Inside a dimly lit cave, the boy sat with his blazer folded beside him, its once-crisp fabric now soaked and stained. His white school shirt clung to his skin, heavy with river water—a testament to his near-failed attempt at crossing. But cross it he did, by sheer luck, grit, or divine mockery. Somehow, he'd clawed his way up into the cave overlooking the riverbank, panting and drenched, too tired to scream anymore.
Now he huddled near the entrance, beside a flickering fire he'd barely managed to start. The smoke trailed upward and slipped out the open cave entrance , the flames guarded by a crude barrier of sticks and snapped branches—his attempt at a makeshift wall. It wasn't much, but it would keep animals out. Or at least give him a few extra seconds before something ate him.
After all, suffocating in his sleep from smoke inhalation would be a pathetic end.
Outside, night had fallen over the forest like a suffocating veil. In the darkness, the sounds of movement were clear—horrifyingly clear. Snapping twigs, rustling leaves, low growls that rumbled through the air. Across the river, barely visible in the moonlight, the twisted corpses of the panther and the snake still lay motionless. The forest didn't care. Life here simply stepped over death.
Han Tiānzhì buried his face in his hands. "What the hell, man? Why me?" he whispered, voice cracked with exhaustion and disbelief.
"I was just a normal kid... trying to be a doctor. Why the hell am I in this mess? Giant monsters? That panther was like a goddamn car with claws. This isn't Earth."
His thoughts spiraled. Then a wild idea struck him.
"Wait… Did I get transmigrated into a Xianxia world?"
His eyes lit up. "Oh, hell ye—nah, I'm so cooked," he muttered, voice falling flat again.
Despite his youthful appearance—barely older than eleven at a glance—Han Tiānzhì was seventeen, a high schooler on track to enter medical school. He had charted his life like a precision operation. While others played games or slacked off, he'd begged his grandfather, a respected traditional Chinese medicine doctor, to teach him the old ways. Acupuncture, meridian theory, herbal alchemy—he devoured it all with a hunger far beyond his years.
Helping people. That was his dream. His purpose.
His name?
Han Tiānzhì—The Heavenly Will, the one whose aspirations reached the stars.
Yet now, it seemed the heavens had cast him down into a world not of opportunity, but of monsters and madness. Or… maybe it was both.
"Wait," he said, blinking. "If this is a Xianxia world… can I cultivate?"
He stood suddenly, grinning like a lunatic. "I mean—I could try to stimulate my meridians, right? Just maybe... hah!"
Rummaging through his soaked backpack, he found a zippered pouch. Inside, neatly ordered by size, lay a full set of sterile acupuncture needles. His hands trembled—not from fear, but anticipation.
Peeling off his ruined school shirt and the cream-colored undershirt beneath, he lay back on the cave floor, wincing at the cold stone. Taking deep, deliberate breaths, he centered himself, placing the needle near his navel. With precision, he inserted it into the Shénqù point.
His breathing slowed. Eyes closed. Mind focused.
He drew in breath after breath, and with each inhalation, a faint warmth began to glow in his abdomen. It spread slowly, subtly, like a whisper through his bloodstream. Then, that warmth changed—turned still, then cold. An almost glacial tranquility flowed down from his lungs, threading through his blood and nerves, centering at his core.
As he carefully removed the needle, he remained focused. The energy flow dimmed—but not entirely. In his mind's eye, deep within his stomach , a shape formed: a small, crystalline sphere. Fragile. Ethereal. But real.
He had done something thought impossible.
He had formed his dantian.