The first sensation was the taste of ancient dust.
It coated his tongue, dry and gritty, a tangible proof of neglect. Bai Yichen's eyes fluttered open, stinging in the thin, cold light filtering through warped wooden window panels. He lay on a hard pallet, a lumpy mattress stuffed with what felt like stale rice husks digging into his back. The ceiling above him was a spider's paradise, draped in grey veils of cobweb that trembled in a draft he couldn't feel.
A throbbing, foreign ache pulsed behind his temples—not a headache, but a pressure, a floodgate straining against a torrent of memories that were not his own, yet now were.
Bai Yichen. Elder of the Azure-Green Cloud Sect. Azure-Green Peak. Fourth Star Sect. Good-for-nothing. Charity case. The Patriarch's shame.
The phrases surfaced like debris from a shipwreck. Along with them came images: sneering faces in elaborate robes, empty training grounds, disciples packing their meager belongings with expressions of scorn and relief, a kind-eyed man with a weary brow and silver streaks in his hair—Patriarch Yun Hai—speaking in a low, disappointed tone.
"Yichen, my old friend… the council pressures me. The Peak produces nothing. It consumes resources and gives back only silence. You have until the next Quarterly Recruitment to gather disciples. If you cannot… if they do not place within the top hundreds of the Mid-Year Tournament… I will have no choice. You must step down."
The ultimatum echoed in the vault of his new mind, clear and cold.
The man on the pallet—the fusion of a dying elder's spirit and a transmigrated soul from a world of concrete, logic, and boundless information—sat up slowly. Bones creaked in protest. The body was weak, its meridians—the pathways for spiritual energy, he now understood—clogged and narrow, like silt-choked streams. His cultivation was at the Foundation Establishment stage, but the foundation was cracked and feeble.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting icy, dusty floorboards. The room was a portrait of dignified poverty. A simple wooden desk, one leg propped on a folded piece of parchment. A lone, sputtering oil lamp. A shelf with a few cracked jade slips, their spiritual glow dimmed to near extinction. The air was thin not just on oxygen, but on Qi—the vital energy that permeated this world. Here, it was a faint trickle, a stale afterthought.
A wave of dizzying dissociation washed over him. He was Bai Yichen, yet he was not. He remembered skyscrapers, lines of computer codes, the sounds of servers beeping, the thrill of solving an impossible engineering problem. He also remembered decades of listless meditation in this very room, a slow surrender to irrelevance.
"So," he whispered, his voice rough from disuse. The sound was swallowed by the oppressive quiet. "Transmigration. A cultivation world. And I'm the good-for-nothing loser."
A bitter smile touched his lips. In his previous life, he'd never accepted a losing scenario. Every problem had a solution, a workaround, a line of code to rewrite reality. Was this any different?
As if triggered by that very thought, a subtle warmth bloomed in the center of his chest, deep within his Dantian. It wasn't the feeble, flickering candle-flame of the original Bai Yichen's Qi. This was different. It was a deep, glowing, like the center of a steel forge, steady and inexhaustible. Knowledge, pure and procedural, unfolded within his consciousness. It wasn't narrated; it was imprinted, as fundamental as knowing how to breathe.
First, the Runes. He perceived the world not just as matter and energy, but as a veriety of interlocking symbols. The dust particles dancing in the lightbeam weren't random; they traced faint, chaotic lines of natural Qi decay. The warped grain of the wood floor held a story of stagnant earth energy. He could see the potential for order within the chaos. He understood, with the clarity of a master linguist gazing upon a primitive alphabet, that he could inscribe meaning onto the fabric of reality itself. He could write commands in the language of heaven and earth. Attack, defend, gather, transform, heal—the principles were there, waiting for his will to structure them. On air, on stone, on skin. No limit. A blank page, everywhere.
Second, the Methods. The few basic cultivation manuals he'd half-heartedly practiced as the original elder now lay bare in his mind's eye. The "Azure-Green Basic Qi Circulation Technique" was not just a set of instructions; it was a flawed algorithm. He could see its inefficiencies—the redundant cycles, the energy leaks at the minor meridian junctions, the sub-optimal path for late-stage condensation. Instantly, three superior variations sprang to mind, each tailored for different body types. This understanding extended beyond cultivation methods to battle techniques. The memory of a simple "Mountain-Splitting Palm" he'd once seen performed now deconstructed itself. He saw the optimal angle of force application, the precise moment of Qi release, how to modify it for a weaker body or amplify it with a different footwork. He was a master of the Dao of understanding.
