we'd

A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating a dark street and reflecting off the rainwater puddles scattered across the cobblestone road.

"How dare you look at this young master in such a manner?" A voice shouted through the storm.

A boy, in his early teens, shivered on the street corner, leaning against the cold stone facade of a building combining smooth white walls and pillars from ancient Greece with curved walls from ancient China. His old, tattered clothes clung to his skin, soaked through by the relentless rain. He appeared almost ghostlike in the flickering light. Before him, a bowl held a few coins and rainwater.

Wooden shutters clattered in the wind, sending chills through his malnourished body. He shivered again, a silent curse slipping through his lips. "I hate this primitive, barbaric world—"

The sound of steps, quick and splashing through the puddles, approached. The boy slightly raised his gaze in their direction.

His heart skipped a beat as he quickly averted his eyes, not daring to meet the gaze of the figure approaching.

A young man with long black hair cascading down his back, perhaps two years his senior, dressed in pristine white robes embroidered with silver thread, walked down the street. His robes seemed untouched by the rain, repelling the water as if by magic.

The few people out in the rain scurried away from his path, none daring to even glance his way. Instead, they all lowered their heads in bows.

The boy immediately recognized the man's identity: 'It is a young master!'

Not daring to hesitate, the boy followed the rest, bowing his head in respect toward the robed man.

He knew the man was a cultivator, a terrifying, inhuman monster, ready to slaughter people for the slightest offense. It was a man who could kill commoners like him without any repercussions.

As the young master passed, Constantine noticed fresh blood drops on his sleeve 'Was there a fight?' His stomach growled; it had been two days since he last ate 'This might be my chance.' He knew if there was a fight, there was a high chance of a corpse, and if he was lucky, he would be the first one to loot it.

With a glance at the now almost deserted street, washed clean by the rain, save for the few people now retreating away, he made his decision.

'The streets are deserted now; this might work.'

The boy slowly grabbed the bowl with the few coppers in it, stood up, and, silently, trying not to draw any attention to himself, walked in the direction that the young master came from. Venturing into the dark side street where the master came from, he vigilantly looked around. The narrow passage was littered with trash, emitting a nauseating stench.

'No one is here.' His hope rose, knowing the chance of finally getting to eat increased.

Tall, decrepit building facades flanked him on both sides as his eyes caught sight of something on the road. A middle-aged man lay motionless among the trash, his blood mixing with the rainwater and staining the nearby stones red.

'A robe!' The boy's heart skipped a beat as he noticed the clothing of the body, realizing it likely belonged to either a scholar, cultivator, or someone rich.

He hastened his steps, approaching the corpse without hesitation, his shoes squelching in the bloody rainwater. Leaning forward, he reached for the pouch hanging from the man's belt, hopeful for a find that would fill his empty stomach.

If he were still who he used to be, a university student living a comfortable life, he would have vomited. However, after more than a year of surviving on the streets of this brutal world, death no longer fazed him. Instead, feeling the pouch's weight in his palm, his eyes widened, and he impatiently pulled it open with his other hand. His eyes widened further; instead of the dull reddish gleam of copper, silver and gold shone inside.

Aware that someone could appear at any moment, he didn't have time to count the coins properly, but he could see there were dozens of them, both silver and gold.

He continued searching through the robes, his fingers brushing against the cold, wet fabric. As he rummaged, his hand encountered the unexpected texture of leather. Curious and cautious, he pulled out an old book bound in worn leather from the folds of the robes.

'What is this?' He knew he needed to hurry, but his curiosity overpowered him. With haste, he flipped open the book, his eyes immediately widening. Diagrams of the human body, along with drawings of some lines with long descriptions, filled the pages.

Even though he couldn't read this world's language, his pulse hastened as he silently muttered "Could it be a cultivation manual?"

Suddenly, a rough laugh made him jump up "Hehehe, boy, it looks like you think the fat pouch in your hand might be ours! Heheehe."

Constantine didn't even turn back to look at its owner before bursting into a sprint.

