The rain fell in sheets, thick and heavy, like the tears of a sorrowful god. A pale figure stood alone on the mountain ridge, his silhouette framed against a churning, black sky. Lu Shen, twenty-seven years old and five years into his dead-end desk job, stood barefoot in the downpour, arms raised to the heavens like a madman. The wind tugged at his soaked hoodie, plastering it to his chest, and the roar of thunder drowned out all rational thought.
He didn't care.
Not anymore.
The world had become a gray smear of recycled routines—emails, fast food, rent, and an aching sense of something missing. He had spent his spare hours studying martial arts, not because he believed it would take him anywhere, but because it was the last thing that made him feel alive. Not the flashy competition stuff—but the old ways, the internal schools, breathing methods, long-forgotten postures etched in yellowed manuscripts.
Tonight, he had gone too far.
Climbing the mountain during a storm was idiotic, but he was chasing something—some spark of inspiration, maybe madness.
He had wanted to "feel the Dao," like those sages in the stories.
He had laughed at himself even as he moved into a stance, ignoring the lightning lancing across the sky.
A sudden silence fell, unnatural in its totality. The wind died. The rain stilled midair. Time, it seemed, paused for a breath.
And then it struck.
The lightning came not as a bolt but as a wall—blinding, searing, all-consuming. It swallowed Lu Shen whole. His body convulsed, but there was no pain. Only brightness.
And then...
Darkness.
...
He awoke to the distant drip of water.
Cold stone pressed against his back. He gasped, coughing violently, lungs aching as if breathing for the first time. His fingers curled around loose gravel and something rough—dirt? His head throbbed. The smell in the air was unfamiliar—old, earthy, mixed with a trace of sulfur and herbs.
His eyes opened to gloom. A cavern?
No. There was a ceiling above, made of worn wooden beams strung with talismans. Some were faded beyond recognition; others were covered in odd, spiraling script.
He sat up. Every muscle screamed in protest. His arms were thinner. His hands—scarred, rougher, not his own. Panic threatened to rise, but something kept him steady.
A memory—not his—floated to the surface. A name: "Lu Shen." But not him.
Or was it?
He looked down at himself. His clothes were no longer a hoodie and jeans, but a rough-spun robe, tattered at the edges. His legs were thin. There was a dull ache in his spine and a faint, bitter taste in his mouth.
What the hell happened to me?
A sudden chime echoed in his ears, metallic and ancient, like a bell struck underwater.
[System Initialization Complete]
Welcome, User: Lu Shen
Heaven's Script System: Online
He froze.
A glowing panel of light blinked into existence before him, translucent and etched with golden script that seemed to shift and breathe. It hovered inches from his face.
He reached for it instinctively. His fingers passed through it like mist, but the panel reacted.
Status: Incomplete Cultivator
Level: 0
Martial Techniques: None
EXP: 0
System Function: Practice to Gain Mastery. All effort shall be rewarded.
Warning: Body damage critical. Cultivation base fractured. Immediate recovery advised.
System? Like those game panels in webnovels? This can't be real...
But it felt real. Everything did—the cold draft from a cracked window, the faint scent of mold and incense, the distant clang of metal from outside.
He wasn't in his apartment.
He wasn't in his body.
And something told him he wasn't in his world.
Lu Shen pulled his robe tighter around himself and slowly rose to his feet. His balance was off—he nearly fell twice before reaching a support beam. His legs shook, but he gritted his teeth.
Years of martial arts practice had ingrained one thing into him: discipline. Even now, facing what felt like a nightmare, he wouldn't collapse.
He looked around.
The room was small, barely more than a shack. A single straw mat lay in the corner, and a cracked mirror hung crookedly on one wall. A sword, broken at the hilt, lay forgotten in the dust.
He shuffled over to the mirror.
The face that stared back at him wasn't his own—but it wasn't entirely foreign. The eyes were still Lu Shen's—dark, contemplative—but the jaw was sharper, the skin paler, the body younger, maybe seventeen or eighteen. His hair was longer, tied into a crude ponytail. His expression was hollow, as if life had drained from him long ago.
Who were you?
More memories came unbidden.
The same name.
A boy cast out to the outer sect.
Labeled talentless.
Once filled with fire, now resigned to fade away.
Lu Shen—this Lu Shen—had died here. Alone.
[Memory Fusion: Partial. Identity Stabilizing… Complete.]
A wave of dizziness swept over him as emotions—rage, regret, sorrow—briefly flooded his mind. And then, clarity. It was like two rivers joining: different currents, one direction.
He was Lu Shen now. Both of them.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Outer Disciple Lu!" a gruff voice barked. "Elder Jiao demands your presence at the practice field. Late again and you'll lose your ration slip!"
The voice retreated without waiting for a reply.
Lu Shen blinked, heart pounding. The system panel had faded, but its presence still lingered like a faint hum in his chest. He took a breath, steadying himself.
So I'm in a sect. Thundercloud Sword Sect. I'm an outer disciple. Weak, broken...
He stepped toward the door. His legs ached with each movement, but they held. The threshold creaked under his weight.
Outside, the sun was rising over mist-covered peaks. Wooden huts clustered along a winding mountain path. Far below, a valley shimmered with early morning fog. Cultivators—some in pristine robes, others in patched garments like his—moved along the path in silence, their faces weary.
A memory surfaced: the Three-Tier Rule.
Outer disciples were at the bottom—manual labor, no access to proper cultivation methods. Only scraps. The inner sect housed the real geniuses. Above them, the core disciples—untouchable.
Lu Shen joined the silent procession of outer disciples heading uphill. Each step felt like a test, but his resolve hardened.
If this world runs on cultivation and I have a system... then I have a chance.
He reached the practice field—little more than a clearing with dummies and sandpits. Elder Jiao, a squat man with a permanent sneer, stood at the center, arms crossed.
"You again," the elder muttered, eyes narrowing. "Didn't expect you to crawl out of bed."
Lu Shen said nothing. He joined the line. Other disciples snickered. He caught whispers.
"Still pretending to be a cultivator?"
"He's just meat for the training field."
"Heard he fainted after two strikes yesterday."
Elder Jiao shouted, "Form drills. Basic Sword Sequence. Begin!"
Wooden practice swords were passed out. Lu Shen received one and stepped onto a worn section of earth. The others around him fell into familiar movements—stiff, mechanical.
Lu Shen watched. The memory of the technique bloomed in his mind. Basic Sword Sequence—six movements meant to train posture, strength, and balance. Meant for children.
But he felt something different.
The moment he took the stance, the system flared to life.
[Basic Sword Form detected.]
Recording movement...
Correcting posture…
Feedback applied.
EXP +1
His eyes widened.
He moved through the first form again. Slower. Focused. He felt his muscles aligning, joints adjusting, the tension flowing into structure. His breathing matched the strike.
EXP +1
EXP +1
EXP +1
He felt warmth in his chest. The panel appeared again, showing a glowing bar beneath the "Basic Sword Form" entry.
He wasn't hallucinating.
Each repetition earned him experience. Each repetition made the form smoother. Stronger.
And for the first time since awakening in this strange world, Lu Shen smiled.
I don't need talent. I just need time.
And I will practice until the heavens tremble.