Chapter 3: A New Beginning in an Ancient World

Shui Jingxuan had never expected to open his eyes again.

He stared at the dilapidated roof above, watching a sliver of bright white sunlight pierce through the gaps in the rubble.

It slanted sharply onto his pillow, casting a perfect circular patch of light. The side of his cheek closest to the warmth felt a gentle, pleasant heat — so comforting, so soothing.

Driven by a desire to absorb more of that warmth, Shui Jingxuan painstakingly shifted his stiff, aching neck closer to the light beam.

He watched, mesmerized, as tiny specks of dust danced and twirled within the column of light. This tranquil yet lively scene captivated his gaze.

He yearned to reach out, to catch that ray of sunshine, to disperse the constantly gathering motes of dust.

Yet, his entire body felt as though it had been run over by a truck; Shui Jingxuan couldn’t even muster the strength to move a single finger.

He frowned deeply, his eyes scanning the room’s sparse furnishings.

Beyond a crooked table and two straw-matted beds, there was nothing else, perfectly illustrating the meaning of ‘primitive.’ A strong, persistent smell of mildew permeated the air.

Shui Jingxuan raised an eyebrow, then gave a bitter smile. ‘Even the lowest-ranking personnel in the base probably live several times better than this,’ he thought.

‘Did they abandon me, leaving me to my own devices, because I’m a cripple after self-destructing my energy?’

‘In the apocalypse, humanity has long since vanished; only self-interest remains constant. Now that I’m a paralyzed invalid, an absolute burden, who would bother looking after me?’

Closing his eyes wearily, Shui Jingxuan felt an profound calm. There was no resentment, no blaming heaven or earth. Reaching this point, as he had said before his self-destruction, was his own doing; he couldn’t fault anyone else.

Had he not boasted of his superior strength and harbored ambitions, he wouldn’t have aggressively recruited powerful individuals.

Had he not recruited so many, the balance within the base wouldn’t have shattered, and morale wouldn’t have crumbled.

With morale gone, internal strife was inevitable, a storm he could only stave off for so long. Even the gods in the nine heavens could be cast down from their pedestals, let alone a mere mortal like him.

‘If only I had known this day would come, I should have stuck to my original intentions, diligently guarding my small base and living a simple, reclusive life forever.

In the apocalypse, a peaceful existence is the rarest form of happiness.’ Alas, his realization came too late.

After a long, drawn-out sigh, Shui Jingxuan’s eyes brightened. He actually felt the aches throughout his body significantly lessen, and a faint surge of strength returned.

‘Could it be that my body isn’t paralyzed after all?’ A wave of ecstasy washed over him. He attempted to move his right hand to grasp the beam of sunlight.

Half a minute later, he was covered in fine sweat, breathing heavily. His once stiff and aching right hand had now moved to the pillow.

With a final push, his palm lay open beneath the sunbeam, the concentrated warmth caressing his skin. Shui Jingxuan squinted, a contented smile gracing his lips.

However, his smile soon vanished. He stared intently at the withered, emaciated little hand before him, a terror gripping him as if a mutated beast lay coiled at his bedside.

‘I’m a 27-year-old man, aren’t I? Someone tell me, what’s with this miniature hand? Did self-destruction turn me into a dwarf? What kind of twisted after-effect is this? Is this even living?’

A profound shock seized his heart, and his mind felt as if a trigger had been pulled by this chaotic emotion. A sudden, intense pain assailed him, as memories not his own were forcefully poured into his brain.

Shui Jingxuan collapsed onto the tattered bedding, biting down hard on his lower lip to stifle a groan.

Once the excruciating pain subsided and he had sorted through the memories he’d received, he widened his eyes, letting out a low, hissing laugh.

The laughter lingered, seemingly full of unbridled joy, yet upon closer listen, it held a hint of bitterness.

After that ordeal, he finally understood his situation. He hadn’t become a cripple after self-destruction; he had died once and was now reborn into the body of an eight or nine-year-old boy.

Even stranger, this boy’s timeline wasn’t his original zombie-infested apocalypse, but rather ancient China during the late Ming and early Qing dynasties.

Moreover, this era featured martial arts, eight major sects, foreign tribes, a Demonic Cult, and other bizarre elements, vastly differing from historical reality. Clearly, this wasn’t the historical period he knew; it was most likely a parallel alternate dimension.

Having endured the hellish apocalypse, Shui Jingxuan had long since developed extraordinary psychological resilience.

He quickly accepted his new reality, his previously tumultuous emotions now completely calm. Being able to live again was the greatest gift from heaven, and for this, he was grateful.

He simply wished to seize this rare opportunity and truly live for himself.

Perhaps his soul and body had fully integrated after receiving the memories, for the stiffness and aches he felt upon waking had vanished.

Shui Jingxuan could move freely, his body now only experiencing the slight headache and fatigue common after a severe cold.

‘Yes, this damn, ancient era with its backward medical technology!’ Shui Jingxuan thought with a blank expression, inwardly seething. ‘Even a minor cold could send this little boy to his grave!’

He sat up cross-legged, instinctively about to use his water ability to heal himself, but then he snapped back to reality. This was no longer the apocalypse, and he was no longer the base leader with special abilities.

His previously straight back immediately slumped. Shui Jingxuan propped a hand against his forehead, concealing his dejected expression. Without his abilities, how was he to survive in this alternate world?

This world, he knew, was no less dangerous than the apocalypse, and his current identity was particularly precarious, making survival even harder.

