Raqin Draven died with a smile on his face.
The cold metal floor beneath his knees reeked of oil, sweat, and sterilized death. Harsh lights glared from above, illuminating the sterile tribunal chamber that served more as a theater for execution than justice. Silence reigned, broken only by the low hum of the electromagnetic inhibitors pinning him in place. His wrists were bound, his body bruised, but his spirit unyielding.
Once, he had been a revolutionary. A digital god in a crumbling world. A hacker prodigy. A self-taught martial artist. A ghost in the system. And now, a condemned man.
On the day of his execution, global feeds across Earth blared his name: Traitor. Saboteur. Heretic. But those who whispered in the shadows knew the truth. Raqin had exposed Project Eden—an elite black-ops operation harvesting human consciousness to feed post-human AI experiments. He cracked their code, leaked their truths, and ignited an uprising. The world wasn't ready.
They called it madness. He called it justice.
"Any final words?" the warden asked, his voice dry and mechanical, more machine than man.
Raqin lifted his battered face. His eyes still burned bright, neural lens flickering faint streams of code. His lips were cracked, bloodied, but steady.
"Truth is code," he said with a grin. "And I just cracked yours."
The plasma blade arced downward. Light flared.
Then—nothing.
He woke up gasping, drenched in sweat and dirt.
His lungs burned. His heart pounded like war drums. The sky above was a storm of crimson and gray, static-choked clouds swarming over rusted skeletons of long-abandoned orbital stations. The air stank of rust and decay. When he sat up, his body screamed in protest—leaner, younger, foreign. His muscles bore old wounds he didn't recognize, his limbs twitching with unfamiliar tension.
And inside him—something new. A pulse. A hum. A voice, ancient and mechanical, flickering through his soul like fire in a wire.
"Soulforge Core online. Subject ID: Draven. Host integrity: 87%. Neural integration: successful. Memory sync incomplete."
Raqin staggered to his feet, wobbling slightly, dizzy with the collision of two lifetimes. He was alive. But he wasn't the same.
His mind surged. Memories flooded him—some his, some not. This wasn't his old Earth. This was a world that had moved on without him. He was now Raqin Draven again, but in a different timeline. A parallel path where his father—Draygon Draven—had risen to obscene power through illegal tech trading, black market cultivation, and other criminal ventures. The man had died in obscurity, but left behind an empire.
And all of it now belonged to Raqin.
The former consciousness of this body, his other self, had faded away under the weight of isolation, failure, and despair. He had been born talentless, unable to even form a connection with the world, unable to cultivate. He was treated like trash even within the lowest ranks of the Iron Sky Sect—barely a labor disciple, earning his keep by scrubbing floors and hauling rubble.
Raqin, reborn, pitied him.
"So weak," he muttered. "How did you survive this long?"
His muscles ached. The pain was real. Unlike the optimized bioform he once hacked for himself in the old world, this body was battered and underdeveloped. He struggled to even stand upright.
Then the Core spoke again.
/Memory sync complete. Brain potential unlocked. Neural optimization engaged./
/New ability generated: Telekinesis./
Raqin blinked. "Huh. My golden finger came early."
He focused, trying to summon the ability. A wooden shard across the room quivered, lifted for exactly five seconds, then dropped.
Disappointment flared.
"So, it's broken." He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Figures."
Still, it was something. And his mind—his most powerful weapon—was already racing. The Soulforge Core was unlike anything he had encountered, even with the most advanced AIs of his old life. This was different, It was alive. Dormant, maybe, but filled with limitless potential.
He took a deep breath. He needed to assess this world, its systems, and the opportunities hidden in its decay.
One thing was immediately clear: Earth was no longer at the center of anything. It had become a backwater, a dumping ground. Those born without cultivation talent were abandoned here—left to rot in poverty, violence, and filth.
The Iron Sky Sect ruled this region. Brutal, hierarchical, and bloated with corruption, they controlled everything from food distribution to spiritual resources. Their disciples practiced a twisted martial code, which leans towards the evil dao, and laborers like Raqin were routinely used as training dummies or worse—especially by the female disciples with violent whims and the males seeking to practice forbidden techniques.
Raqin clenched his fists. "If I can just reach the first realm… I'll flip this world upside down."
He had two days before his absence would be noted. That was the maximum allowed for labor disciples before punishments started.
