Chapter 1: The Arrival of the Golden Finger—Sovereign of the Sorcerers, Proud Above the World

The weather was clear, and a solitary white cloud quietly lingered in the azure sky, resembling a lazy sheep. A gentle breeze swept across the plains, through the endless forests, past the occasional cattle and sheep hidden among the riverside grasses, and over the wooden village that sprawled halfway up the low hillside, carrying the solemn chanting of epic praise from the village to distant places.

Beneath a great tree, an aged shaman, his face furrowed and adorned with a headdress of animal fangs, chanted solemnly of the ancestral spirits. Before him, seven or eight youths dressed in coarse linen, each wearing a similar necklace of beast teeth, sat cross-legged with books in their hands, listening devoutly and basking reverently in the ancestral glory.

Lin Zhao was the youngest among them. His features were striking, though his chin still held a trace of youthful baby fat, and a tuft of short hair atop his head stood stubbornly in the breeze, revealing his rebellious spirit.

Compared to the wild, bronze skin of the other boys, his complexion was as pale as the bone book in his hands. Dappled sunlight fell upon him, making him appear almost luminous.

It seemed no one noticed anything strange about him.

Lin Zhao cautiously set the hefty bone book—no less than ten pounds—onto his knees, subtly stretching his aching arms. Like an idle scholar feigning competence, he chimed in whenever the shaman raised his voice to extol the ancestors’ might, occasionally shouting, “War! War! War!” “Great wind, great wind!” “Spirit power, spirit power!” These calls only made the scene more solemn and dignified.

How bitter this was!

He hadn’t expected that, before summer vacation was even over, he’d already begun experiencing the idle, muddling routine of student life all over again.

Lin Zhao complained inwardly. After three years of grueling exams and endless practice tests, he’d just managed to survive the ordeal of the national college entrance exam. He didn’t dare dream of the very top universities, but he was certain of getting into a good one, perhaps even a prestigious program with lower cut-off scores.

A wonderful life was just ahead—until, suddenly, he was transported here.

Even now, recalling the day before, Lin Zhao still felt a sense of injustice. Why him?

He’d merely been cycling back to his rural hometown. On a deserted country road, he narrowly avoided a runaway dump truck, sensed something amiss, and then dodged a landslide. He’d felt lucky to have survived, believing fortune favored the spared. But as he studied the surrounding hills, a meteorite suddenly plummeted from the sky. By the time he realized, he looked up—and was gone in an instant.

He raged against the heavens for their treachery and ambush, unable to accept his fate.

When he awoke from the nightmare, he found himself lying in a village house—he had crossed over!

Yet, not completely.

He wore tattered linen, and everyone around him recognized and greeted him kindly as “Zhao.” He could speak a language he’d never heard before.

But then, his fingertips still bore the calluses from years of holding a pen, his skin was as pale as someone who’d spent three years indoors studying, and his teeth were even and white—distinct from every villager he had seen.

Worse yet, when he’d staggered out in a panic, just a short distance from home, he saw the very shaman now standing beneath the tree. The shaman, expressionless, pulled a twisted, translucent thing from the bloody skeleton beside the fire, using his staff. The thing looked eerily human, its face twisted in pain and terror, and as it writhed and howled, the skull atop the staff opened its jaws like a whale and sucked it in.

When the soul-like thing was gone, the skull’s jaw remained agape, letting out three bone-chilling cackles.

Lin Zhao had been utterly terrified.

Fortunately, the shaman seemed not to care; he didn’t even glance at Lin Zhao, but simply hefted his heavy staff and departed.

Only after the shaman had been gone for a long while did Lin Zhao, his legs still weak, stagger back home. Any thoughts of gathering information, searching through belongings, investigating outside the village, or making some astonishing move were all suppressed deep within him.

He had been cowed.

Luckily, no one seemed to notice anything strange about him.

Fortunately, today’s activities amounted to nothing more than listening to the chanting—a challenge, but not an ordeal.

Thinking this, he couldn’t resist glancing down at the bone book in his hands.

The book was made of large, shell-like pieces of bone, bound with copper rings. Each character appeared as if it had grown naturally from the bone’s surface. On his first day here, when his memories were still hazy, he had inexplicably been able to read the writing, as if it were carved into his very bones.

