## Chapter 1: Eighty Years of Mortal Dust, A Single Spark Awakens
The setting sun bled across the jagged peaks of the Cloud Mist Mountains, casting long, skeletal shadows over Qingyuan Village. The wind that swept down from the high passes carried the bitter chill of early autumn, rustling the golden-brown leaves of the ancient banyan tree that stood at the village center. Underneath the crimson sky, the village was an oasis of fragile warmth. Red paper lanterns, though slightly faded and patched, swayed from the eaves of the largest courtyard in the settlement.
Today was a momentous occasion. It was the eightieth birthday of Patriarch Lu Chen.
In an era where the average commoner was lucky to see their fortieth winter, reaching the age of eighty was nothing short of a miraculous milestone. It was considered an auspicious event, a testament to a life lived with prudence, resilience, and the favor of the heavens. In the Lu family courtyard, over a dozen tables had been set up, crowded with villagers, extended family members, and local hunters who had come to pay their respects.
The scent of roasted wild boar, seasoned with mountain herbs and cheap but potent yellow wine, filled the air. Children chased each other around the legs of the tables, their laughter piercing through the low murmur of adult conversation. It was a picture of rustic tranquility.
Yet, sitting at the head table, draped in a thick, fur-lined coat that swallowed his frail, withered frame, Lu Chen could not find it within himself to smile.
His eyes, milky at the edges but retaining a core of sharp, lucid intelligence, stared blankly at the cup of wine resting in his trembling, liver-spotted hands. The hands were a map of a harsh life—calloused, scarred, the knuckles swollen with arthritis, the veins standing out like thick blue cords against paper-thin skin.
"Father," a deep, respectful voice broke through his reverie.
Lu Chen blinked, shifting his gaze. Standing before him was his eldest son, Lu Qingshan. Qingshan was a man in his late fifties, his hair already completely white, his back slightly bowed from decades of backbreaking labor in the terraced fields. He held a brimming bowl of wine with both hands.
"Father," Qingshan repeated, his voice thick with emotion. "Today is your eightieth birthday. You have sheltered this family, raised three sons, two daughters, and lived to see your great-grandchildren run through this courtyard. You are the sturdy pillar of the Lu family. I, your unfilial son, toast to your health and longevity."
Qingshan drank the bowl in a single gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his coarse sleeve.
Lu Chen forced a smile, his heavily wrinkled face shifting into an expression of warm benevolence. "You have done well, Qingshan. Sit down. You are an old man yourself now. Don't drink so quickly; the mountain wind is cold, and it will settle in your joints."
He raised his own cup and took a small sip. The wine burned a trail down his throat, warming his stomach, but doing nothing to thaw the deep, pervasive chill that had settled in his bones over the last few years.
"Grandfather! Grandfather!"
A young boy, no older than seven, came barreling toward him. It was Little Ming, his great-grandson. The boy's face was smeared with grease from a roasted pork bun. "Grandfather, Uncle Iron-Arm said that when you were young, you used to be a great martial artist! He said you could smash rocks with your bare hands! Is it true? Show me! Show me how you smash a rock!"
A sudden, heavy silence fell over the immediate family members at the head table. Lu Qingshan shot a furious glare at the neighboring table, where a drunken village hunter named Iron-Arm shrank back, looking apologetic.
Lu Chen looked down at the bright, expectant eyes of his great-grandson. A profound, piercing sorrow flared in his chest—an old, familiar wound that had scabbed over decades ago, only to be occasionally picked open by the innocent words of children.
He reached out a trembling, bony hand and gently patted Little Ming's head. "Uncle Iron-Arm is telling tales, little one. Your grandfather was never a great martial artist. I am just a farmer. If I hit a rock, my old bones would shatter, not the rock."
"Aww..." Little Ming pouted in disappointment, losing interest almost immediately before running off to rejoin his cousins.
Lu Chen watched the boy go, his smile fading into a grim line.
*A great martial artist.* The words echoed in his mind like a cruel joke.
Only Lu Chen knew the absolute truth of his existence. He was not originally from this world. Eighty years ago, he had been a young man living in a world of towering glass buildings, glowing screens, and peaceful skies. He had died in a mundane, tragic car accident and had opened his eyes to find himself reborn as a squalling infant in this brutal, primitive world—the Great Yan Dynasty.