"That brat has something of ours!" the gruff voices shouted, closer than he feared.

His legs pushed harder against the slick cobblestones as he sprinted deeper into the side street. He could only run forward, the facades of buildings blocking any chance for escape.

But the men chasing him, with their longer legs and stronger bodies, were gaining ground. He could hear the splashing water beneath their feet getting closer and closer and his breath grew more and more ragged.

His mind raced for an escape, and then he saw it—a small, barely noticeable hole in a wall, hidden by the shadows of the buildings and the pouring rain.

With the sounds of his pursuers almost upon him, he dove for the hole, the edges scraping his skin as he squeezed through. He tumbled out on the other side, into the darkness of an abandoned alley.

Gasping for breath, he glanced back and saw frustrated hands grasping through the hole.

'Haha, I have escaped!' He carefully tucked the pouch and the book beneath the scruff of his stained shirt.

Not risking anything with hasty steps, Constantine quickly moved again. Even though there was a wall separating them, he wouldn't let anything be a chance, now that he had a chance to change his life.

Moving quickly but not suspiciously, the boy marched down the empty, rainy streets, keeping his distance from the few passersby he passed. As the street where he lost his pursuers gradually grew more distant, his breathing eventually calmed down.

A cold breeze blew upon him, piercing through his thin, wet, and tattered clothes. He slightly shivered, reminded of the cold.

'I can't get sick now. Not now when I am so close.' Even though he had heard of seemingly miraculous medicines existing in this world, able to stall aging and cure all illnesses, for him, even the most common sickness could prove fatal. He didn't have access to any of the miraculous medicines, and his body was weakened and malnourished.

He sped up his steps, water splashing below his feet.

Gradually, the surrounding streets grew more dilapidated, with mud replacing cobblestone and the stench of human waste and rotting garbage intensifying.

The decorative Greek columns and curved roofs thinned out, replaced by a much more simplistic architecture of plain wooden shacks.

After a few minutes of walking, a decrepit building emerged. Its bare stone walls were crumbling, and the roof was full of holes. He dreaded returning but had no choice.

Even though he had a pouch brimming with gold and silver, if he tried to use it to get accommodation, at best, he would be driven away; at worst, they would take his money and accuse him of stealing. He was too weak to defend himself, and the law enforcers wouldn't side with him.

'For now, the orphanage is the best choice.' he thought, trying to convince himself. Silently, he walked around the building, his shoes scuffing against uneven cobblestones, finding an old brick in the wall.

'Keeping my loot on me is too dangerous.' he mused, recalling the last time he was cornered by older boys and robbed of his meager coin, making him almost starve to death.

There was a small cavity behind the brick, perfect for hiding things. He pried the loose brick out, revealing the hidden space. He glanced around. The street was empty, the only sounds were distant barking dogs and the rumbling of carriage wheels on the uneven cobblestone roads. Satisfied, he tucked the pouch and book inside. After a moment, he took out a few coins, stashing them in his pocket.

'This should keep the old man off my back.' he thought, his old injuries hurting as he remembered all the past beatings from the orphanage director when he returned with too few coins.

Placing the brick back securely, he glanced around once more. Then, with swift steps, he left silently, quickly returning to the orphanage's entrance. Breathing deeply, he calmed himself and steadied his expression. He pushed the door open, making the old hinges creak.

Inside the dusty, moldy hall, a crooked man glanced at him. His cold eyes and stern expression, coupled with his bald head and squinty eyes, made him look terrifying.

"Why are you back so early?" the man growled, his voice tinged with anger. His hand reached for the wooden club beside his chair "Do you think a bit of rain means you can shorten your work?!"

Constantine quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. He held them out, his hand trembling slightly. "Sir, a rich patron gave them to me! I exceeded the daily quota and didn't want to risk someone stealing them." He said, voice steady despite his nerves.

The man's eyes flicked to the coins as he lowered the club. He snatched them from the boy's hand, inspected them closely, and then looked back with a satisfied grunt "You've done well today. You'll get to eat for the entire week."