Then the Core pinged again.
/Data anomaly detected. 100 meters north. Large pool of martial data. Confirm extraction: Yes/No?/
His heart skipped.
He checked his memories. 100 meters north of the labor quarters was the Martial Scripture Hall—one of the most secure buildings in the Iron Sky Sect.
He didn't hesitate. "Yes."
/Extraction begins. Progress: 1%.../
He let out a low whistle. "You're really doing it. From this far out. Just what the hell are you, Soulforge?"
He began walking, taking the longer scenic route through the forests bordering the sect's perimeter. It allowed him to avoid known bully patrols and test how far the extraction radius could reach.
As he moved, the Core continued to feed him streams of data—fragments of martial arts manuals, formation diagrams, spiritual insights, and ancient combat scripts. The information was raw, fragmented, and sometimes corrupted, but he absorbed it at ten times the normal rate. One of the gifts of his now fully unlocked brain.
He paused under a decaying stone archway and sat beside a forgotten stream. He accessed the extracted files and opened a basic martial theory scroll.
He read of the cultivation path in this age. It began with Body Refining Realm—Skin and Muscle Refinement, Bones and Tendons, then Blood Energy. Next came the Spirit Realm—Foundation, Essence, and Martial Spirit. Finally, the Soul Realm—Awakening, Embodiment, and Avatar. Nine levels per realm. Each level had three grades: Low, Mid, Top. And for those who dared—rumors whispered of a mysterious tenth level which he found fascinating.
He devoured more. He learned of the alien races now ruling the galaxy: the insectoid Xenomorphs, the cold Phalanx, the mystical beast, the destructive Abyss race, the cunning and witty devils, and the angelic tyrants known as Celestials. He learned of ancient wars, of how humanity had fallen.
But one thing stood out. No race could integrate the path of ancient technology with spiritual cultivation.
Until now.
Raqin's lips curled into a smirk. "This world doesn't even know what's coming."
He stood, Core humming, data flowing into his mind.
And for the first time in ten million years—
The fire of rebellion was born anew.
Once back in his cramped, half-collapsed labor shack, Raqin sat cross-legged and let the data flow into his mind.
Streams of martial techniques and foundational theories filled his mind—yet none of them responded to him. The moment he tried to channel spiritual energy through even the most basic of techniques, the circuits collapsed. His body simply couldn't connect with the surrounding world in the way traditional cultivators did.
After a long silence, the Soulforge Core spoke.
/Host, based on analysis, your constitution has undergone unique mutation. Traditional cultivation methods are now obsolete for you./
/Recommendation: Construct an external sensory interface to bridge Soulforge Core to your nervous system. It will allow me to assess your body's current potential and suggest a new cultivation framework./
Raqin blinked, then chuckled. "You want me to build you a mech-soul antenna?"
/Crude. But accurate./
He rubbed his chin. "I thought you were in my head."
/Incorrect. Soulforge Core is embedded in your dantian. Communication is via brainwave resonance. With proper sensory feedback, I can evolve alongside you—optimize fusion between soul, mind, and machine./
He smirked. "Well then... I do have a crazy idea."
The next morning, Raqin left early. His plan was to salvage scrap components from the labor yard's spiritual toolshed. But fate, as always, had other ideas.
A crowd had gathered just beyond the clearing. Eight boys between twelve and fifteen knelt in the dust with their heads lowered. They were all labor disciples, clad in coarse gray clothes, trembling before a figure that didn't belong here.
She looked like a sun-drenched goddess in a field of filth—golden robes embroidered with phoenix thread, skin pale and flawless, her hair cascading like molten light. Flanking her were three older women in crimson robes, all radiating quiet, oppressive strength.
And yet it wasn't her aura that unsettled Raqin.
It was the look in her eyes—cold, curious, and quietly amused. Like a cat studying insects.
He turned on instinct, changing direction. But a familiar voice blocked his retreat.
"Well, if it isn't the fallen prince," sneered Nick Gord, stepping into view with arms folded.
Nick, son of Raqin's father's old rival. Third layer Body Refining Realm. Smug, cruel, predictable.
"Going to run away again, Draven? Your fellow labor dogs are kneeling. Shouldn't you join them?"
Before Raqin could reply, a voice called out like velvet laced with steel.
"You. Come here."