The small boy was an orphan from a foreign tribe. Though there were no zombies or mutated beasts here, the status of foreign tribes in this land was hardly better than that of humans in the apocalypse.

They faced slaughter from both the Han Chinese and the Manchu Tatars. To protect themselves, they had gathered and established the Demonic Cult to contend with various forces. However, this only led to more rampant persecution.

Eventually, even their ancestral lands were seized by the so-called ‘righteous sects,’ leaving them no choice but to hide in this remote, barren valley, clinging to a precarious existence.

If not for the Demonic Cult Master’s explosive martial prowess, which deterred anyone from directly confronting him, and his continuous adoption of orphaned tribesmen, teaching them martial arts and poison techniques, and forming several guard teams, the foreign tribe would likely have been exterminated by the Han and Manchu long ago.

This small boy was one of the many orphans adopted by the Demonic Cult Master, but due to his frail constitution, he had barely begun learning martial arts when a severe cold claimed his life.

Shui Jingxuan sifted through the boy’s memories, his heart heavy with worry for his future predicament.

Without his abilities, with a weak constitution, unable to learn profound internal martial arts, and being a member of a foreign tribe, he would face ostracism and even execution if he ventured out.

Even within the Demonic Cult, due to his weakness, he would suffer discrimination and oppression from his own people. ‘How am I supposed to live like this?’

Having been powerful for many years, Shui Jingxuan found it difficult to adapt to the life of an ant. Unwilling to give up, he forced himself to gather his spirits and tried to activate the energy within his body.

Miraculously, he felt a faint energy fluctuation in his dantian—a warm, comfortable sensation that was unmistakably his familiar water ability.

‘Are abilities attached to the soul rather than the body? My soul crossed over, so my ability came with it?’ Shui Jingxuan ceased circulating the energy, stroking his chin in contemplation.

Having found a plausible explanation, he no longer dwelled on it, nor did he continue to circulate the energy within his body.

Instead, he lay down to rest, conserving his strength. His ability was currently only a faint thread, requiring activation to grow and be used.

Though he was eager to regain his power, this room was not a suitable place to activate his ability.

Once activated, the water ability would course through his entire body, altering the pH levels in his blood, muscles, and even bone marrow, expelling impurities, and refining his physique.

This process was akin to a complete cleansing and rebirth, a rather dramatic event that would also produce an unpleasant odor. Shui Jingxuan had no desire to draw attention or be regarded as a demonic anomaly.

He lowered his gaze slightly, his fingertips tapping rhythmically on the bed as he mentally reviewed the various terrains of the Demonic Cult, searching for a secluded spot suitable for activating his ability.

Lost in thought, the rickety wooden door was pushed open from outside, emitting a creaking sound.

The newcomer was a boy of about ten years old, much sturdier than Shui Jingxuan. He had dark skin, a high nose, broad eyebrows, and deep, defined features, showing distinct characteristics of the foreign tribe.

Seeing that Shui Jingxuan had awakened and was sitting up, looking directly at him, a flicker of surprise and joy crossed his eyes.

“Axi, you’re awake? That’s great!” He strode quickly to Shui Jingxuan’s bedside, sitting down and anxiously checking his condition. Earlier that morning, when he left for martial arts practice, he had worried Axi might never wake up again.

Axi was the nickname for this body, and it was quite fitting. Shui Jingxuan glanced at his own scrawny, bony arms and legs, thinking self-deprecatingly.

The newcomer was Shui Jingxuan’s roommate and senior martial arts brother under the same master, who usually took good care of him.

This person also didn’t have a name, having given himself the nickname Azhuang, which perfectly suited his sturdy legs, already hinting at muscle.

In fact, throughout the entire Demonic Cult, apart from the Cult Master and a few high-ranking elders, everyone else only had a nickname or a substitute name.

Foreign tribesmen were regarded as pigs and dogs by the Han Chinese. Many were born only to have their parents slaughtered by the Han, leaving no time for names.

Moreover, they were illiterate and uncultured, unable to conceive of meaningful names. Most simply gave themselves a substitute name or were given a nickname by others.

The Demonic Cult Master, however, possessed a truly domineering and excellent name: Ji Wushuang. As he savored these three characters, Shui Jingxuan felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity, though he couldn’t recall where he had heard it before.

While he was lost in thought, Azhuang pulled a green `wowotou` from his pocket, placing it in Shui Jingxuan’s palm. He said cheerfully, “I specifically snatched this for you! It’s soft and sticky, and very sweet! Hurry and eat it.”

To Azhuang, this coarse `wowotou`, mixed with wild herbs and stems, was a rare delicacy. In the Demonic Cult, daily food was categorized into several grades of quality and was strictly rationed.

To eat well and be full, one needed powerful strength to snatch enough food from fellow disciples.

This was a cruel, wolf-like education. However, children who could safely grow up under such a system were destined to become strong.

The Demonic Cult did this to preserve its purest bloodline and ensure its tribe’s continued propagation. Unfortunately, the original Axi was one of the weaklings eliminated by this educational system.

The law of the jungle, survival of the fittest. These eight words were the iron rule of nature, unavoidable wherever one went.

Shui Jingxuan offered Azhuang a slight smile. Without being overly sentimental, he took the `wowotou` and began to eat it in large bites.

A bitter, astringent taste filled his tongue, and the grass stems made his throat ache. Even in the apocalypse, Shui Jingxuan had never eaten such unpalatable food.

He frowned, silently vowing to become strong and live well.

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