Relief washed over Constantine as the man pocketed the coins, grumbling "Dirty brats, I bet he stole them."

The boy let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He hurried deeper into the building, finally reaching the dormitory doors. Pushing them open, the smell of stale air and sweat hit the boy's nose.

Inside, the dorm was filled with old wooden beds, each covered with dirty rags. Motes of dust floated under a single stream of light from the tiny window.

He lowered himself into his bed, the worn fabric scratching his skin. Judging by the angle of sunlight, he had plenty of time until the evening meal. He decided to plan his next move.

'I need to learn how to read.' he thought, feeling the weight of the cultivation manual in his memory. It contained his future, but learning to read in this barbaric world was a monumental obstacle for a poor orphan.

Now, he had the funds to change that 'It's one thing to get a roof over my head, another to pay for classes.'

From street talk, he knew city scholars taught basic classes to middle- and high-class children.

His gaze wandered to his rugged, worn-down clothes. 'I can't just waltz in dressed like this. I'll be asking for a beating.'

Finally, he nodded, and the plan for the week was finalized 'I'll buy some presentable clothes and hopefully join the reading classes.' Before he could even think of learning from the book, he first had to master the mundane skills.

His disdain for this world and its cultivators deepened with each passing moment. He had witnessed their cruelty, their blatant disregard for life, and their hoarding of knowledge that could elevate society if only it were shared.

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One week later:

Constantine sat behind the classroom desk, surrounded by the high-pitched chatter of children. It had been a few days since he started learning to read and write, but he still couldn't get over how unfocused little kids were.

He was the oldest among them, and he felt their mocking gazes and heard their whispers.

"Look at him; he's so old and still doesn't know how to write and read."

"Look at his black eye; he must be violent to get into fights."

He wanted to scold the children, knowing his life as an orphan was much harder than theirs. However, he kept it in, aware that they were just children. It wouldn't do for him, a former university student and prodigy, to pick a fight with small kids; that would be too pathetic.

The sound of steps approached, and instantly, all the children fell silent. The steps, along with the clacking of a cane against the floor, grew closer. An elderly man in a greyish robe entered, using his cane for support. His long white beard and hair gave him the look of a kind old man.

"Good morning, Teacher." the children uttered in sync, Constantine joining them. He could still vividly remember the beatings some of the brats got from the kind-looking man.

The elderly scholar nodded "Good morning, children. Let's proceed with the new set of characters."

As the elderly scholar drew characters on the polished slate of stone, explaining their meanings and sounds, Constantine's hand moved his quill across the parchment, drawing thin and precise lines as he replicated the characters. Constantine's mind absorbed everything effortlessly. His former life as a university prodigy surfaced, making the learning process much faster in combination with his young, absorbent brain than it should be for a kid learning to read and write.

While the other children still struggled to draw straight lines, his lines were precise, and his comprehension was swift. To his frustration and dismay, the only thing holding back his progress was the speed of his classmates.

'A couple more days, and I should have enough knowledge to start learning on my own.' Constantine thought. For the first time in a long while, things were finally going well. He had enough to eat, and even the beatings by the orphanage director had ceased since he started bringing in more coins.

That evening:

As the boy lay in his cot of dirty rags, a sharp, explosive pain in his stomach jolted him awake. He tried to scream, but a rough hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him. Shadows loomed over him, their faces barely visible in the dim moonlight entering through the small window.

'Fuck!' Recognizing the trio as the biggest and strongest children in the orphanage—the self-proclaimed kings—Constantine's heart pounded in terror. He had become too careless, eating well every evening, wearing better clothes, and appeasing the director.

The tallest boy, who was holding his mouth shut, leaned closer, his blue eyes glinting with malevolence. "Heard ya been eatin' well, pain' the old man." He whispered, his breath hot against the boy's face. Constantine's eyes widened in panic as the tall boy's mouth stretched into a wide, intimidating grin. Without warning, a fist slammed into his throat. Pain erupted, sharp and blinding, and he gasped for air, his scream trapped inside him by the hand.

