The crimson sunset painted the bustling streets of Heavenly Aerial City in hues of blood and fire, casting long shadows that danced between the towering pagodas and floating pavilions. In a secluded corner of the Drunken Immortal Inn, Wudi Egun sat hunched over a table of polished jade, his silver hair cascading around his shoulders like a waterfall of moonlight. His slender fingers wrapped around a delicate porcelain cup filled with rice wine that shimmered with subtle spiritual energy.
The wine—worth more than most mortals would earn in a lifetime—trickled down his throat, leaving a trail of warmth that did nothing to soothe the inferno of frustration burning in his chest. His silver eyes blazed with fury as he recalled the events of the past twenty-four hours, the memory alone enough to make his knuckles turn white around his cup.
"Those conniving, manipulative, absolutely insufferable..." he muttered, before taking another generous swig of wine. The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim as he slammed the cup back onto the table. "And to think I actually considered it a stroke of good fortune!"
He had managed to escape the clutches of the Ancient Li Family, slipping away from their compound with the stealth of a shadow and the desperation of a man fleeing certain doom. The irony wasn't lost on him—he had initially expected to enjoy the privileges of being a son-in-law to one of the most powerful families in Heavenly Aerial City. Instead, he'd found himself trapped in an increasingly elaborate web of lies, spun primarily by the deceptively demure Li Ying.
"Who would have thought that behind that innocent face lurked the mind of a master strategist?" Wudi lamented to no one in particular, his voice carrying the dramatic flair of someone who considered himself profoundly wronged by fate. "She played me like a two-bit erhu at a village festival!"
The Time-space Sword strapped to his back vibrated slightly, the motion creating a soft clattering sound that, to Wudi's ears, sounded suspiciously like laughter.
"Oh, you think this is funny?" he snapped, twisting his neck to glare at the weapon. "Easy for you to judge, you oversized letter opener. You're not the one who nearly got roped into marriage, manual labor, AND pre-dawn training sessions!"
The sword's vibrations intensified, and Wudi could have sworn he heard a faint chime of amusement emanating from the blade.
"Keep it up," he threatened, wagging a finger at the sword. "See if I don't trade you for a more supportive weapon. Maybe a nice, sympathetic dagger. Or a compassionate war hammer."
The Time-space Sword—a mysterious artifact used by the Paramount Saint Ancestor during the Suppression Era—responded by glowing faintly, its white surface reflecting the crimson light of the setting sun in a way that made it appear to be blushing with mirth.
Wudi sighed dramatically, his shoulders slumping as he poured himself another cup of wine. "What do you know anyway? You're just a relic from a bygone era. A powerful relic, sure, but still just a pointy stick with delusions of grandeur."
According to the novel "Immortal Journey To Myriad Wonders," the Time-space Sword wasn't even of this world. It had originated from beyond the Myriad World, from some realm that existed outside the countless mortal universes that made up the Mortal Domain. The universe Wudi currently inhabited—Myriad World—was just one of many, though arguably the most important as it had been the setting for the original protagonist's journey.
Wudi had his suspicions that the sword was actually an Immortal Weapon—not a True Immortal Weapon, of course, but one suitable for Pseudo-Immortals like the Supreme Saint, Paramount Saint Ancestor, Sword Saintess, and beings of their unfathomable level.
Unfortunately for him, he couldn't even exert one-tenth of the sword's true power. Even if he wanted to, he could only rely on his Saint Level Bloodline—the pure Innate Saint Blood Lineage that flowed through his veins as a descendant of the Celestial Death Family. It was the most advantageous element within his body right now, and the only reason the sword had bonded with him at all.
"Some inheritance," Wudi muttered, swirling the wine in his cup and watching the spiritual energy create patterns like miniature galaxies in the liquid. "A sword I can barely use, a bloodline I can't activate, and knowledge of a story that's already ended. The heavens must be laughing themselves sick."
The sword vibrated again, this time with what seemed like agreement.
"Don't you start," Wudi warned, pointing an accusatory finger at the weapon. "You're supposed to be on my side. We're in this together, remember? Both of us, relics of a fallen kingdom, trying to make our way in a world that's moved on without us."
The sword fell silent, as if contemplating his words.
