The sun dipped behind the trees, casting long shadows over the bloody battlefield. A merchant caravan lay in ruins, its wagons overturned, and its once precious goods scattered across the forest floor. Mangled bodies, both of the soldiers who had guarded the caravan and the bandits who had attacked it, were strewn everywhere. The air was thick with the scent of blood and the low groans of the dying. The forest, usually filled with the sounds of life, was now eerily silent, save for the occasional gust of wind rustling the leaves.

In the middle of the carnage stood a boy, no older than thirteen or fourteen. His long black hair clung to his face, soaked with both sweat and blood. His plain black hanfu, once clean and unassuming, was now drenched in crimson. His black eyes, cold as the deepest winter, surveyed the scene around him with a detached calm.

This boy was Wuji.

His chest rose and fell with the exertion of the fight, his sword still gripped tightly in his hand. Blood dripped from the tip of the blade, pooling at his feet. Before him, the last of the bandits lay crumpled on the ground, clutching a gaping wound in his abdomen. The man's breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief as he stared up at Wuji.

Wuji hadn't planned for this. The fight, the blood, the death—it had all become so normal now. A year ago, he had been a scholar from another world, a man of science and reason. But in this brutal world, those ideals had been tested again and again, until they crumbled beneath the weight of survival.

Now, power was everything.

The wind picked up, carrying the metallic scent of blood and the stench of death. Wuji's knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the sword, staring down at the bandit leader. The man tried to speak, his mouth opening and closing as he gasped for breath, but no words came out. His eyes—once filled with arrogance and cruelty—now reflected the terror of a man who knew his end was near.

Wuji raised his sword, his heart pounding. He had done this many times before, but no matter how many times he faced this moment, there was always that fleeting second of hesitation. A year ago, the thought of killing another person had made him sick. The first bandit he had killed while traveling to Green Willow City had left him wracked with guilt for days, his mind battling between the morals of his old world and the harsh realities of this one.

But that had been before he understood the truth.

Weakness was a death sentence.

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In this world, if you didn't strike down those who stood in your way, they would cut you down without hesitation. Logic, reason, and debate had no place here. This was a land ruled by strength, where the weak were nothing more than prey for the strong.

Wuji stared at the bandit leader's face—his eyes wide with the dawning realization that death was mere moments away. The man's hands trembled as he clutched his wound, but Wuji felt no pity. He had learned too many hard lessons in this world to feel sympathy for someone who had tried to kill him.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword as he raised the blade, ready to deliver the final blow. For a moment, guilt surged through him, his chest tightening with that old, familiar pang. He had once believed in sparing lives, in giving people second chances.

But that was the old Amar.

Wuji had changed.

He still remembered the moment that change had solidified within him. It had been a few months after he left Green Willow City, when he was hunting Tier 1 Demonic Beasts in a forest. He had just defeated a beast, and as he was about to claim his prize, two men appeared out of nowhere. They had surrounded him, demanding that he leave the demonic beast behind and walk away.

At first, Wuji had refused. It was his hunt, his kill, and he was not going to surrender it. But the two men had attacked him without warning, their eyes filled with greed and violence. The fight had been brutal, but Wuji had managed to defeat them. As they lay on the ground, beaten and bloody, they had pleaded with him to spare their lives.

For a moment, Wuji had hesitated. He had felt the old urge to show mercy, to let them live. And so he turned away, going to claim the demonic beast he had fought so hard for.

That was when one of them backstabbed him.

The blade had sunk into his side, narrowly missing his vital organs. Only his quick reflexes had saved him from death. In that moment, Wuji had realized the truth of this world—mercy was a weakness. Sparing those who tried to kill you only opened the door for them to strike again.

He had killed the two men without hesitation after that. And from that day forward, Wuji knew one thing for certain: never spare anyone who tries to take your life or block your path.

Now, standing over the bandit leader, Wuji felt none of the hesitation that had once plagued him. The man had made his choice when he attacked the caravan, when he killed the innocent merchants and soldiers just for a few pieces of silver. There was no room for mercy in this world.

With a final, swift motion, Wuji brought his sword down. The bandit leader's eyes went wide for a brief moment before the light left them entirely. His body went limp, his blood pooling on the ground beneath him.

Wuji wiped the blood from his blade and sheathed it. His black eyes scanned the battlefield one last time before turning his back on the carnage. The bodies, the blood, the death—it was all part of the world he now lived in. And if he wanted to survive, if he wanted to achieve his goals, he couldn't afford to be weak.

The forest wind picked up again, rustling the leaves as Wuji walked away from the wreckage of the caravan, his face set in cold determination. His journey was far from over. There was still much he needed to learn, much he needed to achieve. But one thing was clear—Wuji was no longer the naive scholar from Earth.

He was going to be a cultivator now. And in this world, power was everything.