When Death was refined into Death Energy, Life had to be exhaled from the body so that Death could occupy the vessel.
Simple in theory. Potentially fatal in practice.
"Well," Wudi said, squaring his shoulders, "no cultivation method worth learning comes without risks. And it's not like I have a lot of options at this point."
With careful movements, he placed the Crimson Death Moon fragment into the Refining Bowl. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a crimson light began to emanate from the bowl, bathing the room in an eerie glow that made the shadows dance like restless spirits.
The fragment began to dissolve, breaking down into its constituent essence. The process was mesmerizing—like watching a miniature sun collapse in on itself, releasing waves of energy that rippled through the air with almost tangible force.
After several minutes, all that remained in the bowl was a small amount of crimson liquid, so dark it was almost black, with tendrils of shadowy energy rising from its surface like smoke.
Wudi stared at the liquid, suddenly aware of the magnitude of what he was about to attempt. This was no ordinary cultivation resource—this was the refined essence of a celestial body that had existed since the dawn of this universe, an object so durable that it had taken a legendary figure to damage it.
And he was planning to drink it.
"Well," he muttered, lifting the bowl to his lips, "bottoms up. If this kills me, I'm going to be very annoyed."
Without giving himself time to reconsider, he tipped the bowl and swallowed the liquid in one gulp.
The effect was immediate and excruciating.
It felt as though he had swallowed liquid fire—no, something far worse. Liquid fire would have been a refreshing beverage compared to the agony that now coursed through his veins. Every cell in his body seemed to scream in protest as the death energy invaded his system, seeking to transform him from the inside out.
Gasping, Wudi dropped the bowl and fell to his knees on the plush carpet. His vision swam, the luxurious room blurring and distorting around him. With trembling hands, he formed the mudras necessary for the Celestial Death Dao, his fingers moving through positions that seemed to come to him instinctively, knowledge embedded in his bloodline rather than learned.
"Inhale Death," he wheezed, drawing in a breath that felt like swallowing broken glass.
The death energy from the liquid responded, surging through his system with renewed vigor.
"Circulate Lifeforce," he continued, directing his own vital essence to meet the invading force.
Where the two energies met, there was conflict—a war being waged on the battlefield of his body. His mortal essence fought against the death energy, seeking to expel it as a foreign invader. But that was not the way of the Celestial Death Dao. The goal was not rejection, but transformation.
"Breathe Life," Wudi gasped, exhaling forcefully.
With his breath came a visible mist—pale, almost luminescent, carrying with it the essence of his mortal self. As it left his body, the death energy rushed to fill the void, no longer fighting against him but becoming part of him.
Behind him, a spectral image began to form—a heavenly palace rotating with divine laws, a manifestation of the Celestial Death Dao in its purest form. It was as if the birth of creation and the end of destruction were manifesting simultaneously, each existing to give meaning to the other.
Blood began to trickle from Wudi's nose—not the bright red of mortal injury, but a dark, almost black substance that spoke of profound changes occurring within his body. His skin grew pale, then ashen, as though the very life was being leached from him.
But he persisted, guiding the refined death energy through his system with grim determination. He focused specifically on his spine, directing the power to cleanse and transform the bones there first. It was a strategic choice—the spine was the central pillar of the body, the highway along which energy traveled. Strengthening it would provide the foundation for all future cultivation.
The process was agonizing. Each vertebra felt as though it was being simultaneously crushed and reforged, broken down to its fundamental components and then reconstructed with the death energy woven into its very structure. Sweat poured from his body—not the clear moisture of exertion, but a black, viscous fluid that carried with it the impurities being expelled from his system.
The stench was horrific—like rotting flesh and decaying vegetation, the smell of a battlefield long after the fighting had ended. It filled the room, so potent that even Wudi, in the throes of his transformation, found himself gagging.
"This is... not mentioned... in the manual," he choked out between labored breaths. "A little warning... would have been... nice."
Time lost all meaning as he surrendered himself to the process. It could have been minutes or hours—there was only the pain, the transformation, and his stubborn refusal to surrender to either.
Finally, when it felt as though he could endure no more, when the very limits of his mortal frame had been tested and nearly broken, Wudi felt a shift. The pain began to recede, not all at once but gradually, like a tide pulling back from the shore.
With tremendous effort, he opened his eyes.
The action brought fresh agony—his eyes were bleeding, tears of blood tracking down his cheeks like crimson rivers. His breathing was ragged and heavy, each inhalation a labor that seemed to require conscious effort.
But he had succeeded.
His spine had been cleansed and transformed. He could feel it—a new strength running through his core, a solidity that hadn't been there before. When he finally managed to stand, his posture was different—straighter, more aligned, as though his body had been subtly reconfigured into a more perfect version of itself.
And the strength—it was beyond anything he had anticipated. He had expected perhaps two or three tons, given his untrained state and the haphazard nature of his attempt.
Instead, he had gained fifteen tons of strength from refining a single bone.
Fifteen tons. Three times what the protagonist had achieved at the same stage. Half again what the Paragon had managed.
"Well," Wudi whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming he didn't remember doing, "that's... unexpected."
The Time-space Sword vibrated on his back, a long, continuous hum that seemed to contain notes of both warning and approval.
"Yeah," Wudi agreed, wiping blood from his eyes with the back of his hand. "This changes things."
He staggered to the mirror hanging on the wall, curious to see what physical changes the transformation had wrought. The face that stared back at him was still recognizably his own, but altered in subtle ways. His silver eyes seemed to contain depths that hadn't been there before, like wells that reached down into the abyss. His skin, always pale, now had an almost translucent quality, the network of veins beneath visible as dark lines against the white canvas.
He looked... otherworldly. Less mortal. More like the descendant of Saints he claimed to be.
"Step one," he murmured to his reflection. "Only about a million more to go."
The path of cultivation stretched before him, longer and more arduous than any road he had traveled in either of his lives. But for the first time since his transmigration, Wudi Egun felt something he had almost forgotten.