Wudi nodded, satisfied with this small victory. "That's better. Now, let's think about our next move. We need resources, information, and—"
His strategic planning was interrupted by a thunderous slam that shook his table, sending ripples across the surface of his wine and nearly toppling the expensive bottle. Wudi jumped in his seat, his hand instinctively reaching for the sword on his back before he caught himself. Drawing a legendary weapon in a public inn over a startled reaction would be the height of foolishness.
Instead, he turned slowly to face the source of the disturbance, his expression shifting from surprise to annoyance as he took in the figure standing beside his table.
It was an old man—if such a simple term could be applied to the walking disaster before him. The elderly figure resembled nothing so much as a beggar who had rolled through every filthy alley in the city before deciding that Wudi's peaceful drinking session was in dire need of interruption.
His clothes—if the tattered rags hanging from his bony frame could be called such—were stained with substances Wudi didn't care to identify. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles and dirt, framing a mouth that revealed two prominently broken teeth when he smiled.
And he was smiling now, a wide, unsettling grin that made Wudi's skin crawl.
"What the hell?" Wudi demanded, his voice pitched higher than he would have liked. He cleared his throat and tried again, aiming for authoritative disdain. "Who are you, and why are you disturbing my solitude? Can't you see I'm in the middle of a very important session of self-pity and strategic withdrawal?"
The old man's smile widened, showcasing his broken teeth in all their glory. The sight was so grotesque that Wudi couldn't help but contort his face into an expression of undisguised contempt.
"This humble one," the beggar said in a voice that sounded like gravel being crushed underfoot, "is but a poor old man seeking the generosity of his betters."
He performed an exaggerated bow that somehow managed to be both mocking and pathetic simultaneously. "If the young master has something to spare for this unworthy one, this old beggar would be eternally grateful."
With a flourish that belied his apparent decrepitude, the old man produced a steel bowl from within his rags, holding it out toward Wudi with a trembling hand. As he did so, he scratched vigorously at his head with his free hand, then—to Wudi's absolute horror—moved that same hand down to scratch at his posterior.
"Are you serious right now?" Wudi recoiled, leaning as far away from the beggar as his seat would allow. "There are proper channels for charity in this city. Official beggar's guilds, even. You can't just walk up to random patrons and—"
His words died in his throat as his eyes caught something on the bowl—an imprint on the inner edge that sent a chill racing down his spine. It was a small, square-shaped mark bearing the image of a skull, rendered with such detail that it seemed to stare back at him with empty, knowing sockets.
Wudi's world tilted sideways. The room began to spin around him as recognition slammed into him like a physical blow. His hands began to tremble uncontrollably, his wine cup slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers to clatter against the table. His eyes widened to the point of pain, and for a moment, he thought he might actually faint.
This was no ordinary beggar. This was no ordinary bowl.
This was the Tyrant.
In the original novel, the Tyrant had been one of the most notorious villains—a powerhouse who stood at the precipice of the Saint Realm, with one foot in sainthood and the other still in the Nirvana Realm. A Half-Saint whose very name had caused cultivators to break out in cold sweats.
The cultivation hierarchy of this world was clearly defined: Immortal Meridians Forging Realm, Godly Dantian Circulation Realm, Dao Bone Tempering Realm, Primordial Soul Emerging Realm, Nirvana Realm, Saint Realm, and finally, the rumored and coveted Immortal Realm. Each step represented a quantum leap in power, with the gap between Nirvana and Saint being particularly vast.
And here, standing before Wudi with a begging bowl and broken teeth, was a being who straddled that gap with casual ease.
Wudi wasn't an invincible protagonist with nerves of steel and the courage of a lion. Just a few years ago, he had been an ordinary mortal living in a world of science and technology, where the most dangerous thing he faced was the occasional deadline or traffic jam. He was, at his core, just a normal person who still checked under his bed for monsters when staying in unfamiliar places.
And he was especially, particularly, emphatically terrified of Saints and Immortals.
Let alone the Tyrant, who had been known throughout the novel for his unreasonable cruelty—massacring entire sects without provocation, destroying cities on whims, and committing atrocities that made even hardened cultivators blanch.
In the original story, even the Supreme Saint—the protagonist who had risen from mortality to become the most powerful being in the realm—had nearly died at the Tyrant's hands. It wasn't because the Tyrant was inherently stronger, but because he possessed a genuine Heaven Artifact called the Empress Mirror, a mysterious treasure that could reflect an enemy's attack back at them with tenfold amplification.
