Tian World/Mortal World
Southern Continent — Tian Village
In the southern edges of the Mortal Realm, nestled between a ring of misty mountains and deep, unending forests, lay a small settlement known as Tian Village. Dozens of wooden houses stood quietly under the cloudy sky, their rooftops covered with moss, and smoke rising from a few chimneys. Surrounding the village was the infamous Hell Forest—a vast and dangerous woodland known both as a training ground for brave cultivators and a forbidden place from which many never returned.
Under the shade of an old tree, near the edge of the village, sat a young man. He appeared to be around nineteen years of age, with long black hair tied carelessly behind him. His eyes, a rare and eerie crimson, stared out toward the village as if trying to piece together memories that no longer existed. He wore a plain, worn-out white robe, now stained and frayed, dirt clinging to the hem and wooden slippers. His name was Zhen Huan.
He had no family. No past he could recall. The villagers said they had found him outside the forest when he was child, sleeping and alone. Since then, he grew up here lived by helping the others with their daily work—carrying wood, drawing water, mending roofs. In exchange, they gave him food, occasionally a blanket or old clothes. He never complained. For Zhen Huan, the simplicity of the village was the only reality he knew.
As he leaned against the tree, sweat beading on his forehead from the labor he had just finished, dark clouds began to gather. The sky roared. Thunder echoed across the mountains.
A cold wind swept through the village.
Within moments, the first drops of rain splashed onto the dirt paths. Thunder cracked again, sharper and closer this time. The villagers, startled, hurried back into their homes. Wooden doors slammed shut. Windows clattered.
Zhen Huan, who had been watching the sky, rose to his feet. Without a home to return to, he turned his gaze toward the village temple, planning to take shelter there.
But just as he took a step away from the tree—
A blinding bolt of lightning tore down from the heavens.
It struck the very tree he had been sitting under.
Boom.
The tree erupted in flames. The blast threw Zhen Huan to the ground. His body convulsed, clothes scorched and torn. Smoke rose from his skin, his limbs twitching once—then going still.
His body lay facedown in the mud.
Silence followed.
Then—light.
A strange, pure-blue light descended from the sky. It hovered for a breath of a moment, then shot down like a sword of divine energy, piercing Zhen Huan's chest.
His body lifted into the air, suspended by the glow. His burned flesh seemed to shimmer with a faint luster, the marks of the lightning fading ever so slightly.
Then—he fell.
A heavy thud as he hit the ground once more.
His chest rose. Then fell. He had started breathing.
The rain continued to fall for some time, washing away the soot and blood. Thunder still echoed far off in the distance, but the storm was moving away. The skies gradually cleared.
Later, as villagers came out of their homes to resume their daily lives, one man noticed the charred tree at the edge of the village. Curious—and worried—he approached.
His eyes widened in alarm.
"Zhen Huan?"
He rushed forward and dropped to his knees beside the unconscious young man. He lifted him into his lap, feeling for a pulse, checking his breath.
"Someone! Come quickly! Zhen Huan has been struck!"
More villagers came running, drawn by his shout. They surrounded Zhen Huan with wide eyes and anxious murmurs.
"He's alive," the man said, voice trembling. "Unconscious, but breathing."
They looked at each other, confused and afraid. No one survived a direct lightning strike from the Hell Forest skies.
But Zhen Huan had.
The villagers carried Zhen Huan through the narrow dirt paths of Tian Village, his body limp and clothes still wet from the rain. Their destination was a modest wooden house on the edge of the village, where an old man known for his medicinal knowledge resided.
Inside the house, the old man, Song, sat quietly on a wooden chair by the window, watching the clearing skies. His face was wrinkled with age, eyes half-closed in thought. Suddenly, loud voices rang out from the front.
"Old Song! Something happened to Zhen Huan! Please, check him!"
Startled, the old man stood and slowly made his way to the door. When he opened it, he saw several villagers, all soaked from the rain, carrying the unconscious boy.
"Please, old man. Heal Zhen Huan!"
Old Song's sharp eyes scanned the boy's body. His brows furrowed.
"He's been burned… but how?"
Without saying a word, he pointed toward the wooden bed inside.
The villagers understood immediately and carefully laid Zhen Huan down.
Then Old Song pointed toward the door.
The villagers exchanged glances.
"He never lets anyone watch when he treats someone."
"Yeah… always been that way."
With a sigh, they left the room one by one. The old man shut the door behind them and turned toward Zhen Huan.
He approached the bed slowly and examined the boy's injuries.
"Burned, but alive. How?"
Turning away, he walked to a wooden table in the corner and opened a drawer. Inside lay several bundles of dried herbs. He picked a few green leaves, crushed them gently in his palm, and returned to the bedside.
"These herbs shouldn't be glowing…"
As he placed the leaves on Zhen Huan's burned skin, a soft green light emitted from them. The herbs dissolved into his body like morning mist in sunlight. Slowly, the burnt flesh began to mend, new skin forming over the damaged areas. His breathing grew steadier. His face no longer looked pained.
Half an hour passed.
Zhen Huan's fingers twitched.
Then, suddenly, his eyes snapped open.
He gasped and sat upright, looking around the room, disoriented and wide-eyed.
Where was he?
Where the hell am I? I… I was hit by a truck, wasn't I?
By the window, Old Song spoke without turning.
"You're awake, boy."
Zhen Huan spun toward the voice. "What is this place? Where am I?"
The old man turned to face him, one eyebrow raised.
"You don't recognize me? I'm Old Song."
Zhen Huan stared at him blankly.
Who the hell is Old Song? I've never seen him before…
A sudden sharp pain shot through his skull. He clutched his head and groaned.
Old Song stepped forward. "What happened? Are you hurt again?"
Zhen Huan didn't respond. His mind was being torn apart—flooded with memories not his own.
A torrent of images, emotions, and sensations rushed into him. Faces of strangers. Names he didn't know. A village. A life. A boy named Zhen Huan, abandoned with no parents, found by villagers near the Hell Forest. A note beside him. Just a name written on it.
His name.
And then, silence.
The pain stopped. He breathed deeply.
Old Song, watching him closely, narrowed his eyes.
"What is this brat doing?"
Zhen Huan looked down at his hands, then around the room again. The realization struck him hard.
So… I've transmigrated. This world is called the Tian World, also known as the Mortal Realm. A cultivation world where strength is everything. And now… I'm this body's owner.
He recalled more.
This body… can't cultivate. No spirit roots. No guidance. No family. Only a name left behind: Zhen Huan.
Then, without warning, a mechanical chime echoed within his mind.
Ding!
A translucent purple window appeared before his eyes, floating in the air. White text slowly formed on it:
Do you want to activate the Godly Cultivation System?
Y/N
His eyes widened in disbelief.
A system? I actually got a system?
Zhen Huan turned his head to check if Old Song could see it.
The old man raised an eyebrow.
"What's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?"
Zhen Huan hesitated, then asked, "Do you see anything in front of my eyes?"
Old Song leaned in and squinted.
"I only see those strange red eyes of yours."
Zhen Huan grinned.
With a thought, he reached out to the floating screen and selected Yes.