Chapter One: The Young Man in Tempering

Towering trees pierced the clouds, an endless sweep of green shrouding the entire sky. Moss carpeted the forest floor, and massive hollows gaped within the trunks—large enough to contain a person, or hold various items. Wildflowers and strange plants flourished everywhere beneath the canopy, each more peculiar than the last.

Seemingly docile creatures wandered leisurely among the trees, grazing in peace. Overhead, winged beasts glided and played, darting through the highest branches. Suddenly, a thunderous roar shattered the tranquility. Leaves whirled through the air, dust billowed skyward, and the lush undergrowth parted swiftly to either side as if a green dragon were racing nearer and nearer.

A herd of short-necked, wide-mouthed beasts galloped frantically, terror in their eyes. Pursuing them was a single colossus, easily twenty or thirty meters long, its body sheathed in dark green and black scales—a clear sovereign at the apex of this forest’s food chain. From its powerful hooves extended long, razor-sharp claws, each stride gouging deep into soil and wood, propelling the beast forward with explosive speed.

All at once, the monstrous predator loosed a deafening roar that echoed throughout the forest, setting branches and leaves shuddering in its wake. With a tremendous push from its hind legs, the beast launched itself into the air, soaring over the fleeing herd. It plunged down with lethal precision, claws flashing as they tore through flesh, sending a rain of blood spraying across the ground.

One hapless creature, unable to escape, was flung high into the air by a violent toss of the monster’s head, crashing against a nearby giant tree. A cascade of green leaves fluttered down from above, while the beast’s prey, clamped in its jaws, was ripped nearly in two, crimson splattering the earth.

High above, on a tree limb, a gaunt figure had lain motionless, faint threads of black and white light shimmering across his body—so subtle that none had noticed. But as the tree shook with violence, his body trembled, and he slowly raised his head, bewildered, to peer around him. Instantly, he clung desperately to the branch, refusing to let go.

He looked down at the carnage below, his stomach churning. Bile rose in his throat, but though he retched dryly for a long while, nothing came up. The monstrous predator glanced up, and the figure shivered uncontrollably. Even twice as strong, he would have been nothing more than a grasshopper before such a beast—unable to leap, unable to flee.

Terrified, he barely dared to breathe. Fortunately, the giant creature found nothing of interest in this frail, ant-like form, turning its attention to the herd ahead that alone could ignite its savage instincts and appetite.

With a few swift bites, the beast devoured its catch, then snatched up the unconscious prey beneath the tree and lumbered off, chewing as it pursued the rest. Blood and flesh spattered its path, and the serenity that once graced the forest was shattered by cries of terror and screams.

All manner of creatures dove into the underbrush, desperate to avoid becoming the monster’s next meal beneath its crushing feet. As the beast’s footsteps faded into the distance, the figure on the branch remained shaken, his eyes scanning the forest warily. At last, he crawled toward a bird’s nest near the base of the branch.

The nest was nearly half the size of a room, woven from vines and twigs with remarkable order and strength—astonishing craftsmanship for a bird. Inside, there was no sign of the nest’s occupant, likely away, leaving only a heap of debris and some dried bloodstains.

Shaking his head, the figure felt his muddled mind slowly begin to clear. He muttered to himself, “Mountain Ring Town…magical beasts…all the guards slaughtered…I was taken by a flying creature…but where is this place now?”

He sat in a daze for some time, gradually piecing together his thoughts, confirming his situation as memories not his own settled into place. Cloud Walker gazed silently at the forest of towering trees, tapped his forehead, and lay back, staring blankly at the leafy ceiling above.

He hadn’t died after all; somehow, he’d survived that devastating explosion, only to find himself transported to this so-called Purple Star Continent—a world as terrifying as the Jurassic era, and occupying the body of another, also named Cloud Walker.