Third, the Core. The warmth in his Dantian wasn't just knowledge; it was power. He tentatively drew upon it, following the instinct of his new body. A stream of pure, vibrant Qi, cool and potent like a mountain spring, flowed into his parched meridians. It didn't just flow; it filled. He kept drawing, expecting strain, a depletion point. It never came. The well was bottomless. The Infinity Core. A perpetual engine. The relief that washed over him was so profound it was almost spiritual. Resources were the lifeblood of cultivation, and he now had an infinite personal reservoir.
Fourth, the Eye. He focused on his own hand. His vision shifted, deepening. He saw the pale blue flow of his own Qi, sluggish in his wrist meridians. He saw the faint, muddy color of his low-grade, mixed earth-water spirit root—the root of his original mediocrity. He looked at the dusty air and saw not just motes, but the faint, sickly-yellow tinge of decaying, stagnant environmental Qi. This was the Deep Seeking Eye. A diagnostic tool. A truth-seer.
Fifth, the Weapons. His gaze fell on a rusty, discarded training sword leaning in a corner. The urge to pick it up was instinctual. As his fingers closed around the hilt, a flood of familiarity arose. He knew its balance, its sweet spot, the way it would cut through the air, the exact tensile strength of its brittle metal. He knew a hundred ways to shatter it against a stronger weapon, and a thousand ways to make its weakness an advantage. Staff, spear, dagger, whip—the knowledge was there, a dormant library of combat mastery.
Sixth, the Construction. He looked at the dilapidated room. He didn't just see rot and decay. He saw stress points in the timber, poor spiritual insulation, a complete absence of Qi-channeling architecture. He knew, with the certainty of a master builder, how to reinforce the beams with a lattice of spiritual force, how to redirect the weak mountain vein to pool here, how to design a ventilation array that would cleanse and concentrate the Qi. Modern engineering principles—structural integrity, material science, efficient system design—fused seamlessly with the spiritual requirements of this world. This was the Modern Engineer's gift.
Seventh, the Aesthetics. His eyes dropped to his own robes—a simple, worn, greyish-blue Hanfu, the standard attire of an Azure-Green Cloud Sect elder, but frayed at the cuffs and stained with what might have been tea. A profound distaste, alien to the original Bai but deeply felt by the new consciousness, rose within him. It was more than shabbiness; it was a statement of defeat. The cut was unflattering, the fabric coarse and dead, holding no spiritual benefit. He understood, with sudden clarity, that form and function were not separate. A robe could be armor, a cultivation aid, a symbol. It could intimidate, inspire, and protect. This was the Fashionista's drive—not vanity, but the strategic application of presentation.
For a long time, Bai Yichen sat on the edge of his bed, motionless, immersed in the silent symphony of his new existence. The despair of the original elder was gone, burned away in the cool fire of these revelations. The ultimatum remained, a sword hanging by a thread. But he no longer saw a death sentence. He saw a mission. A challenge.
And he had just been granted the ultimate skillset.
The first thing he decided to test was the most fundamental, the most intriguing: the Rune Scriber.
He raised his right hand, index finger extended. Focusing on the infinite wellspring of his Core, he willed a trickle of Qi to gather at his fingertip. It responded instantly, a shimmering, barely visible luminescence coating the nail. Now, the intent. He didn't know any specific runic arrays from this world, and that was fine. His gift wasn't about copying; it was about coding.
He thought of a simple concept: Gather.
He imagined drawing the ambient, listless Qi in the room towards a single point. His finger moved, not with uncertainty, but with the fluid grace of a calligrapher writing a well-practiced character. In the air before him, a pattern etched itself in light—a complex, interlocking design that seemed to pulse with a gentle, pulling rhythm. It wasn't a character from any earthly language; it was a geometric, spiraling motif that felt like suction, like a spiritual vortex. It hung in the air, a sigil of pale silver light, thrumming softly.
He felt it immediately. The stagnant, yellowish Qi in the room began to stir. It moved like sluggish smoke, drifting towards the suspended rune. The rune brightened slightly as it absorbed the energy, but the effect was minimal—the room was simply too poor.
Fascinated, Bai dispelled the rune with a thought. The light fragmented and vanished. Next concept: Light.
He drew again. This symbol was sharper, angular, with a central point that flared. A warm, stable, torch-like glow erupted from the rune, illuminating the dusty corners of the room far better than the sputtering oil lamp. It produced no heat, only pure, clean illumination. He willed it to brighten, and it did, until the room was as bright as a modern office. He dimmed it. Total control.
