The Fallen Heaven Abyss was silent, but that silence was heavier than any roar.
Li Yuan lay sprawled across jagged stone, rainwater and blood congealing into dark rivulets along his battered limbs. Each breath tore through ribs that were not only broken, but improperly reconstructed by the system. Every nerve screamed in revolt. Even the simplest movement—raising an arm, flexing a finger—was agony magnified a hundredfold.
Yet, his mind remained sharp. Clear. Ruthless.
He forced himself to sit upright. Muscles trembled violently, ligaments strained, yet he did not collapse. His dantian was gone. His meridians, rebuilt in crude approximations, resisted his qi. Even attempting to sense the faint flows left him dizzy, pain stabbing behind closed eyes.
Body Status: Critical
Meridians: Shattered, partially reconstructed
Survival Probability: 3.7%
Li Yuan did not flinch. That low number, meaningless to any other cultivator, sparked only one thought in his mind: they underestimated me.
He surveyed the abyss around him. Jagged cliffs rose and fell in chaotic patterns, slick with dark moisture. Pools of stagnant water reflected no light. Faint crimson glows clung to cracks in the stone, emanating an eerie pulse that made his skin crawl. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of rot, mineral tang, and something that reeked faintly of blood long decayed.
Predators were everywhere. Not visible yet—but sensed.
Li Yuan shifted his legs. Every bone and joint protested, grinding, snapping, tearing as he attempted movement. Pain flared violently. The system's interface flickered in his vision.
Meridians are incompatible with conventional cultivation.
Adaptation required.
Conventional cultivation? He let out a low, humorless laugh. Let them keep their orthodox rules. I have something far rarer now.
He extended a trembling arm and pressed his palm to the nearest stone. Rough, cold, jagged—it cut into his skin and scraped away some blood. But it anchored him. Pain, he realized, was his only true gauge of existence here. Without it, he might delude himself that he was safe.
Warning: Host must stabilize body before cultivation can resume.
Li Yuan closed his eyes. Phase One of the system's reconstruction had saved him from instant death—but left him unstable, fragile, and acutely aware of his limitations. His body was now alien, unnatural, a machine wrought from agony. Each heartbeat felt uneven, each pulse a reminder of mortality.
He tried to sense qi. Nothing flowed. Only twisted pools in broken meridians, stubbornly resisting. Any attempt to force it would tear him apart.
Forbidden Body Reconstruction — Phase Two available
Li Yuan's lips curled. Pain was merely a threshold. The system promised more, but not freely, not without cost.
He flexed fingers, then toes, noting the twitching, the nerve spasms.
Bones had shifted; some cartilage and ligaments were no longer in their original form. Yet they held. Fragile, yes—but held.
Every movement is agony. He forced his legs under him, one after the other, dragging himself forward in tiny, deliberate increments. The stone floor cut into palms and knees, but each inch was progress. Even a crippled body could advance if one's mind was sharp enough.
As he crawled, faint vibrations traced along the walls. The abyss was alive. He could sense movement deep in the shadows, slow pulses of distorted qi, the faintest whispers of creatures that had long adapted to this darkness.
Abyssal lifeform detected — distant
Li Yuan's lips curled slightly. Good. They are testing me.
He analyzed his body, mentally noting every weakness: torn muscles, improperly aligned bones, reconstructed meridians that would reject conventional cultivation, lungs burning with shallow, ragged breaths.
Then, deliberately, he focused on desire—the only resource he truly had. The system had promised power in exchange for it. Hunger, anger, vengeance, obsession—all were fuel. He could already feel it simmering beneath the surface, locked and unstable. Channel it wrong, and he risked losing himself. Channel it correctly, and even this broken shell could rise above the abyss.
He allowed himself a slight grin. Pain is nothing. Desire is power. And I have more than most.
The shadows shifted again, closer this time. Something wet, heavy, and intelligent, moving slowly through the jagged rock. He could smell it—iron, decay, and faint, faint remnants of human blood.
Li Yuan paused mid-crawl. Every instinct screamed that he should flee—but there was nowhere to run. He assessed the shard of broken stone near his hand, small but sharp, and held it tightly. Not enough to kill, but enough to hurt.
Host survival probability recalculated: 7.2%
Better. Not enough. But improvement was survival. And survival meant patience.
He focused on breathing, steadying the tremors in his body. Pain was constant, but awareness was sharper than ever. Every twitch in the shadows, every soundless brush against stone, every faint shift in the air could mean life—or death.
Hours passed, or perhaps minutes. Time had no meaning here. Only movement mattered, only strategy mattered. Li Yuan dragged himself forward, inch by agonizing inch, until he felt a faint current of qi—a twisted, distorted pulse flowing through the cracks in the abyss walls.
Warning: Abyssal qi unstable
Potential for cultivation: Low, high risk
He studied it carefully. Even in this body, even now, he could sense potential. He could manipulate it—not like orthodox qi, but in the twisted, forbidden way promised by the system.
Li Yuan flexed his fingers, closed his eyes, and whispered:
"Let's see how strong a body worse than death can become."
Somewhere in the abyss, shadows shifted again, unnaturally aware of him.
And somewhere deep within, the system pulsed, feeding off his desire, calibrating his body for Phase Two.
Pain, hunger, and determination—three constants that the abyss could not erase.
Li Yuan allowed a single thought to crystallize:
I will not die here. Not now. Not ever.
And with that, he crawled forward, one agonizing, defiant inch at a time.