'Am I… hallucinating?' Tian Shang wondered silently, his thoughts echoing in the quiet space of his mid. He was clearly surprised by the sudden change in his surroundings, but not exactly shocked. His expression stayed calm, eyes steady and composed, even as he continued to lie on the makeshift bed of old rice bags.
His gaze for some reason remained fixed on the rough stone ceiling above him, as if trying to read something hidden in the cracks. 'Again?' he added after a long pause, his mind working overtime to process everything—the illness that had killed him, the voice in his head, and now this unfamiliar place that smelled like mold and damp wood.
The ceiling here was nothing like the one he used to stare at in his last life.
Back then, every night, he would lie in his luxurious bed and stare up at a wooden roof engraved with golden runes—runes he had paid mountains of gold for, each one reminding him of his final goal: Immortality.
And every night, that roof reminded him of his failure.
But this one? This cracked, colorless ceiling? It meant nothing. No Meaning. No ambition. Just... stone. Boring, grey, pointless stone. Ugly, too.
There was nothing symbolic about it.
Just a roof in a dirty room.
Sigh.
He finally let out a breath, so quiet it barely made a sound. A slow, tired exhale—not filled with sorrow, not exactly regret, just... tiredness. Like a man who had lived too long and seen too much, only to wake up somewhere even worse.
With effort, Tian Shang pushed his body up from the rice bags, trying to sit upright. His arms trembled slightly as he forced them to move. This new body was weak, almost insultingly so.
As he finally managed to sit up—though not very gracefully—Tian Shang leaned on his right hand, using the rough rice bag bed for support. His body was weak, uncooperative. Every movement felt like it required too much effort for too little reward. Still, he managed.
His dull blue eyes scanned the room slowly, and what greeted him could only be described as... unpleasant. That was probably putting it kindly.
The room was a mess. A complete dump.
Dust clung to everything like it had never been cleaned since the day it was built. Dirty water pooled in the corners of the cracked stone floor, trickling from a rusted metal bucket that looked like it had survived at least three apocalypses.
The water inside was so filthy it might as well have been a breeding ground for mosquitoes—or a biological hazard waiting to happen.
Just beside the bucket, a thin trail of greenish slime lazily inched its way toward the middle of the room. Whatever had leaked out, it wasn't just water.
Then his eyes landed on a broken mirror attached to the wall in front of him—or what was left of it. Most of the mirror had already fallen, its shattered pieces scattered across the floor like sharp glitter. The few remaining fragments clung to the rusted frame like they were just too stubborn to let go.
The walls were no better. Damp patches covered them from corner to corner, black mold crawling like veins along the cracks. And the window? Just a pathetic slit near the ceiling, barely wide enough to let in a thread of sunlight. It cast a narrow, depressing beam across the floor, failing miserably at lighting up the room.
Then, in the farthest corner of the room, something made him squint.
A pile. A bone pile.
Tiny, white, and cleaned to perfection—chewed and licked bare. A small mountain of rat bones stacked haphazardly, almost like someone had made it a hobby.
And who else could that someone be?
Tian Shang stared at it in silence.
"…Is this hell?" he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse and dry. With the way this room looked, he wouldn't have been surprised if he had actually been tossed into the kind of hell those self-righteous monks always warned him about—just for refusing to believe in their gods.
But before he could let that thought sit, a sudden jolt ran through his chest.
"Ach—" he winced, clutching at his heart with his left hand.
It wasn't the kind of pain that made you scream, but it wasn't something you could ignore either. It throbbed in his chest and lungs, tight and sharp—like something inside him was being twisted slowly.
His face contorted ever so slightly, the discomfort clear in his furrowed brow and clenched jaw.
And as the pain pulsed, something else happened.
Memories.
They began pouring into his mind like someone had opened a faucet. But they weren't his. These memories were old, blurry, and miserable. Pain. Loneliness. Hunger. Abuse. A cold bed made of rice bags. Rat bones for dinner. Endless nights waiting for someone—anyone—to care.
These weren't the memories of an emperor.
These were the memories of a boy who had lived and died alone in this very room.
A boy whose body Tian Shang had taken over.
As the memories finally settled in his mind, Tian Shang sat still for a moment—completely motionless. His eyes, dull and lifeless just a second ago, suddenly flickered with light. It was faint at first… like the spark of a dying candle relit by a breeze. Then, it blazed.