Wudi's mind raced through his options, each more desperate than the last. Run? The Tyrant would catch him before he made it three steps. Fight? Laughable. Beg? Undignified, but increasingly appealing as the seconds ticked by.
"Is something wrong, young master?" the Tyrant asked, his voice dripping with false concern.
"You look as though you've seen a ghost. Or perhaps..." his smile turned predatory, "...recognized an old friend?"
Wudi couldn't help but curse his luck inwardly. Of all the inns, in all the districts, in all of Heavenly Aerial City, the Tyrant had to walk into his. The universe, it seemed, had a particularly twisted sense of humor when it came to transmigrators.
The Time-space Sword on his back had gone completely still, as if it too was holding its breath in the presence of danger. For once, Wudi was grateful for its silence. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to the legendary weapon strapped to his back.
"I..." Wudi began, his voice emerging as a strangled whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I was just surprised by your... approach. Most beggars don't slam their hands on tables to get attention."
The Tyrant's eyes—which Wudi now noticed were an unsettling shade of amber, with vertical pupils like a cat's—narrowed slightly.
"Most beggars," he said softly, "aren't interested in more than just coins."
A bead of cold sweat trickled down Wudi's spine. "Oh? And what else might a beggar be interested in?"
The Tyrant leaned closer, his breath—which somehow smelled of cinnamon and blood—washing over Wudi's face.
"Information," he whispered, the word hanging in the air between them like a drawn blade. "Stories. Rumors. Tales of ancient kingdoms and the descendants who might seek to restore them."
Wudi's blood turned to ice in his veins. There was no way—absolutely no way—that the Tyrant could know about his heritage or his plans. He had been careful, discreet. He hadn't even begun to implement any part of his grand scheme to rebuild the Trinity Heaven Saint Kingdom.
Unless...
Unless the Tyrant had resources Wudi hadn't accounted for. Unless the novel hadn't revealed everything about this particular villain. Unless the story had continued beyond what Wudi had read before his transmigration.
"I'm afraid I don't know any interesting stories," Wudi said, forcing a casual shrug that he hoped concealed the trembling of his shoulders. "I'm just a traveler, passing through. Nothing special about me at all. Completely ordinary. Boringly average, in fact."
"Is that so?" The Tyrant straightened, his eyes never leaving Wudi's face. "Then perhaps the young master wouldn't mind sharing a drink with this old beggar? It's not often I find someone so... ordinary... who carries a sword that radiates such extraordinary power."
Wudi's hand twitched, nearly reaching for the Time-space Sword before he caught himself.
"This old thing?" he said with a forced laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Family heirloom. Probably not even sharp anymore. I just carry it for sentimental value."
"How touching," the Tyrant said, his smile revealing those broken teeth once more. "Family is so important, don't you think? Lineage. Heritage. The blood that flows through our veins, connecting us to those who came before."
Each word felt like a nail being driven into Wudi's coffin. The Tyrant knew. Somehow, impossibly, he knew.
"I suppose," Wudi managed, his mind racing for a way out of this conversation, out of this inn, out of this city if necessary.
The Tyrant's smile never wavered as he placed his begging bowl directly on Wudi's table, the skull imprint now clearly visible in the fading light.
"I'll leave this with you," he said, his voice suddenly formal. "Consider it an invitation. When you're ready to discuss more interesting topics than the weather, simply drop a coin into the bowl. I'll find you."
With that, the Tyrant turned and shuffled away, his gait that of a frail old man—a disguise that Wudi now knew concealed power beyond his comprehension.
As the Tyrant disappeared into the crowded inn, Wudi stared at the bowl, his heart hammering against his ribs like a prisoner seeking escape. The skull imprint seemed to stare back at him, its empty eye sockets somehow knowing, mocking.
The Time-space Sword vibrated once, a single, clear note that sounded suspiciously like alarm.
"Yeah," Wudi whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself. "I know. We're in trouble."
The bowl sat on his table, an invitation and a threat combined into one simple object. And Wudi Egun, descendant of Saints and carrier of a legendary weapon, found himself facing a choice that could alter the course of his life