The princess had noticed him.
Nick's grin widened.
Raqin stared at him, deadpan. "I'll be seeing you around, Nick."
Nick's smirk faltered just a little.
As Raqin approached the group, he noticed the way the labor disciples looked at the ground—not in fear of death, but fear of something far worse.
"Kneel," the girl said softly.
Raqin raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
The moment the word left his lips, Nick stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face.
"She is Princess Lira, daughter of the Sect Patriarch, you ignorant dog!"
Raqin reeled slightly, not from pain—but calculation. He remembered this girl now. Her name haunted rumors. Beautiful. Brilliant. And utterly deranged. Some called her a genius cultivator. Others called her a sadist who tested forbidden techniques on the weak. But no one ever proved it.
He locked eyes with her. She smiled, barely.
"You still haven't knelt."
He stared for a beat longer, then dropped to one knee—not out of obedience, but strategy.
Know when to bend to cut deeper later.
SLAP.
Her hand struck him across the cheek, delicate but brutal.
His ears rang. But he didn't move.
"I remember you now," she said, voice tinged with nostalgic cruelty. "The useless one. The one who couldn't even connect with the qi of the world. Trash like you would die sooner or later."
She turned to the eight boys still kneeling. "I need nine of you to gather every labor disciple in the outer yard. You have one hour. Bring them here."
She looked back at Raqin. "You'll lead them, you're the oldest amongst your fellows here."
He said nothing. Just rose, bowed slightly, and walked away.
As he left, his mind burned.
They think I'm weak. Good. That's when they lower their guard.
Inside, the Core pulsed.
/Initiating emotional profiling. Subject: Lira. Risk: Critical. Potential asset: Low. Threat priority: High./
"Yeah," Raqin muttered. "She's getting a bullet in the brain the second I have the chance."
He was already planning—salvaging scrap from the tool shack would wait. First, he'd use this order to assess which labor disciples could be useful. Who could be trusted. Who could be taught.
He didn't need nine boys.
He needed those he could trust.
As Raqin and the other labor disciples dispersed to carry out the errand, he moved swiftly toward a less popular area of the sect: the scrap room. Though called waste, there was a fine distinction between scraps and junk—something every labor disciple understood instinctively. In this hierarchy, scraps were potential. Junk was finality.
Every day, labor disciples scrambled for what the sect discarded. Blacksmith remnants, shattered formations, and residual beast parts were gold mines to those with eyes to see value where others saw filth.
"Thank the dead bastard," Raqin muttered, patting the simple ring on his finger. "He might've left me nothing else, but a spatial treasure in this place is worth more than a kingdom."
Still, he was cautious. Spatial treasures were luxuries reserved for high-level cultivators and sect elders. If discovered, he'd lose his head before he could explain and considering his identity its very likely to happen.
His fingers brushed over cracked inscriptions, warped talismans, and bones stained with lingering bestial qi. He sorted quickly, quietly loading what he could into his ring, prioritizing anything related to formations, arrays, or exotic metal.
I have to get out of here. The thought came like a whisper but weighed like a mountain. My father's enemies are watching. And this evil sect is no haven—only a trap to harvest the weak.
An hour later, all the labor disciples were gathered again before the girl. Her beauty seemed even more blinding under the noon sun, but Raqin only saw rot beneath the petals.
"I need you all to report to the Grand Elder's Hall for a task," she said coldly. "If any of you dares to act out… you already know the price."
There were murmurs across the crowd of disciples.
"Why would she use labor disciples?" an outer disciple muttered nearby. "She has dozens of followers desperate for her attention."
Raqin didn't care. His mind was already elsewhere.
As they trudged toward the Grand Elder's Hall, Raqin engaged SAM mentally.
"Progress on the mapping?"/75% complete. Estimated time: 15 minutes./
"Good. We're not rushing."
He exhaled slowly. "Back to my idea. I need a base organism with regenerative and neurological adaptability. The slime-type creature… it might be viable."
/Host's idea is mad. You intend to cultivate a symbiotic neural clone using the slime's cellular matrix combined with nanotechnology?/
"And not just that. I'll incorporate its semi-aware consciousness. You'll train it, refine it, then we use it to bridge your full potential with my new constitution."
/You… really are insane, Host. I like it./
/Do you plan to create this on a large scale?./
"Yes" Raqin grinned slightly.