"Got some coin, huh? Why didn't ya share with us? Ain't we your friends? Right, boys?!" The tall boy's voice rose, filled with mockery and false friendliness.

The boy, his face riddled with freckles, pressing his knee into his stomach increased the pressure, making him swallow his own bile as the pain grew stronger. "Maybe we oughta teach ya a lesson for bein' such a bad friend." He said, his voice filled with obvious enjoyment.

The third boy, standing back, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small knife. He twirled it casually, the blade catching the faint moonlight entering through the window. "Think he needs a reminder." He suggested, his tone chillingly casual.

Two days later:

Children rushed out of the open door of the classroom, leaving the boy and the elderly scholar behind. The pain still lingered in his thigh, and the cuts from the knife still stung. The boy stood up, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg. With a limp, he took a step toward the exit.

"Hold on, child," The elderly voice made him pause "Constantine, right?"

The boy nodded slightly, nervousness making his stomach churn. Did the teacher notice his injuries and want to kick him out, thinking of him as a troublemaker? He didn't know, but knowing the teacher's strictness, he had to be careful. Clearing his throat, he replied "Yes, sir."

"Well, I couldn't help but notice your rapid progress. You started to learn late, but you've mastered all the characters so quickly. You paid no attention to my number lessons, yet you've shown great understanding of addition, subtraction, and even multiplication. I have never seen anyone grasp new knowledge so fast."

The scholar's eyes were keen and observant "Do not lie to me. Have you learned before?"

Constantine shook his head "No, sir."

The scholar watched him, piercing him with his sharp gaze, until, at last, he spoke, this time in much kinder tone "Boy, I can recognize talent when I see it. Would you perhaps be interested in the path of knowledge? You might become one of my students, and I mean, one of my students of higher knowledge. Call me your parents, I wish to speak with them."

Hearing the scholar's words, overwhelmed by emotion, the boy couldn't help but respond in a trembling voice "I accept, but—" Then he hesitated, his words stuck in his throat, knowing that he had no parents; he was nobody.

Should he admit that he was an orphan, or lie, claiming his parents were unavailable, busy, or perhaps out of the city? He pondered, the silence deepening uncomfortably. 'Will I be accused of stealing or taken advantage of if I admit I am just an orphan?'

He couldn't delay any longer. His voice brimming with false sorrow, he said, "I have no parents. They died, leaving me only enough coins to learn to read, count, and write."

Lying wouldn't work in the long term. Apprenticeships or studies weren't short-term affairs. Sooner or later, his lie would be discovered, potentially causing more damage.

'He is a scholar; what would he gain from tricking a child?' Perhaps it was his desire for even a tiny semblance of his old life, for study, for learning, that influenced him. He wanted to believe that not everyone was a vile person, at least one of his fellow intellectuals, a man of knowledge like him.

"Ohh, I see, child," the scholar raised his hands, "I see the zeal in your eyes for knowledge," he paused, taking a breath "and I need a servant. In exchange for your tutelage and accommodation, you will work for me."

Constantine couldn't hold back his grin; this was something he secretly hoped for but never dared to fully believe in. Now that it had become a reality, he could finally escape the orphanage.

The scholar continued "The road ahead will be hard. You will be required to study and help around," Seeing the boy's evident joy, the usually stern scholar allowed himself a brief smile before reverting to his usual severe calmness "If you relent in your studies or show unsatisfactory results with your tasks, you will be thrown out."

"Of course, teacher." Constantine nodded, determination in his eyes. What was a bit of hard work and study compared to his suffering in the orphanage?

"Now, go, bring your things, and come back."

Constantine bowed deeply and, with dignified but fast steps, walked out onto the street, his heart pounding the entire way.

'Everything will be better now.' He finally let loose, running down the street as fast as he could without straining himself. His hands still trembled with excitement, feeling like luck had finally smiled upon him. This was his chance to get away, especially after noticing the director's narrowed eyes following him.