A thrill, electric and pure, ran through him. This was power. Not the brute-force power of a mountain-shattering fist, but the precise, creative power of a god writing laws onto reality.
He moved to more complex ideas. Cleanse. He inscribed the rune over the dusty surface of his desk. The symbol sank into the wood, glowing briefly. The centuries of accumulated dust didn't just blow away; they seemed to un-exist, fading into nothingness, leaving behind clean, polished, if still worn, wood. The air around the desk felt fresher.
His mind raced with possibilities. He could inscribe Fortify on the wobbly desk leg. He could write Warmth on the floorboards by his bed. He could create a Barrier over his window. The potential was staggering.
Then, his gaze fell back on his robes. The Fashionista's sense twitched. He would not face the world, nor his future disciples, in these rags of surrender. But he wouldn't just make pretty clothes. He would make tools.
He stood up, the new strength in his limbs a pleasant surprise. He walked to a large, tarnished bronze mirror in the corner. The man who looked back was in his late thirties, with features that could have been handsome if not for the pallor of neglect and the shadows of resignation under his eyes. The original Bai Yichen's spirit. But the eyes themselves… they were different. They held a new depth, a sharp, analyzing light, a calm, unshakeable confidence that bordered on amusement.
"First order of business," he said to his reflection. "A new uniform."
The Modern Engineer knowledge stirred. He needed material. The original elder had nothing of value, but in a chest at the foot of the bed, he found a few old, unused sets of the standard sect elder robes—the same coarse, low-grade spirit-silk, dyed the sect's signature azure-green, now faded.
It would have to do as a base.
He laid one set out on the newly cleansed desk. He placed his hands palms-down over the fabric. The Engineer's gift wasn't about sewing. It was about understanding and manipulating material essence. He focused. His Qi, guided by this profound understanding, seeped into the cloth. He could feel the individual fibers, their brittle, lifeless spiritual conductivity.
Transmute.
It was not a flashy process. Under his palms, the fabric shimmered, its molecular and spiritual structure subtly rearranging. The coarse weave grew finer, tighter, smoother. The color deepened from a washed-out teal to a profound, rich azure, like a deep mountain lake under a clear sky, with subtle emerald threads woven through it like underwater currents. The material itself became cooler to the touch, stronger, and now inherently capable of holding a minor Qi charge. It was still recognizably the sect's Hanfu style—the cross-collar, the wide sleeves, the sash—but the base material had been elevated from peasant cloth to low-grade treasure.
Now, for the true artistry. The Rune Scriber.
He picked up the robe. He needed effects. Not gaudy, overpowered arrays that would mark him as a walking treasure vault for robbers, but subtle, constant, foundational benefits.
For the inner lining, he traced with his Qi-etched finger a micro-script, a repeating, intricate pattern of Circulation and Purification. It would gently stimulate his own Qi flow and passively filter out environmental impurities as he moved.
Along the hems of the sleeves and the robe's bottom, he inscribed a Gathering array, but a vastly superior one to his first test. This was a multi-layered, passive formation that would slowly, constantly draw in trace environmental Qi, not to a point, but to suffuse the robe itself, creating a permanent, faintly energized field around him. It wouldn't replace active cultivation, but it would turn every moment into a moment of slight benefit.
At the key meridian points on the chest and back, corresponding to his heart and Dantian, he placed tiny, focused runes of Stability and Clarity. One to anchor his spirit against mental intrusion or confusion, the other to aid in focus during meditation or crisis.
Finally, for the sash, he allowed the Fashionista a moment of flourish. He didn't inscribe Louis Vuitton logos. Instead, he crafted a beautiful, abstract pattern that echoed the spiraling Gathering array, but arranged it in a way that was aesthetically striking—a cascade of interlocking silver-grey lines on the dark azure sash that seemed to shift and flow when looked at from different angles. This pattern also contained a hidden Dispel function for common stains and dust.
The process took him the better part of an hour, his concentration absolute. When he was finished, he held not just a garment, but a masterpiece of subtle spiritual engineering.
He changed into it. The difference was immediate and profound. The fabric felt like cool water against his skin, yet it warmed subtly to his body temperature. A faint, refreshing energy seemed to whisper against his meridians. The robe hung perfectly, the improved cut and drape lending his previously slumped frame an unconscious air of authority and grace. In the mirror, the man who looked back was transformed. The pallor was still there, but the vibrant azure of the robe reflected a healthier light onto his face. The sharp, intelligent eyes now had a frame that matched their promise. He looked like an Elder. Not a disgraced one, but a profound, enigmatic master who had chosen austerity as a style.