His irises gleamed like the eyes of a newborn, fresh and wide, overflowing with something both terrifying and exhilarating.
"Ha… ha… ha…"
A laugh spilled from his lips, soft at first. He raised his left hand to his mouth as if trying to suppress it—but his fingers trembled, failing to hold back the madness building inside.
Then… he snapped.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I REINCARNATED! HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!"
The room, silent and desolate just a moment ago, now echoed with hysterical laughter that bounced off the damp walls like the screams of a lunatic. His voice was wild, cracked, and unstable—like it had torn through the fabric of death itself to find its way back into the world.
His eyes, those mad, wide eyes, danced with an unnatural light.
Obsession bled from them. The obsession for her—Immortality. The lover he could never touch, never hold, but had long since personified in his twisted fantasies. The one he swore to capture and bind forever inside the cage of his own flesh. His everything.
"I REINCARNATED! I-I-I—"
He twitched violently with every word, like a puppet with its strings frayed and tangled. His voice grew hoarse from shouting, but the laughter wouldn't stop. It couldn't stop.
"HICCUP! … HICCUP! … HEHEHE— HICCUP!"
He coughed, choked, laughed again. A symphony of madness. A chorus of one. He lurched forward, pushing off the rice bag bed with trembling limbs. His knees buckled, but he caught himself—barely.
Wobbling like a drunkard at the end of a weeklong bender, he staggered toward the broken mirror hanging crookedly on the wall.
His gait was unsteady, his steps uneven—left, right, stumble, sway—but each movement looked really elegant.
And then—
Crunch.
A sharp noise cut through the air like a knife.
He had stepped on the shattered glass scattered before the mirror.
Blood instantly began to leak from the sole of his foot, staining the floor beneath him, but he didn't stop. Not even when another shard pierced through the other foot—clean through, side to side.
As he staggered toward the shattered mirror, leaving a trail of blood behind him, his body moved like a puppet jerked by invisible strings—disjointed, twisted, unnatural. The glass crunched beneath his feet, flesh tearing, nerves screaming… but not a single flicker of pain crossed his face.
He was smiling—no, grinning—with the fervor of a lunatic priest meeting his god.
And then he stopped. Just inches away.
He looked at the broken mirror.
But he did not see himself.
Not the gaunt child with fevered skin and hollow cheeks. Not the cracked lips or bloodstained feet. No… what stared back at him through the fractured shards was something far worse.
A shadow.
Something tall, cloaked in the absence of light. Its eyes were hollow voids, like the pits of bottomless graves. Its mouth hung open in a silent scream—or perhaps a laugh. Its shape was distorted by the cracks in the mirror, yet no distortion could hide what it was.
Death.
"Oh, death…" Tian Shang whispered, almost lovingly, his voice a blend of reverence and madness. He reached out and pressed his palm and cheek against the jagged surface, uncaring as more blood trickled down from fresh cuts. The glass bit into him—but he embraced it like a kiss.
"Oh, my dear… sweet death…"
A sigh escaped him, light and dreamy, as though reuniting with a long-lost friend.
"In this life…" he whispered, his breath fogging up the mirror in soft puffs. "Either I conquer you…"
His smile stretched impossibly wider.
"Or you conquer me."
The shadow in the mirror did not move. But somehow—it smiled back.
{Ding! Master has fulfilled the conditions for the title: "Demonic Angel."}
{Would you like to claim it?}
{Rewards: Bloodline of the Demonic Angel, Lifespan +600 years, Mana Pool, High Regeneration, Potion named "Touch Some Grass," and Potion named "Get Some Help."}
Suddenly tian shang heard that voice once again.....
........
{A/N: Okaaaayyy, so I know this chapter was boring as hell—like, "watching paint dry on a rainy day" levels of boring—but hear me out. Before we dive into the real story, I wanted to show you just how certifiably unhinged the MC is.
Like, bro is not just broken. He's shattered, glued back together with trauma, and then dipped in obsession. He literally personifies death and immortality. Therapy? Never heard of it.
Anywayyy, if you're somehow still here and enjoying the madness, please drop a comment and let me know what you think—comments are my emotional support snacks. And seriously, don't forget to add this book to your library if you're vibing with it! 📚
Oh! And one last thing—should I keep showing off this crazy and kinda scary mature side of the MC? Are y'all into it? Let me know! 💬👀}