Chapter 1: A Mortal Steps into Jianghu; One Step Seals Life or Death
The city’s night always fell with a gentle, yet numb indifference.
11:07 PM.
The fluorescent tube in the cramped rental apartment had long since burned out. Only the faint, scattered neon from outside leaked through the slit in the curtains, casting a pale gleam upon the neat edge of the bed. The room was small, orderly, and monotonous—a perfect mirror of Lin Yan’s twenty-two years of life.
It had been exactly a year since graduation.
The recklessness and fervor of his student days had completely faded. He had been reduced to the most unremarkable face among the millions of ordinary people in this metropolis. Nine-to-five routines, subway commutes, spreadsheets, and tedious tasks. No waves, no surprises, no desperate crises. His days were as bland as a glass of water brewed over and over again—tasteless, yet stable.
Lin Yan’s personality had been slowly polished by these uneventful years.
Gentle, restrained, cautious, uncompetitive, and rarely emotional. To others, he seemed easygoing, approachable, and temperless—perhaps even a bit soft-spoken. But only Lin Yan knew that he wasn't weak. He had simply accepted the fate of an ordinary man long ago.
In this lifetime, peace was already the greatest luxury.
Tonight was no different from the past thousand nights.
No headaches, no restlessness, no eerie omens. He turned off his phone, shutting out all the fragmented noise of the outside world, lay flat with his eyes closed, and let his exhausted consciousness slowly sink.
Sleep washed over him, gentle and heavy.
There was no dizzying disorientation, no bizarre sensation of his soul being pulled away, no blinding flashes of alien light.
It was merely the most ordinary of blinks.
And when he opened his eyes, the world had changed with a deafening roar.
A bone-chilling cold pierced his skin first. Soaked mud drenched his clothes, clinging tightly to his spine. The icy chill seeped through his joints, flooding his entire body and instantly stripping away every trace of warmth from before he slept.
The silence of the city's deep night was gone.
Instead, there was the wailing of gales tearing through the forest, the crisp clash of steel, the dull crack of shattering bones, and the suppressed, then suddenly unleashed, death throes of men on the brink of dying.
Boom—
Countless chaotic and ferocious sounds flooded his mind. Lin Yan’s brain went completely blank, his thoughts momentarily short-circuiting.
His eyes snapped wide open, his vision suddenly snapping into sharp focus.
Above him were ancient, gnarled trees with canopies so dense they blotted out the sky. The overlapping layers of black leaves blocked out the heavens, allowing only a few scattered, fragmented rays of light to filter down, casting a dim and eerie gloom. Beneath his feet was wet earth churned with mud and dead grass, uneven and treacherous, soft and sticky underfoot.
An overwhelming stench of blood filled the air—thick, heavy, and pungent. It choked his nostrils, sending waves of nausea churning in his stomach.
This was not his rental apartment.
This was not the modern metropolis he had lived in for twenty-two years.
A dark, dense forest. A desolate wilderness. An oppressive aura of slaughter blanketed everything.
And the clearing he now stood in had been transformed into a living, breathing slaughterhouse.
Two factions of martial artists, dressed in entirely different attire, were locked in a desperate, life-or-death struggle in the center of the clearing. There were no feints, no holding back, no worldly courtesies. Every single strike was aimed squarely at taking a life.
On one side were men in simple gray tunics, dressed practically and neatly. Their cuffs were tied tight, their waists bound with cloth belts, and plain broadswords strapped to their backs. Their footwork was steady, their advances and retreats measured. Their techniques were ancient and heavy, sweeping and decisive. They neither rushed nor relied on cheap tricks; every slash of their blades carried condensed strength, their offense and defense perfectly coordinated. Clearly, they were veterans who had walked the martial world together for years, living by the blade, moving in seamless, unspoken harmony.
On the other side were assass clad entirely in black. Their tight-fitting clothes hugged their bodies, their movements fluid and elusive. Each of them concealed twin short daggers within their sleeves. They did not clash head-on with their opponents. Instead, their movements were bizarre and unpredictable, striking from the shadows and exploiting every flaw, vital point, and blind spot. Their attacks were vicious and cunning, each thrust aimed precisely at the throat, heart, or dantian. Their killing intent was ruthless, completely devoid of any moral bottom line.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The dense, piercing clashes of metal rang out incessantly, echoing back and forth through the silent, deadly forest, numbing the eardrums. As blades rose and fell, blood sprayed wildly. Scalding crimson splashed onto the muddy black earth, instantly soaking into the dark soil.
The slaughter was brutal; life and death hung by a thread.
A man in gray took a blade to the shoulder, flesh torn open. Blood poured down his arm in a torrent, yet he seemed utterly oblivious to the pain. Gritting his teeth and sinking his waist, he swung a fierce horizontal counter-slash. The blade tore through the air, forcefully driving back two assass who had closed in on him. His ferocity was absolute.
On the other side, an assassin was a fraction of a second too slow in dodging. A broadsword cleaved into his waist, sending him flying backward like a kite with a snapped string. He struggled twice upon hitting the ground before falling completely silent, lying still in a pool of blood and mud.
Human life here was as worthless as grass, as cheap as dust.
There were no rules, no laws, no mercy. Only victory or defeat. Life or death.
Lin Yan stood frozen, his limbs ice-cold, his fingertips trembling uncontrollably.