He smiled. It was a small, cunning smile.
A sudden, sharp scratching sound at the door broke his reverie. Not a polite knock, but the sound of something small, clawed, and agitated.
Bai's Deep Seeking Eye activated almost on instinct. Through the wooden door, he saw a pulsating knot of chaotic, greedy earth Qi, about the size of a large cat, but shaped like a distorted, multi-legged dust bunny with glowing amber eyes—a minor Earth Sprite, a pest attracted to places of stagnant spiritual energy. It was trying to dig through the bottom of the door, likely sensing the shift in Qi from his experiments and his newly energized presence.
A test. Not just of his abilities, but of his new mindset.
He didn't reach for the rusty sword. He simply walked to the door, his new robes whispering softly. He unlocked it and pulled it open.
The Earth Sprite hissed, a sound like grinding pebbles. It pounced, a blur of dusty brown fur and needle-sharp claws aimed at his face.
Time seemed to slow. Bai's Master Cultivator gift assessed the creature's trajectory. His Weapon Master gift knew a hundred ways to kill it bare-handed. But he chose the Rune Scriber.
His left hand came up, palm outward. He didn't have time to inscribe a complex array in the air. Instead, he willed the Qi in his palm to form a rune instantly, as a reflex. The symbol, a simple, stark Repel, flared to life on his skin, etched in brilliant gold light for a fraction of a second.
THUMP.
An invisible, concussive wave of pure force, shaped and amplified by the runic command, erupted from his palm. It didn't blast; it pushed with immense, focused authority.
The Earth Sprite met the force mid-air. Its pounce reversed into a comical, high-speed backward flight. It sailed across the dusty courtyard outside Bai's pavilion, squealing in surprise, and smacked into the opposite wall of a derelict storage shed with a soft ploomf of dispersed dust. It slid down, dazed, shook its head, gave a terrified chitter, and burrowed frantically into the ground, disappearing.
Bai lowered his hand. The golden light on his palm faded. He felt a tiny, negligible drain from his Infinity Core, already refilled. He looked at his palm, then at the spot where the pest had vanished.
A real, genuine laugh escaped him, short and sharp in the silent courtyard. It wasn't the laugh of a mighty warrior, but of a scientist who had just confirmed a beautiful hypothesis.
The sound of his laughter seemed to hang in the thin air, a foreign, vibrant thing in the dead stillness of the Azure-Green Peak.
It was at that moment, as he stood in the doorway of his pavilion, clad in his self-forged robes, the taste of dust finally gone from the air he now commanded, that a new sound came.
A hesitant, shuffling step on the gravel path leading up to his courtyard.
Then a timid, nervous knock on the open gate's wooden frame.
Bai turned. Standing at the entrance to his dilapidated domain was a young man, perhaps sixteen, dressed in the rough-spun clothes of a sect laborer. He was thin, his face smudged with dirt, and he held a wooden tablet in trembling hands. His eyes were wide, having just witnessed the Elder dispel an Earth Sprite with a casual palm-gesture of golden light. He stared, first at Bai's majestic new robes, then at his calm, composed face.
"E-Elder Bai?" the laborer stammered, bowing so low he almost dropped the tablet. "Forgive the intrusion! The… the Administration Hall sent me. To… to clean the peak. And to remind you that the Quarterly Recruitment… it begins in five days."
He looked up, fear and a desperate, pathetic hope mingling in his eyes. He was assigned to the worst peak, to the worst Elder. His fate was tied to a sinking stone.
Bai Yichen looked at him. The Deep Seeking Eye activated without conscious effort. He saw the boy's Qi—thin, watery, weak. He saw his spirit root—a mess of fractured, low-grade earth and wood, the kind dismissed as "Hearth Root," good only for tending spiritual herbs slowly. Utterly unremarkable. A discard.
A smile, warm and utterly unlike any smile the original Bai Yichen had ever worn, touched the new Elder's lips. He saw not a hopeless laborer, but the first line of code. The first variable in his new program.
"Five days," Bai said, his voice calm, clear, and carrying a strange, magnetic confidence. "That is plenty of time. Come in. Tell me your name. And," he glanced at the desolate, overgrown courtyard, the crumbling buildings, "we have much work to do before the guests arrive."
The laborer, frozen in his bow, could only gape. The world, for Elder Bai and for the Azure-Green Peak, had just begun to turn anew.