Months? Years?
Time blurred.
Since his rebirth, Cheng Wang had studied and trained, consolidating what he could. No longer a king—but a boy. Yet something about that amused him.
"Even an average soul from Hell could rip me apart right now… God, this is gonna be fun."
He'd learned the language. He'd learned to survive. And eventually—something strange clicked.
He recognized this world.
This wasn't just a second chance—it was a novel he had read in his old life.
A cultivation story.
Something like The Beginning After the End.
"Guess that makes this my tutorial arc. First quest: wipe out the bandit camp."
That morning, he stepped into the largest tent—where every bandit had gathered. A raid was scheduled for tomorrow. A small village east of here. He listened as the camp leader—the same man who had murdered his mother—rattled off the plan.
Cheng stood beside other "talented" camp-born children. Those selected for their potential.
He breathed. Deeply. Silently. Each breath synchronized with the flickering torches around him.
Mana collected in his gut, warmth spiraling into pressure.
And then—
Boom.
A detonation of raw energy erupted from his body.
The tent flattened. Fire swept through the space as torches were hurled like shrapnel. Screams erupted. Smoke choked the air. Bodies burned.
Cheng stood amidst the chaos—unfazed.
He listened to the cries of the injured. Their pain was familiar. Comfortable, even.
But one man did not fall.
From the smoke emerged the bandit leader—skin blackened, one eye burned shut, limbs blistered and raw. Yet somehow, the sword in his hand gleamed—pristine.
"You damned elf…" he hissed. "I knew I should've killed you along with your whore of a mother."
He charged.
Impossible.
No man should move like that with half his body charred.
But he was a mage too. His mana core burned bright beneath the wounds.
Cheng stepped aside—just barely dodging the slash. The blade kissed his face, carving a line across his nose and slicing the edge of his ear.
He ignored the sting.
And lunged.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Blade met flesh. Over and over. His knife punched through the man's side, tearing open his guts. Intestines spilled. The bandit stumbled back, gasping, snarling, still glaring with that single, hateful eye.
He muttered:
"You'll die a miserable death… Just like her. You're nothing. Your life has no value. I'll be waiting for you in Hell, you fu—"
Cheng stabbed his throat.
"God, you're annoying."
He shook his head, blood splattered across his face, a grim smile on his lips.
"Threatening me with Hell? Really? I ruled the place."
As the corpse collapsed, Cheng crouched beside it, thoughtfully.
"If I had last words, I'd want them to be cool. Guess I'll give you something."
He stared at the lifeless eyes, then whispered:
"Let your last word be my title."
He looked up.
"A pointless life, huh?"
He considered the words. Then smiled.
"Let's translate that… 'Inānis' in Latin. That's good. And for a first name… hmm…"
"Mors. Death."
"Yeah. That's perfect."