As he reached the orphanage, he slowed down, glancing at the dilapidated building with a smile. 'Hopefully, this is the last time I will come here.' He thought. Not even bothering to go inside, as he wasn't foolish enough to leave anything valuable where it could mysteriously vanish, he walked straight to his hiding spot around the back.

Still excited, Constantine fiddled with the brick, gradually loosening it. As the brick gave way, revealing his hidden stash, a familiar voice petrified him "Aye, aye, what we got here? Boys, looks like the director was right. This rat's been hidin' somethin'!"

Constantine turned around, his fingers still clenched around the brick, cold sweat forming on his forehead. Three boys, all taller than him, stood there, grinning with gaps between their teeth. The tallest, blue-eyed one, their leader, stepped forward "Why don't ya show us what ya got there, rat?" Sunlight reflected off the rusty blade in his hand, aimed straight at Constantine. Instinctively, Constantine stepped back, only to find himself against the firm brick wall.

'No, no...' He muttered, panic rising within him. He had been too careless, forgetting to ensure no one was watching, his excitement blinding his judgment.

His life had finally taken a turn for the better, and now these brutes wanted to ruin it. With a trembling hand, he reached for the pouch of coins, slowly extending it toward the leader.

'I'm already an apprentice scholar...' He reassured himself, thinking the loss of the coins would be painful but not fatal. As long as he could keep the manual, everything would be alright. 'I bet those idiots wouldn't want an old book anyway.' He thought, as he placed the pouch in the boy's outstretched palm.

"Good, ya can be a good friend, sharin' with everyone—" The leader's smile widened as his eyes wandered toward the still-loose brick "What's that?"

Constantine felt his throat close, his heart almost stopping in terror. That good-for-nothing trash was pointing straight at his only hope for a better life.

"Eh, just an old book I found. Can't read, so I—"

"Boss, I heard there's a shop that buys old books. We could get some extra coin." One of the other boys, the shortest of them, with his face covered with freckles, said, his voice greedy.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck!' Constantine paled as he saw the grinning leader put away his knife and reach for the manual.

His mind blanked out, and his hand, still grasping the brick, moved with desperation and anger. With a sickening crack, the brick smashed into the side of the boy's head, making the leader collapse, his legs giving out.

Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Constantine didn't have time to think. The blood-dripping brick fell from his hand as he snatched the book and tore the pouch from the collapsed boy's open hand.

The two other boys stared, frozen, their legs trembling and faces pale.

"Qin!" At last, one of them moved toward his friend bleeding on the ground.

Constantine, still flooded with adrenaline, sprinted away. He could hear their screams behind him, but they quickly grew distant. His heart pounded as the reality of what he had done settled in.

He had murdered a young teen with his own hands, the blood still covering his fingers.

'No, he must have survived—' He tried to convince himself, his arms were bone thin, and his muscles undeveloped.

He continued running, not daring to look back, even though he wanted to vomit, feeling nauseous at what he had done.

'No, he's dead.' He knew such a hit to the side of the head was deadly, even in his former life with access to medical care. Here, for an orphan without access to expensive mystical medicine, he was dead.

'I killed him because I was greedy.' Gasping for breath, the adrenaline in his bloodstream thinning out, he finally stopped, standing in the middle of a bustling street.

People and carriages moved in both directions, no one paying attention to the boy standing and panting, frozen by his actions.

He took a deep breath, studying his trembling hands to calm himself down, as he couldn't afford to panic or get emotional.

'Guards! They will—,' he imagined his life ending as a criminal slave, executed, or in jail, but then that thought vanished, replaced by a sense of slight relief and melancholy 'We're just orphans. Guards won't even care to come. Murders happen all the time in the poor district.'

He knew from experience that the guards in the city were there only to protect the middle and upper classes, not caring about the poor. At most, if they even bothered to come to the poor district, they would just record it and not bother to search for him.

"Move away, boy, you're blocking the road!" A sudden push grounded him back to reality. A man in a tunic pushed past him, grumbling angrily.