When he had first realized where he was—a world where martial arts were not myths but tangible, earth-shattering reality—he had been ecstatic. He had possessed the mind of a modern adult, a heart full of ambition, and the conviction that, as a transmigrator, he was destined for greatness. He believed he was the protagonist of his own epic tale. He had spent his childhood staring at the wandering swordsmen who passed through the region, marveling at their ability to leap over thirty-foot walls, shatter boulders with a casual palm strike, and carve through steel as if it were mud.
This was a pure martial world. There were no immortals riding flying swords, no magical spells, no heaven-defying cultivation of spiritual roots to ascend to godhood. There was only the mortal body, pushed to the absolute zenith of its potential.
The path was clearly defined, yet brutally unforgiving: Flesh Refinement, Bone Forging, Blood Qi Sublimation, Inner Force Generation, and finally, the legendary Grandmaster realm.
At the age of twelve, believing in his boundless destiny, young Lu Chen had taken all his family's savings, stolen a few silver taels, and walked for seven days to the nearest city, Black Rock City, to join the Iron Gale Martial Hall.
That was where life had taught him his first, most devastating lesson.
He had no aptitude.
Not just poor aptitude. He had *absolute zero* talent for martial arts.
To practice martial arts, one needed a robust constitution, wide meridians, and a skeleton capable of enduring extreme stress. When the master of the Iron Gale Martial Hall had checked young Lu Chen's bones, he had sneered and thrown him out into the muddy street.
*"Your meridians are narrow and brittle. Your bones are like porous wood. Your blood气 (Qi) is stagnant. You couldn't achieve Flesh Refinement even if you practiced for a hundred years. Go back to the fields, farm boy. The martial world will only chew you up and spit out your bones."*
Lu Chen had refused to believe it. He was a transmigrator! He had to have a hidden talent! He had to be a late bloomer!
He stayed in Black Rock City, working as a lowly sweeper for the martial hall just to steal glances at the disciples practicing. He memorized their basic stances—the 'Tiger Subduing Fist' and the 'Breath Nurturing Technique'. Every night, in his cramped, freezing shed, he practiced until his fists bled, until his muscles tore, until he coughed up blood from exhausting his meager life force.
He practiced with the desperation of a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. Ten years. He spent ten entire years doing nothing but sweeping floors during the day and destroying his body by night, trying to force his way into the Flesh Refinement realm.
He watched talented youths join the hall and reach Flesh Refinement in three months. He watched them move on to Bone Forging in two years. He watched them depart to make a name for themselves in the vast rivers and lakes of the martial world.
And Lu Chen? At twenty-two, his body was broken. He had failed to even properly refine his skin. His forced training without medicinal baths or proper guidance had permanently damaged his internal organs. He had aged prematurely, his hair graying in his twenties.
One snowy night, coughing up black blood into a wooden bucket, the fire in his heart finally died. The harsh, unyielding reality of the world had crushed his protagonist fantasy. Hard work, grit, and determination meant absolutely nothing in the face of an impassable chasm of natural aptitude. You could not polish a brick into a mirror.
Defeated, humiliated, and physically broken, Lu Chen had returned to Qingyuan Village. He buried his dreams beneath the soil. He took up the hoe, married a sturdy village girl named Mei, and settled down.
He became an ordinary man. He worried about the weather, the harvest, the taxes, and the health of his children. Decades bled into one another. He watched his parents pass away. He watched his wife Mei pass away from a winter fever twenty years ago. He watched his children grow old.
Now, he was eighty. A fragile, withered husk of a man waiting for the earth to claim him.
"Grandfather..."
Lu Chen looked up. His grandson, Lu Lin—Qingshan's son—was standing by his side. Lu Lin was the current head of the village militia, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his thirties. Unlike the festive mood of the others, Lu Lin's face was grim, his brows furrowed in deep worry.
"What is it, Lin'er?" Lu Chen asked, his voice barely above a raspy whisper.
Lu Lin leaned in close, keeping his voice low so as not to panic the surrounding tables. "I didn't want to bring this up on your birthday, Grandfather, but the scouts returned from the mountain pass."
Lu Chen's cloudy eyes sharpened slightly. "The Black Winds?"