They soon arrived at the Grand Elder's Hall, a majestic structure encrusted with ancient glyphs and aura-suppressing formations. As they entered, SAM pinged.
/Alert: This location contains high-density martial and cultivation information. Begin extraction?/
"Do it."/Estimated time: 12 hours./
Raqin frowned. "Too long. We won't stay here that long."
/Some of the elders are… agitated. Emotional profiles show unrest./
Interesting, Raqin thought. Something big is happening.
At the far end, a chilling presence descended as an elderly woman approached. Though aged, her beauty hadn't dimmed. Her voice was cold, without emotion.
"You've all been granted an opportunity," she said. "If you do well, you might survive."
The word survive struck like a thunderclap in everyone's ears.
"You'll be sorting and arranging new treasures for allocation. Don't think too much about it."
The moment they entered the underground vault, every jaw dropped.
The cavern was massive—like a buried kingdom—and filled with more treasures than they'd ever seen: weapons, scrolls, artifacts, materials, all dumped in careless mountains.
"This is… did they raid a ruin?" one muttered.
Raqin's mind, however, was focused.
This is why they chose us.Labor disciples couldn't use qi. They couldn't use spatial treasures. They were perfect: useful, cheap, and expendable.
"SAM, scan for rare or misidentified items."/Yes, Host. Commencing scan. Estimated scan saturation: 12 hours./
Two hours in, they'd sorted less than a third. By the seventh hour, SAM had extracted 71% of the data. At the ninth hour, Raqin's hands landed on a peculiar piece of stone—light as a feather but dense with an unfamiliar energy signature.
It wasn't just stone—it was Boundless Metal Ore. Rare. Exotic. Useful for cultivation-interface devices and soul-receptive technology.
"SAM, can I take it?"
/Elder is asleep, not cultivating. No energy fluctuations present./
Without hesitation, Raqin swept 60% of the pile into his spatial ring. No one noticed.
By the twelfth hour, data extraction reached completion.
Then the elder's voice broke the silence:
"Is there a Raqin Draven here? You have a visitor at the sect gate."
Raqin's heart stuttered.
"Yes, Senior."
Was I caught?
But the old man said nothing more. Soon, the sorting task ended, and the group dispersed.
As Raqin approached the sect gate, he spotted the visitor: a middle-aged man with a rough elegance—scarred face, an eyepatch, and quiet aura.
"Uncle Lucas."
His father's most loyal companion.
"Little Draven. You've endured much," the man said softly. "I brought you something before I leave on a mission. I don't know if I'll return. Stay alive—and when I return, I'll help you truly begin your path."
He handed Raqin a package. "Open it only after I leave."
Then, like a ghost, Lucas vanished.
Raqin opened the package. Inside, only a letter.
He read it in silence.
"Dear Nephew,You are in danger. Your father was betrayed by the sect. They conspired with two other first-rate forces and now aiming to serve the Beastmen. Soon, the labor and outer disciples will be sacrificed to appease them. You must escape within six months.Find me in Shallow River City.Destroy this letter."
His expression darkened. His breath sharpened.
Without hesitation, he chewed and swallowed the letter.
The gate guards stared, bewildered. What could a mere letter contain to change someone's face like that?
Back in his room, Raqin locked the door and sat in silence.
Six months.Six months to build his own path. Six months to escape the jaws of betrayal and death.
His fists clenched. His mind burned.
"Time to evolve," he muttered. "Or die trying."
With the mapping of the entire sect complete, Raqin finally found a location suitable for his experiments. A hidden cave lay concealed behind a roaring waterfall, with only two treacherous paths leading in—one scaling slick walls around the waterfall, the other a long, suffocating underwater tunnel.
"SAM, can we hide here for six months?" Raqin asked.
/Yes and no. This location is nearly undetectable, even to the Grand Elder. However, if chaos erupts within the sect, or unforeseen anomalies occur, you may still be discovered. High probability of concealment, but not infallible. Host must proceed with caution./
"Understood," Raqin nodded grimly.
He sat on a damp rock, drafting his priorities. One: create the Nano-Slime. Two: establish a connection with qi. Three: design an escape-proof plan to guarantee his life.
"I need materials and blueprints. Which means money," he muttered.
"SAM, what's my current balance with the Treasure Pavilion?"