“The Virtues of Wu Xian” was a simple narrative, beginning with the ancient war between the Flame Emperor, the Yellow Emperor, and the sorcerer god Chi You. Though Chi You was defeated, he sacrificed himself to buy time, allowing twelve great shamans of the Jiuli tribe to form the Celestial Array amid battle, severing the land of Jiuli from the vast world of mountains and seas. At the same time, the giant Kua Fu chased the sun, and Hou Yi shot down the suns. From the nine fallen suns, they salvaged one still burning, using it to split nearly half the land from the world of mountains and seas, creating an isolated realm that drifted into the sea of stars. From then on, the Jiuli tribe was free from war, able to prosper and multiply.

The twelve great shamans each led their clans to establish their own cities in the new world, becoming the twelve deities of the calendar, ruling over heaven and earth, dividing the seasons, and reigning over all creation.

“So this is just setting the background story—what about the rest? Isn’t all this from tens of thousands of years ago?” Lin Zhao grumbled inwardly. As an enthusiast of ancient culture, he’d finished the whole book his first day here, but it seemed to contain only these stories. The shaman repeated them daily; where was the rest of history? Such a thick book, yet only a tenth was written—the rest was blank. Was it designed this way to strengthen their arms as they held it?

By now, the shaman had finished praising all the heroes in the book. He raised his staff high and knelt facing due south to honor the midsummer deity of June, thus concluding the day’s lesson.

Lin Zhao, along with the other apprentices, knelt to the June deity, then carried his bone book to the village entrance to share in the feast of a wild beast that looked like a white horse but bore a mouth of shark’s teeth.

The white horse’s skin hung intact on a wooden pole nearby, but its flesh on the bonfire was already shattered, its shark teeth scattered, its skull seemingly crushed by brute force.

Five warriors, muscled and masked with animal bones, stood respectfully nearby. They bowed to the shaman and offered a bronze knife for dividing the meat.

The shaman took the blade, distributing tender meat to the elders, sinewy legs to the adults, and offal to the children. The portions varied in size, but not a single person among the hundred-odd tribe members complained, a testament to his authority.

In short order, only the skeleton remained.

Lin Zhao received a chunk of hind leg, about a pound, roasted rare, without salt and still streaked with blood.

He treated it as a medium-rare steak and, clutching the meat, took a bite—having crossed into this world at the age when appetites were greatest, he had gone a whole day and night without a meal. This was his first bite of food, and even raw, he could chew it down without soy sauce.

Yet, despite the lack of salt, the meat was surprisingly delicious.

Savory! Springy! With a natural saltiness and marbled with thick veins of fat!

Lin Zhao nearly wept from the taste.

It was the second great comfort his frightened soul had found all day.

He devoured the meat in a few bites, then eyed the remaining massive skeletons, destined for divination, inscriptions, spear-making, and needlework. He longed to suck out the marrow, but resisted with all his willpower—the beast’s spirit dwelled in the marrow, and it could only be eaten after it was drawn out at night.

After the meal, the tribe dispersed. Lin Zhao mingled with the crowd and returned to his own home.

His house was unique. Unlike the others’ wooden huts, his was built of white stone, perfectly square, like a work of art, with a door fashioned from the head of a giant, one-horned beast.

Inside was a green stone floor and a hammock woven from vines—nothing else. To call it bare would be no exaggeration.

Lin Zhao set the bone book down in the corner, took a deep breath, and sat cross-legged on the stone, shielding his eyes with his hand.

The next moment, a blood-red progress bar appeared before him.

The bar was already at 99%.

Beneath it, a line of small text read:

“Life Simulator, charging. Remaining time: 15 minutes, 23 seconds.”

The text was inscribed in oracle bone script, the numbers in special local symbols, even the minutes and seconds converted into this world’s timekeeping.

But none of that mattered!

Lin Zhao’s heart raced, a flush spreading across his healthy skin.

This was the greatest surprise of his crossing, and the source of his confidence to keep going.

His system was coming online!

So what if this world was split off from another? Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west—when I become a Grand Shaman, when I shatter the void, I’ll reclaim all that was lost!

At the summit of sorcery, unrivaled in the world—with Lin Zhao, the heavens themselves shall answer!