Regret stirred in him for the old man Zhang who had raised him; the news would surely break the man’s heart. Cloud Walker shook his head sadly. “Damn Jurassic world,” he groaned. “I’m no biologist… I don’t need the thrill of new species…”

The idea of inhabiting another’s body was difficult to accept. He examined his hands and body, considering the memories he’d inherited—this body was only fourteen years old.

“What a tender age!” Cloud Walker sighed deeply. But the fact was settled; he could only accept it.

He flexed his joints, forcing himself to focus. As he pondered how to escape this forest, he rummaged through the debris with a stick and soon uncovered a sheathed, slender object.

Curiosity piqued, he took it up. The hilt was unadorned, carved with a tangle of lines for grip rather than beauty—practical above all. Grasping the handle, he drew the blade with a satisfying click. It was a narrow longsword, radiating a keen, cold aura; the blade gleamed like a mirror, as limpid as autumn water. When a falling leaf landed on the edge, it was sliced cleanly in two without resistance.

A fine sword, indeed—a shame it had gathered dust in a bird’s nest. Yet, in this world’s hierarchy, his body was only at the early stage of Warrior Spirit, level two. Even with a divine weapon, he dared not brandish it openly; simply surviving the forest was already a challenge.

He returned the sword to its sheath, continued sifting through the trash, but found little else. In a torn pocket, he discovered several banknotes accepted across the continent. The sum was modest—five hundred taels—enough for a family of three to live comfortably for a lifetime, though to someone of Cloud Walker’s family background, it was hardly noteworthy wealth.

There was also a weathered booklet. Opening it, Cloud Walker was astonished to find a complete cultivation technique recorded at the end—“The Birthright Canon.”

This was a life-element technique, inscribed on ancient beast hide and bound into a book. Since the previous owner had perished here, it likely wasn’t too extraordinary. But judging by the sword, its grade must be quite high; otherwise, it would not cut so cleanly.

The former owner must have been skilled, his cultivation experience probably sound. Perhaps the technique would suffice, Cloud Walker considered thoughtfully.

He now understood that on the Purple Star Continent, wood-element cultivators were already rare, and those of the life element rarer still—so rare that only the greatest powers could hope to recruit them.

Life-element cultivators were like indestructible cockroaches, mastering the mysteries of life itself. Whether healing themselves or others, they were peerless in restorative arts. Though their attack power was not high, a top-tier life cultivator could even alter the course of a war.

Every practitioner of life techniques was coveted by the great powers, often hidden away and trained from childhood.

He hung the sword at his waist—his old blade had been lost during the magical beast attack—placed the banknotes and booklet securely in his breast pocket, and, nerves taut, began climbing down the tree.

Fortunately, with his Warrior Spirit second-level foundation, climbing was not too difficult. The greater peril lay in the omnipresent, unpredictable dangers of the forest.

He had no idea where he was, nor which direction might lead him out.

“Just survived a brush with death—don’t tell me I’ll die again in some nameless forest?” Cloud Walker muttered.

As dusk fell, he plucked a few fruits from a nearby sapling—rosy-skinned and tender, with fragrant juice visible beneath the surface. Cautious of the unknown, he found a caterpillar on another tree, squeezed some juice onto it, and watched for a while. Seeing no ill effects, he ate the fruit for his evening meal.

Searching nearby, he found a tree hollow somewhat elevated and seemingly unoccupied—the roots and moss below undisturbed. It would suffice for a night. Drawing his sword, he carved a foothold into the trunk and leaped into the hollow. It was roomy enough for two or three people and reeked of rot and decay. Wrinkling his nose, Cloud Walker endured it; he was no pampered noble, and could tolerate such discomfort.

Night in the forest was most fearsome, even for someone like Cloud Walker with no wilderness training. When darkness fell, a different game of slaughter began; night stalkers ruled, while day dwellers faced nightmares—the killing was wilder, more brutal after sunset.

He cut a few leg-thick branches with his sword and braced them at the mouth of the hollow. His anxious mind found a little peace; in this terrifying, unfamiliar forest, even the calmest soul would struggle not to panic—especially one who had never before shed blood.