With still-wobbly legs, Constantine took an unsteady step forward, carefully tucking the book and pouch into his clothes. Now wasn't the time to contemplate his actions; he had to return to the teacher, to safety. It wasn't wise to stand with so much coin on hand in the middle of a street.

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Constantine, his face paler than ever, stood silently before the wooden doors of the school, the image of the dead boy vivid in his mind. A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the metallic knocker. He hesitated as cold rain drenched his clothes.

Fear and paranoia stirred in his mind. 'What if this is a trap? What if the old man wants to use me?' He had met enough bad people to know that kindness often hid ulterior motives.

Initially, he was so enthusiastic about the offer, nearly losing his composure upon hearing it. Yet now, after the bloody experience, standing at the entrance, he started to have doubts.

'Why would he lie?' Constantine shook his head, trying to dispel them. 'He is a scholar of good standing. What would he gain by tricking me?' A scholar with a school and a villa had no reason to care about the few pennies he might assume Constantine had inherited.

'I can't return now anyway. There is no turning back.' Constantine reached for the knocker. The cold metal felt heavy in his hand, and its thuds echoed through the rain.

As his clothes clung to his skin, the doors creaked open. A weary boy in an expensive robe appeared, his eyes narrowing at Constantine. "Sir, what is your business here?"

Clearing his throat, Constantine replied, "I am the new app—"

The boy's polite expression twisted into a smug grin. "Ah, you are the new appr—," he paused midword, correcting himself, "servant. Come in; there's plenty of dirty work to do."

A week later:

Constantine swept the broom across the floor amidst the towering bookshelves, each one fully stacked with various tomes. The small library was almost spotless, but he continued his task without complaint, his face pale from sleepless nights—the nightmares of the murder scenes haunting him.

Killing an adult might have been easier to justify, but killing someone so young made him feel like the lowest scum.

As he moved the broom, his mind replayed the scene. The shock on the bully's face, the audible crunch as the brick connected, the way his body crumpled. Constantine's stomach churned.

He had always prided himself on his intellect, but at that moment, panic had taken over, and he had acted on pure instinct. His life wasn't in danger, only his property, yet his reaction had been to kill. He remembered the fear in the other boys' eyes and their frozen expressions as they watched their leader fall.

'Why did I aim for the side of his head?' Guilt washed over him. 'I could have—' No, he knew that logically, his instinctual move to attack the leader quickly and efficiently was the correct one. Yet, it was just a teen.

Constantine, still shaky, placed the broom against the shelf and reached for the small rag hanging from his belt. His hand glided across the nearest bookshelf, wiping away the nonexistent dust.

What truly terrified him was the thought constantly circling his mind, growing stronger each time it returned, like a cat returning from a hunt: 'They were trash, and I will accomplish great things with the book those morons would have wasted.'

His dusting speed increased, his head shaking as he tried to distract himself from the darkening thoughts. He didn't want to become a monster, yet his mind kept rationalizing the murder in a way that made him shudder.

A bell rang, drawing him back to the real world. He immediately paled, realizing his thoughts had become too unhinged. It was a troubling trend that had been growing since the day he killed the boy. 'What is happening to me...'

He put down his rag and hurriedly walked out, moving down the narrow pathway around a small decorative garden.

'The class will begin soon.'

Evening:

In a small square room so cramped it almost felt like a prison cell, Constantine sat cross-legged on his narrow bed. Despite the tight quarters and the plain brick walls with only a tiny window for light to enter, everything was clean and offered some semblance of privacy compared to the orphanage.

With glee in his eyes, he stared at the worn-out, leather-bound book resting in his lap. He had finally learned enough characters to start reading it. This book was his only hope, a distraction from his actions and the boy he murdered.

Impatiently, he flipped it open, his gaze landing on a random line on the second page. His heart raced as he read slowly, character by character, like a child in the early grades of school: 'In the serene flow of Qi, one finds the balance of all things; harness its gentle currents to unlock the boundless potential within.'