"Yes," Lu Lin nodded, his fists clenching at his sides. "The rumors are true. The Great Yan Dynasty is completely collapsing. The Emperor is dead, and the rebel armies have breached the capital. The provincial governors have all declared themselves independent kings. The regular army in our province has completely deserted. Because of the chaos, the Black Winds Bandit stronghold in the neighboring county has expanded. They are pushing into the Cloud Mist Mountains."
Lu Chen felt a cold dread settle in his stomach.
The Great Yan Dynasty had been declining for forty years. Corruption, exorbitant war taxes, and famine had hollowed out the empire. In the past five years, the situation had deteriorated into pure anarchy. Warlords fought for territory, and martial arts sects, usually aloof, had begun descending from their mountains to seize control of cities and resources.
In times of peace, Qingyuan Village was protected by its extreme isolation. The steep, treacherous mountain paths made it difficult for tax collectors and bandits alike to bother with them. They were too poor to be worth the effort.
But when starvation and war drove men to madness, isolation was no longer a shield.
"How far are they?" Lu Chen asked, his gnarled fingers gripping the edge of the table.
"A vanguard group was spotted just twenty miles away. They raided Lower River Village three days ago," Lu Lin's voice trembled slightly. "They... they left no survivors. They took all the grain, all the women, and slaughtered the rest. They are moving deeper into the mountains to establish a new stronghold, far from the warlord armies. Qingyuan Village is right in their path."
Lu Chen closed his eyes. The festive sounds of the banquet suddenly sounded like a hollow mockery, a fragile glass dome about to be shattered by a falling boulder.
"Have the villagers prepare to hide the grain in the mountain caves," Lu Chen ordered quietly, his voice carrying the authority of an eighty-year patriarch. "Sharpen the hunting spears. Tomorrow, you must lead the young and strong to set traps along the narrow passes."
"But Grandfather, if a true martial artist is among them... even a Flesh Refinement expert... our spears won't do anything. Iron-Arm's arrows will just bounce off their conditioned muscles."
"We do what we can, Lin'er. We are mortals. We cling to the dirt and fight like cornered rats. It is all we have ever been able to do." Lu Chen dismissed him with a tired wave of his hand.
The banquet continued for a few more hours, but Lu Chen retired early to his chambers. His bones ached too much, and the heavy news had exhausted his spirit.
His room was simple. A wooden bed, a small desk, a washbasin, and an old wooden chest in the corner. Above the chest, wrapped in heavily oiled rags, hung a long object.
Lu Chen walked over to it, his steps shuffling and unsteady. He reached up and pulled away the rags, revealing an old, straight-edged martial artist's sword. The scabbard was rotting, and when he drew the blade, the metal was dull, chipped, and marred by patches of dark rust.
It was the sword he had bought with his savings fifty-eight years ago when he finally gave up his dream and left Black Rock City. He had never swung it in combat. It was merely a tombstone for his dead ambitions.
He sat on the edge of his bed, holding the heavy, rusted iron across his lap.
*Eighty years,* he thought, a bitter, self-deprecating smile twisting his thin lips. *Eighty years of life in a world of high martial arts, and I will die as a mortal victim to a nameless bandit raid. What a pathetic transmigration.*
He lay back, pulling the thick cotton quilt over his frail body. Outside, the sounds of the banquet finally died down. The villagers went to sleep. The village fell into a deep, oppressive silence, broken only by the howling of the wind through the mountain pines.
Lu Chen drifted into a restless, fitful sleep, plagued by dreams of his youth—the stern face of the martial master, the mocking laughter of the talented disciples, and the agonizing pain of his broken meridians.
*Crack.*
Lu Chen's eyes snapped open.
Decades of living in a harsh mountain environment, where wild beasts often prowled the edges of the village, had ingrained him with a light sleeper's instinct. Even at eighty, his hearing remained relatively sharp.
The sound had come from his own courtyard. It was the distinct snap of a dry twig under a heavy boot.
It was the dead of night. The moon was hidden behind thick, dark clouds, plunging the room into pitch blackness.
Lu Chen held his breath, straining to listen.
*Rustle... scuff...* Footsteps. Stealthy, deliberate footsteps moving past his window. Then, the faint, metallic scrape of a latch being tested.
