The thunderous pounding on his door jolted Ethan from what could barely be called sleep.
His entire body ached from spending the night on the cold, hard ground with nothing but a threadbare cloth serving as both mattress and blanket.
Every muscle screamed in protest as he tried to shift position, reminding him of the harsh reality he now faced.
This is it, he thought bitterly.
This pathetic excuse for a bed won’t change for the next fifty years. Hell, the real question is whether I’ll even survive long enough to see those fifty years through.
The cloth beneath him was damp with condensation from the frigid air, and he could feel the cold seeping up through the floorboards, as if the very foundation of this place was trying to leech the warmth from his body.
His joints felt stiff and creaky, like those of an old man rather than someone in his prime. The temperature had dropped even further during the night, and he could see his breath forming small clouds in the dim light filtering through the cracks in his hut’s walls.
Ethan’s mind felt like it was wrapped in cotton, dizzy and disoriented from a combination of sleep deprivation and the absolute nightmare quality of what little rest he had managed.
Anxiety had plagued him throughout the night, his thoughts churning endlessly around the same terrifying questions: How would he survive in this godforsaken place where he knew absolutely no one? Where he had no connections, no friends, nothing but the clothes on his back and a death sentence disguised as imprisonment?
Every time he had started to drift off, the oppressive aura from the ancestral tomb would intensify, sending chills down his spine and filling his dreams with visions of skeletal hands reaching up from icy waters.
The psychological pressure was almost unbearable—knowing that countless powerful cultivators lay buried beneath that lake, their residual energy still potent enough to drive living beings insane.
The original owner of this body had been a loner—not by choice or personality, but by cruel circumstance. In this cultivation world, physical cultivators were treated like outcasts, looked down upon by spiritual cultivators who saw them as fundamentally lesser beings.
The memories flooding back painted a picture of constant humiliation and isolation that had shaped the previous Ethan’s entire existence.
In the outer sect, he had been tolerated but never truly accepted. While spiritual cultivators meditated in groups, shared techniques, and formed bonds over their common pursuit of immortality, physical cultivators were left to train alone.
They were given the most menial tasks, the worst living quarters, and the least respect. Even servants who worked in the kitchens were treated with more courtesy than disciples who chose the path of body refinement.
Spiritual cultivation was the path to immortality, the road to ascending to higher realms and achieving godlike power.
Throughout history, countless spiritual cultivators had broken through the mortal plane and ascended to the immortal world, their legends inspiring generations of disciples.
Their names were carved into monuments, their techniques passed down through sacred texts, their achievements celebrated in grand ceremonies.
But physical cultivators? There had never been a single mention of one reaching the peak of this world, let alone ascending to immortality.
It wasn’t just considered difficult—it was believed to be completely impossible. The very concept was laughable to most people in the cultivation world.
Most spiritual cultivators looked down on mortals without spiritual roots, but they held even greater contempt for physical cultivators who "didn’t know their place."
The reasoning was both simple and cruel: mortals at least had the wisdom to accept their limitations and live ordinary lives.
Physical cultivators, on the other hand, were seen as delusional fools who refused to accept reality.
The prevailing wisdom was simple: if you lacked spiritual roots, you should accept your fate as a mortal and live an ordinary life. Get married, have children, run a shop or work as a farmer.
Physical cultivation was seen as a pathetic attempt to grasp at power that would never truly be within reach—like a crippled man insisting he could run faster than a horse.
But even beyond the social isolation and systemic prejudice, something else had been gnawing at Ethan throughout the long, sleepless night—the extreme yin energy emanating from the ancestral tomb.
The malevolent cold seemed to seep through his very bones, carrying with it whispers of madness and death that grew stronger with each passing hour.
The energy wasn’t just uncomfortable; it was actively hostile to living beings.
Ethan could feel it trying to invade his mind, probing for weaknesses, seeking to corrupt his thoughts and gradually erode his sanity. It was like having ice-cold fingers constantly pressing against his skull, trying to crack it open and pour freezing poison directly into his brain.
If he were a spiritual cultivator, he might have been able to isolate himself from the energy, create barriers or protective techniques to shield his mind and body.
Spiritual energy could be used to form defensive arrays, purification techniques, or even temporary sanctuaries that would keep the yin energy at bay. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by novel⚑fire.net
But as a physical cultivator, his only options were to endure the assault and pray that his body would somehow adapt to the hostile environment before it destroyed him completely.
The second round of pounding was even louder and more aggressive than the first, rattling the entire flimsy structure of his hut.
The sound jolted Ethan back to the present moment, dragging him out of his spiral of despair and self-pity. Dust and small debris fell from the ceiling as the walls shook under the assault.
His brain still felt foggy and disconnected, his breathing uneven and unstable—like he had single-handedly fought an entire army and barely escaped with his life. Every breath was a struggle, every heartbeat irregular and weak.
The combination of physical exhaustion, psychological trauma, and the constant assault of yin energy had pushed his body to its absolute limits.
Using the ground for support, Ethan slowly, painfully pulled himself to his feet. The simple act of standing felt like climbing a mountain.
His legs wobbled like those of a newborn colt, threatening to give out at any moment. Once vertical, he had to lean heavily against the nearest wall to prevent himself from collapsing again.
Step by agonizing step, he made his way toward the door. His movements were clumsy and uncertain, like those of a drunk man trying to navigate in the dark.
The short distance—maybe eight feet at most—felt like miles, each footfall requiring tremendous effort and concentration.
Just as Ethan reached for the door handle, preparing to open it and face whatever fresh hell awaited him outside—
A tremendous force struck the door from the outside, slamming it inward with devastating power.
The wooden barrier, his only protection from the outside world, became a weapon turned against him as it crashed into his already weakened body with the force of a charging bull.
The collision was completely one-sided. Ethan’s physical cultivation, which should have made him stronger and more resilient than an ordinary person, might as well have been nonexistent in the face of such overwhelming force.
His body was launched backward like a paper doll caught in a hurricane, helpless against the momentum that sent him flying across the small space.
Ethan’s back connected with the opposite wall of his hut with bone-jarring impact.
The entire structure shuddered and groaned under the force of the collision, wooden beams creaking ominously as if one more touch might bring the whole thing crashing down around him.
Pain exploded through every nerve ending in his body in waves of pure agony.
His spine felt like it might have cracked, his ribs screamed in torment, and stars burst across his vision as his head snapped back against the unforgiving wood.
For a moment, the world went completely white as his nervous system overloaded from the trauma.
Ethan tried to move, tried to push himself away from the wall, but his body refused to obey. Instead, he simply crumpled and fell straight down, sliding out of the human-shaped indentation his impact had carved into the wooden planks.
Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear footsteps—heavy, confident strides moving rapidly in his direction.
Someone was approaching, but his vision was too blurred and unfocused to make out any details. All he could see was a vague, dark silhouette getting larger as it drew nearer.
Ethan tried to lift his head to get a better look at his unexpected visitor, but the simple movement sent fresh waves of agony coursing through his battered body.
His muscles wouldn’t respond properly, his coordination shot to hell by the brutal impact.
The figure loomed over him now, close enough that Ethan could sense their presence even through his compromised senses. Just as consciousness began to slip away from him like water through his fingers, he heard a voice—surprised and somewhat confused:
"I thought he was supposed to be a physical cultivator."