He paused, then reread it, ensuring it was really written there. Stricken that it was, he continued reading, his excitement fading away a bit: 'Let your breath become a river, steady and unwavering, guiding the Qi through the canyons of life within yourself. Trust in the ancient rhythm, for the dance of Qi is the symphony of life itself, precise, uphold the rhythm because it is unbreakable.'

As he absorbed the words, his excitement gave way to frustration. He closed the book with an audible clap, his left eyelid twitching in irritation. 'How? How is this a way to write a manual? What is this poetic gibberish?' The manual went against everything he was taught about how to write scientific papers; it wasn't exact, it wasn't to the point, and it used too many inaccurate metaphors.

Biting his lower lip in displeasure, he opened it again—no matter how poorly written, he had to swallow it and make sense of it. His eyes scanned the lines, his reading speed increasing with each word, his impatience bubbling.

It was like reading an instruction manual filled with vague, overly poetic, and cryptic advice. There was no real explanation of the subject beyond the flowery nonsense. Amidst the entire page, he extracted only a tiny bit of worthwhile information: 'The rhythm of breathing is important. One has to breathe in a specific rhythm until they feel warmth, then they have to cycle Qi, that warmth, through the pathways drawn on the diagram on the first page.'

To his immense disappointment, there was no explanation as to why that pattern or that rhythm. It was like reading an instruction manual written by a liberal arts student on drugs. He loathed the very idea.

'This is such a foolish way to record information,' he thought bitterly, 'Instead of recording their knowledge in a simple, straightforward, and exact way, they fill it with flowery nonsense. This way, even if the ancient cultivators who discovered this understood the topic, it would get lost over many rewrites and generations.'

If every master, elder, and cultivator subjectively interpreted the metaphors and fluff in their own way, then passed it down by adding more fluff, the information would inevitably be diluted and replaced by meaningless poetry.

'It is like a game of telephone, but one where everyone turns what they hear into poetry.' He mused, disgusted at the malpractice he had just witnessed.

His grip tightened on the book, his knuckles turning white. 'I will enlighten this world. I will fully analyze this mystical energy everyone cultivates and write down all the laws of this world into standardized equations and straightforward, exact definitions.'

He snickered silently at the grandiosity of his goal, feeling it was too great, too big, and too far-fetched to be realistic.

'What is a man without a dream? Maybe this is the reason fate sent me here. Maybe this way I can repay the debt of the murder by improving this world.' He thought, his eyes gleaming with determination and disdain.

Clearing his mind, he clasped the book shut and firmly closed his eyes. Before he could dream, he first needed to grasp the basics—the breathing technique. In the darkness of his eyelids, he took a deep breath, counting in his mind and then releasing it.

The next morning:

Heavy mist drifted across a seemingly endless darkness. Constantine, staring at his blood-covered hands, leaned above the dead body of the boy he had killed, his blue eyes staring straight into his own.

He wanted to avert his gaze, move his legs, or cover his eyes. Yet he couldn't, an invisible force tightly binding him like a thick rope.

"Look at yourself, still weak and pathetic like you always were." The corpse grinned at him, the voice garbled and eerie, before rapidly rotting right before his eyes. Flesh peeled away in wet chunks, revealing glistening, decaying muscle and bone. Worms burst out of its mouth and nose, writhing and squirming, just a moment before its eyes exploded with pus and rotten blood, emitting a stomach-churning stench.

The corpse's grin widened unnaturally, stretching the decaying skin until it tore. "You're—"

The city clock bell rang, jolting Constantine awake. Sweat drenched his face, and his trembling hands gripped the bed's edges. Slowly, his ragged breath calmed as he surveyed the small, familiar dorm.

'This dream again—' Hearing the bells, he knew he had no time to contemplate his nightmare. It was time for his daily routine.

Getting off his bed, he splashed cold water from the bucket he had prepared the previous evening on his face. The chilling sensation brought color back to his cheeks, calming his ragged mind.

He slipped on the robe neatly folded beside his bed and ran his fingers through his messy hair, forcing it into place. The robe's rough fabric scraped against his skin, reminding him of its poor quality.