Someone was trying to break into the main storage shed attached to his house, where the leftover roasted meat and some grain from the banquet were stored.
*The village dogs didn't bark,* Lu Chen realized with a jolt of cold terror.
The village dogs always barked at strangers or wild animals. If they were silent, it meant they had either been poisoned, or their throats had been slit before they could make a sound.
This wasn't a wild boar or a hungry bear.
*The Black Winds vanguard.* They were already here. Scouts. They must have slipped past the village perimeter in the dead of night to steal food and assess the village's defenses before the main force arrived.
Lu Chen's heart began to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was an eighty-year-old man. He could barely walk a mile without needing to rest. If a bandit found him, a single push would shatter his hips; a single slap would break his neck.
He needed to wake Qingshan and Lu Lin. But their houses were across the large family compound. To get to them, he would have to go outside.
He slowly, agonizingly, sat up on the bed. His joints screamed in protest, popping and clicking in the silence. He gritted his teeth, suppressing a groan of pain.
His hand reached out into the darkness and found the cold, rusted hilt of the sword he had left on the bedside table. His fingers wrapped tightly around it. The leather grip was dry and crumbling.
Lu Chen stood up. He felt incredibly frail, like a dry leaf about to be crushed in a hurricane. Yet, a strange, long-buried ember sparked in his chest. It wasn't the fiery ambition of his youth, but the primal, desperate instinct of a cornered animal protecting its den.
He shuffled to the wooden door, moving with agonizing slowness. He pressed his ear against the thin paper-and-wood frame.
He could hear the bandit outside, softly cursing under his breath. "Damn lock... heavy as a brick. Where do these dirt-grubbers hide the key?"
The voice was gruff, harsh, and carried a thick accent from the northern provinces.
Suddenly, the bandit stopped muttering.
Lu Chen heard the heavy, muffled thud of boots moving away from the shed and directly toward his bedroom door.
*He heard me moving,* Lu Chen realized, a spike of ice driving into his heart.
"Who's in there?" the gruff voice whispered from just inches away, on the other side of the door. "Old man? You awake?"
Lu Chen didn't breathe.
"Listen closely," the bandit murmured, his tone dripping with casual malice. "I just want the meat and the grain. Open the door, keep your mouth shut, and maybe I won't slit your throat. Make a sound, scream for your family, and I'll butcher everyone in this compound before they even get their pants on. Understand?"
Lu Chen knew the rules of the world. Bandits never left witnesses if they could help it, especially scouts operating behind enemy lines. The moment he opened the door, he would be dead.
He gripped his rusted sword with both hands, raising it until the tip trembled in the dark.
*Bang!*
The wooden door violently exploded inward. The heavy iron latch tore out of the rotting wood with a horrific shriek.
A massive, hulking figure filled the doorway, backlit by the faint, starlight spilling into the courtyard. The bandit was clad in filthy, blood-stained leather armor. In his right hand, he held a cruel, curved saber that glinted menacingly in the dim light.
"Dumb old fool," the bandit sneered, stepping into the room. The stench of sweat, cheap alcohol, and dried blood rolled off him in a suffocating wave.
The bandit casually raised his saber, intending to chop the frail old man in half without a second thought. He didn't even bother to take a defensive stance. To a hardened killer, an eighty-year-old villager was less threatening than a stray dog.
But Lu Chen didn't scream. He didn't cower.
In that split second, as the shadow of death fell over him, something within Lu Chen—the pent-up frustration of eighty years, the humiliation of his failed dreams, the desperate desire to protect his family—exploded.
He didn't use a martial arts technique. He had none. He had only the phantom memories of the basic, crude 'Tiger Subduing Fist' stances he had practiced ten thousand times in the snow sixty years ago.
Throwing his entire, frail body weight forward, Lu Chen lunged.
He didn't aim for the chest or the stomach—the rusted sword would never pierce the hardened leather armor. He aimed upward, thrusting the sword with every ounce of his pathetic, fading strength.
The bandit, completely caught off guard by the fact that the decrepit old man was actually attacking, reacted a fraction of a second too late. He swung his saber down, but his momentum was disrupted.
Lu Chen's rusted blade slid under the bandit's leather collar, burying itself deep into the soft, unprotected flesh of his throat.