/Host has 30 billion credits./
Raqin blinked. "That... even in my past life, I never saw so many zeroes."
But another problem immediately surfaced: he couldn't waltz into the Treasure Pavilion dressed like a labor disciple. His identity needed to remain hidden.
As he made his way back to the labor yard, he caught wind of something that made his heart skip.
"Did you hear? The Treasure Pavilion and Iron Sky Sect are holding an auction that'll shake the world in a week," a disciple whispered.
"They're using the martial field instead of the auction house. Even we labor grunts can spectate. Final treasure's a fourth-realm weapon!"
Raqin smirked. Perfect. The auction would be his moment to slip in, retrieve funds, and vanish. But fate never made things that simple.
Two outer sect disciples appeared—swaggering with arrogance. The thin one spoke first.
"I need three of you trash to help bury a corpse."
Everyone fell silent.
"What, do I need to repeat myself?" the thin one snapped.
"Don't waste your breath. Beat one up and the rest will beg," said the chubby one.
The thin one locked eyes with Raqin—he had been present during the slapping incident.
Raqin couldn't react fast enough. The outer disciple grabbed him by the neck, slapping him repeatedly. Rage bubbled inside Raqin, but his body was too weak to resist. He took it. A man bows to circumstance.
They picked two more—female twins. No one dared object.
Raqin followed them quietly, his mind racing. Why involve two girls? Camouflage? Diversion?
They arrived at a small house near the sect gates. Odd. Raqin didn't recall this building.
A refined young man sat there, flanked by servants. His aura was carefully hidden.
/SAM: Warning. Subject is a Beastman. Using advanced suppression techniques. Dangerous. Do not provoke./
Raqin's blood ran cold.
"You must be Raqin Draven," the man said calmly. "I once worked with your father. Profitable ventures, those days. But I do require your help."
Raqin didn't respond immediately. The implications were massive. If Beastmen were dealing with sect higher-ups, this was treason of the highest order, but he couldn't be surprised about such developments at this stage, his safety is the most important paramount.
"Yes, I'm Raqin. How can I help?"
"I'll be blunt. You know what kind of man your father was?"
"I do."
"And you've heard of his death?"
"Yes." Raqin shifted uncomfortably.
The man's eyes gleamed. "He acquired a treasure that could change the tide of war. I was promised its delivery. Did you receive anything after his death?"
Raqin hesitated—then lied. "Yes. A package. Yesterday."
The Beastman leaned forward. "And?"
"Just a letter. Nothing else."
His face twisted slightly. He could tell Raqin wasn't lying.
"Who delivered it?"
Raqin smirked internally and decided to test a theory.
"Who else but that crazy old woman? Always lurking around my father. Probably why Mother left."
The Beastman narrowed his eyes. "Woman? I only knew of a man accompanying your father."
Raqin laughed bitterly. "She disguises as anyone. Even cheated my Father, it seems."
Shock flickered across the Beastman's face. "So someone else has it. Clever whore. We must find her."
He stood. "You may go. I'll speak to the sect on your behalf."
"Senior, may I take the girls with me? They've helped me cope with... grief."
The twins' eyes widened.
The man laughed. "Fine. But next time, let me taste them."
"Thank you, Senior."
As they left, a shadow emerged beside the Beastman.
"Anything?" the shadow asked.
"Nothing. But he's not as dumb as he looks. Keep tabs on him. I want full reports weekly."
"Yes, sir."
Back on the path, silence stretched between the three. Until the fiery twin snapped.
"Why did you say such filth about us?"
Raqin sighed. "Would you prefer being his pets? Or dead? The sect won't save labor disciples, the strong is respected and the weak is ignored, that's the way of the world."
The shy one pulled her sister's arm. "He's right. We were just bait."
"Next time, he won't ask," the fiery one muttered.
"Then help me. I'll guarantee your safety—but I need your cooperation. A partnership."
"What kind of help?" they asked.
"We'll talk tomorrow. Too many eyes right now."
He paused. "What are your names? I'm Raqin. Raqin Draven."
"Eva," said the fiery one.
"Eve," said the shy one.
Behind them, far in the dark, a wisp of spiritual energy flickered. And in Raqin's sleeve, a faint glow pulsed—
/SAM: Alert. Spiritual tracker detected. Host has been marked. They're watching./