The bell resounded one last time, leaving only deep silence behind. Constantine, with speedy steps, walked out of his dorm into the narrow stone corridor, turning to head toward the lecture room.

"Who do we have here? Apprentice Constanse, was it? Sorry, I have a bad memory for the names of the poor peasants." A voice filled with ridicule jolted him from behind.

Facing two boys his age, their robes pristine and of noticeably higher quality than his own, Constantine felt the urge to curse. The brown-haired apprentice who initially welcomed him grinned at Constantine together with his friend.

'Those two again—why do they have to act like this?'

The brown-haired boy grabbed a small bottle from his belt, a smug grin spreading across his face as he raised it toward Constantine.

Constantine clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists at his sides, the heat of anger rising in his chest, already knowing what the dumb, bullying, spoiled brat before him planned to do.

"Oh no!" The boy said in a mock-concerned tone as he flipped the bottle over, spilling red, alcohol-smelling liquid onto the floor. It splashed around Constantine's feet, the strong scent permeating the air.

"I am so sorry, cleaning boy, but please clean this up before someone better than you slips on it." The boy sneered, turning on his heel and leaving with swift steps. The second boy snickered and followed, giggling along the way.

'Morons!' Constantine's stomach churned at their behavior, feeling the disappointment that even the place he thought of as a sanctuary of learning and knowledge was infested with brutes and idiots.

Yet, he couldn't do anything to defend himself. Their parents were rich and influential, paying for their sons' education, while he was there due to his intellect, working hard to keep his spot.

Constantine understood that was the way the world worked—money was more important than knowledge, contribution toward society, talent, character, and foremost intellect.

Even in his past life, most of the engineers and scientists who propelled society forward were often less paid than some managers who gained their spots through nepotism and favoritism.

It wasn't the fault of the trio that harassed him in the orphanage, nor was it his fault for killing Qin; he saw it now.

'They were doing what they needed to survive and improve their lives, the same as me,' Dangerously squinting his eyes, Constantine frowned at the duo's laughter still resounding through the hallway 'But you, you are tormenting me just for your amusement.'

It was the fault of the society around him, forcing children and teens into situations like that. The fault was with those at the top of the societal pyramid.

With that thought, Constantine bent down and began cleaning up the mess, his resolve hardening with each swipe of the cloth. The cool stone floor against his knees and the rough texture of the cloth in his hand anchored him in the present moment, steeling his determination.

Four days later:

In a dimly lit classroom, Constantine focused on the lecturer at the front of the room, the seven apprentices seated around him all listening in silence. The old scholar, Asmodeo, with a long white beard and deep-set eyes, spoke passionately about how one could multiply large numbers.

'The rhythm of breathing... warmth... cycle Qi.' Constantine repeated to himself, not paying attention to the lecture's content, which was too basic and uninteresting. His eyes darted around the room, observing his fellow students. Some were engrossed in the lecture, while others, like the rich, brown-haired joke of a student, stared blankly ahead.

'Focus,' Constantine told himself, 'I need to focus on what truly matters.'

Taking a deep breath, inhaling it like mentioned in the instructions, he counted, releasing his breath. He repeated it over and over, his frustration quickly growing—there was no trace of the promised warmth.

'What if I am talentless?' The thought plagued him constantly. To get the manual, he had to get blood on his hands. To at least do some justice to the teen he had killed, he had to use it. Otherwise, it would be like spitting on the boy's dead body.

Just as his thoughts turned dark again, a warm, slightly tickling sensation pulsed within his abdomen for a single moment before vanishing again. Just a brief spark.

His mouth curled up in a genuine smile for the first time since the murder, brought on by a mixture of relief and excitement. 'I am not talentless.' Even the manual mentioned that not everyone could harness the mysterious energy—no, the manual gloated about the superiority of cultivators over the talentless.

Overwhelmed, he tried to feel it again as he breathed out once more. But there was nothing, not even a single trace of warmth left. His smile didn't falter; at least he confirmed that his effort wasn't for nothing and he didn't murder a boy for nothing.

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