*Schhhk.*
The sound of tearing meat and gurgling blood filled the cramped room.
The bandit's eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated disbelief. He dropped his saber, his large, dirty hands flying up to clutch at his neck. Blood, hot and thick, sprayed across Lu Chen's face, blinding him in one eye.
The heavy bandit staggered backward, pulling the rusted sword out of Lu Chen's weak grip. He fell heavily into the courtyard dirt, thrashing violently, his boots kicking up clouds of dust as he choked on his own blood.
Lu Chen collapsed against the doorframe, his chest heaving with ragged, agonizing breaths. His heart was beating so fast he thought it might literally burst through his ribs. He felt dizzy, nauseous, and entirely devoid of strength. He had strained his back, and his arms were shaking uncontrollably.
He slid down to the floor, panting, watching the bandit's thrashing slowly subside. A minute later, the massive man lay perfectly still in a growing pool of dark blood.
Lu Chen sat there, staring at his blood-soaked, trembling hands. He had done it. He had survived.
But as the adrenaline began to fade, the crushing reality set in. This was just a scout. There would be dozens, perhaps hundreds, more. His family was still doomed.
Suddenly, a sharp, crystalline *DING* echoed directly inside his skull.
Lu Chen gasped, clutching his head, expecting a stroke or a heart attack.
But the pain never came. Instead, a voice—cold, mechanical, and utterly detached—spoke directly into his mind.
**[Host Age: 80 Years. Lifespan requirement met.]**
**[Patience and Survival threshold reached.]**
**[System Initialization Complete.]**
Lu Chen froze, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes widened to the size of saucers. *System?*
A translucent, glowing blue screen, much like the holographic displays from the sci-fi movies of his previous life, materialized in the air directly in front of his eyes.
**[First Blood Drawn.]**
**[Target Scanned: Ordinary Mortal (Bandit).]**
**[Extracting Attribute Points...]**
**[Extraction Complete: +1 Free Attribute Point.]**
Lu Chen stared at the floating blue text, his mind completely blank. For a long moment, the only sound was the howling wind and his own ragged breathing.
Then, the screen shifted, displaying a simple, brutal interface.
**=== STATUS ===**
**Name:** Lu Chen
**Age:** 80 / 81 (Lifespan remaining: 1 Year, 2 Months)
**Realm:** None (Mortal)
**Constitution:** 3 (Frail, Decaying)
**Strength:** 2 (Weak)
**Agility:** 2 (Sluggish)
**Spirit:** 12 (Transmigrator Soul)
**=== MARTIAL ARTS ===**
**[Breath Nurturing Technique (Incomplete)]** - Unranked / Mastery: 0%
**[Tiger Subduing Fist (Basic)]** - Unranked / Mastery: 5%
**Free Attribute Points:** 1
*One year...* Lu Chen stared at the lifespan indicator. He was destined to die of old age next winter.
But that thought was immediately eclipsed by the surging, tidal wave of shock and euphoria that crashed over him.
*A System.* His Golden Finger.
It hadn't forgotten him. It hadn't abandoned him. It had just been locked behind an absurd requirement—surviving to the age of eighty as a mortal in a deadly world! It was a joke of cosmic proportions, a sick, twisted test of endurance.
He began to laugh. It started as a low, wheezing chuckle, and escalated into a breathless, tear-filled laughing fit. He laughed until his chest ached, until the hot tears washed the bandit's cold blood from his cheeks.
He wasn't abandoned.
He looked at the bottom of the interface. *Free Attribute Points: 1*.
He had gained a point from killing the bandit. A point that could be added to anything.
He could add it to his Constitution, perhaps prolonging his life. He could add it to Strength, granting his old bones the power of a young man.
But Lu Chen's eyes drifted past the raw physical stats. He looked down at the [Martial Arts] section.
The *Breath Nurturing Technique*. It was the fundamental, basic inner cultivation method of the Iron Gale Martial Hall. It was meant to stimulate the blood and open the meridians. For ten years in his youth, he had tried to master it, failing utterly because of his blocked, narrow meridians.
If he couldn't practice it naturally... could the system force it?
With a trembling, blood-stained finger, Lu Chen reached out and mentally directed the system to apply the 1 Free Attribute Point to the [Breath Nurturing Technique].
**[Ding! 1 Free Attribute Point consumed.]**
**[Upgrading: Breath Nurturing Technique (Incomplete)...]**
The blue screen flickered violently.
**[Breath Nurturing Technique (Incomplete) -> Breath Nurturing Technique (Perfected) -> Mastery: 100%!]**
In the next instant, the world vanished.
A terrifying, explosive surge of heat erupted from Lu Chen's lower abdomen—his Dantian. It was as if someone had swallowed a burning coal.
*Crack. Snap. Pop.*
Horrific, grinding noises emanated from inside his body. Lu Chen threw his head back in a silent scream.
The heat surged through his body like a raging river bursting a dam. It slammed into his narrow, blocked meridians. For a normal person, this forced expansion would result in exploding blood vessels and instant death. But governed by the absolute laws of the System, the energy mercilessly carved through the blockages.
Black, foul-smelling impurities oozed from the pores of his wrinkled skin. His brittle, porous bones groaned under the pressure, the marrow inside them boiling and thickening. The excruciating pain of his arthritis, the chronic ache in his lower back, the stiff, sluggish feeling in his limbs—all of it was being incinerated in the furnace of his own awakening biology.
The process lasted for only ten seconds, but to Lu Chen, it felt like ten lifetimes.
When the heat finally subsided, retreating back into a warm, steady, pulsing core in his abdomen, Lu Chen collapsed onto his hands and knees on the wooden floor.
He gasped for air, but for the first time in thirty years, his lungs didn't wheeze. The breath he took was deep, crisp, and filled his chest with immense, vibrant energy.
He slowly looked down at his hands.
The liver spots had significantly faded. The swollen, arthritic knuckles had reduced in size. Underneath the layer of black, foul grime covering his skin, he could see that the paper-thin flesh had thickened, regaining a sliver of tautness.
He clenched his fist.
*Crack.* The sound of his joints popping wasn't the sound of brittle decay; it was the sharp, explosive crack of dense, coiled muscle and bone shifting into place. He felt a reservoir of strength coursing through his forearms—a strength he had never possessed, not even in the absolute prime of his twenties.
He looked back at the glowing blue panel.
**=== STATUS ===**
**Name:** Lu Chen
**Age:** 80 / 81 (Lifespan remaining: 5 Years, 2 Months)
**Realm:** Flesh Refinement (Early Stage)
**Constitution:** 10 (Normal Adult Prime)
**Strength:** 12 (Above Average)
**Agility:** 8 (Average)
**Spirit:** 12 (Transmigrator Soul)
**=== MARTIAL ARTS ===**
**[Breath Nurturing Technique]** - Unranked / Mastery: 100% (Maximum)
**[Tiger Subduing Fist (Basic)]** - Unranked / Mastery: 5%
**Free Attribute Points:** 0
Lu Chen stared at the screen. His lifespan had increased by four years. His physical stats had rocketed upward.
And most importantly: **Realm: Flesh Refinement (Early Stage).**
The threshold that had mocked him for a decade, the barrier that the martial master had sworn he could never cross in a hundred years... had been shattered with a single point.
He slowly stood up. He didn't need to lean against the wall. His spine was straight. The crushing weight of eighty years of gravity had been lifted from his shoulders.
He walked out into the courtyard, stepping over the corpse of the massive bandit. The cold mountain wind hit him, but he no longer felt the chill. The inner heat from the perfected Breath Nurturing Technique circulated through his newly opened meridians, keeping his body at a perfect, vibrant temperature.
Lu Chen bent down and effortlessly picked up the bandit's heavy, curved steel saber. The weapon, which would have required two hands and immense effort for him to lift just ten minutes ago, now felt perfectly balanced in his single grip.
He turned his gaze toward the dark, jagged peaks of the Cloud Mist Mountains. Somewhere out there in the blackness, the rest of the Black Winds vanguard was waiting.
For eighty years, he had lived as a sheep, waiting for the wolves to come.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across the old man's grime-covered face. The milky haze in his eyes had cleared, replaced by a sharp, predatory gleam that reflected the cold starlight.
"Points," Lu Chen whispered to the night air, the rusted gears of his long-dead ambition finally beginning to turn. "I need more points."