He was a mortal through and through. For twenty-two years, he had grown up in a safe, law-abiding modern society. He had known only the warmth of human connection and the glow of city lights. He had never witnessed true combat, never faced bloodshed, and never felt such naked, unvarnished cruelty up close.
Pure, unadulterated terror washed over him like a freezing tide, completely drowning him.
His feet were nailed to the mud, utterly immovable. His heart hammered wildly, his chest heaving violently as if it were about to burst through his ribs. His breathing was ragged and frantic, his throat dry and tight. He couldn't make a single sound; even his gasps were laced with an uncontrollable tremor.
He wanted to retreat, to hide, to flee this hell, to return to that mundane, stable world of a thousand glowing windows.
But he couldn't move.
A purely mortal body, suddenly dropped into a deadly martial trap, had nothing but confusion and terror.
A single drop of scalding, viscous blood splashed through the air and landed precisely on the back of his pale hand.
Warm. Sticky. Real.
The sensation was etched into his bones, unforgettable.
In that moment, the last shred of hope in Lin Yan’s heart that "this is just a nightmare" completely collapsed, vanishing without a trace.
This was not a dream.
The forest was real. The biting wind was real. The flashing blades were real. The slaughter was real. And the fleeting, razor-thin line between life and death was undeniably, terrifyingly true.
Without warning, without reason, he had fallen alone into a completely unfamiliar martial arts universe governed by the law of the jungle.
No cheat codes. No awakened talents. No forewarning. No quest prompts.
Yet, deep within his consciousness, he distinctly sensed a cold, cruel, and absolute rule burned into his mind:
—He could only return to reality by completing the specific mission of this martial world.
—If he failed, he would be stranded here forever, never to return to that ordinary, stable human realm. The rest of his life would be buried in this blood-soaked Jianghu.
This was his only path to survival, and his only path to death.
"Kid, you're asking to die!"
A cold, vicious hiss suddenly tore through the forest wind.
An assassin in black had just finished off his gray-clad opponent. His peripheral vision caught Lin Yan, frozen motionless beneath the tree.
In a battlefield where every second counted and death was the only outcome, any extra living person was merely an obstacle. There was no need to ask for his origins, no need to investigate his reasons. He simply had to be killed.
The assassin moved with blinding speed. His foot barely tapped the muddy ground as his body shot forward several feet. A cold glint of a short blade emerged from his sleeve, carrying a biting gust of wind as it slashed directly at Lin Yan’s neck. The move was vicious, utterly merciless.
The blade's wind hit his face; the killing intent pierced his bones. Death was inches away.
Lin Yan’s pupils contracted sharply. His brain completely short-circuited.
He knew no martial arts. He couldn't dodge, couldn't block, couldn't fight back. Unarmed and unskilled, he was nothing more than an ordinary urban youth.
Faced with this inescapable killing blow, he had no room to resist.
In the grip of ultimate terror, he could only instinctively curl his body, wrapping his arms tightly around his head. Trembling violently, he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting silently for death to claim him.
CLANG—!
An earth-shattering clash of steel exploded, sparks flying in all directions as a shockwave swept outward!
A plain, heavy broadsword had slashed out of nowhere, blocking fiercely in front of Lin Yan and firmly parrying the deadly short blade.
The man who struck was a gray-clad swordsman in his early thirties.
His face was resolute and steady, his eyes weathered by time. His cheeks were smeared with blood, yet they could not hide an aura of righteous integrity. His left arm was already deeply wounded, bone exposed, flesh torn open. His entire sleeve was soaked crimson, the wound grotesque and horrifying. Clearly, he was already severely injured, his stamina pushed to the absolute limit, his body swaying slightly.
Yet, the instant he saw the unfamiliar youth in mortal peril, he risked everything, pouring his remaining strength into a desperate rescue.
The webbing of his hand tore open from the violent impact. Blood dripped slowly down the blade, falling silently into the mud.
The man breathed heavily, his chest heaving. He glanced sideways at the trembling Lin Yan, his voice hoarse and rough, carrying the exhaustion and sharpness of a seasoned warrior, yet devoid of any malice:
"If you don't want to die, crouch under the tree and hold your breath. Hide. Don't move. Don't make a sound!"
In just a few words, he offered a lifeline.
He didn't ask about Lin Yan’s origins. He didn't question why a boy had suddenly appeared on a battlefield. He had no idle curiosity, no probing tests. On a battlefield of life and death, where every second dictated survival, not a single ounce of energy could be wasted on the unnecessary.
He had saved him not out of familiarity, not for profit, and not with ulterior motives. It was simply the last shred of compassion and innate conscience remaining in a martial artist who had lived half his life by the blade.
He had the spirit of a hero, but he was no saint. He had kindness, but he was no fool.
With those words, he did not linger. Gritting his teeth, he raised his blade, enduring the agonizing pain, and plunged once more into the deadly fray. A wounded body, bathed in blood, fighting on. His retreating silhouette was resilient and solitary.
This man was named Chen Yi.
He had spent years traversing the border mountains, escorting merchants and guarding tokens. He had seen countless treacherous hearts and bloody vendettas. He was decisive in battle, clear-headed, and had stared into the darkness without being consumed by it. Even in this chaotic martial world, he still guarded a fraction of his original conscience.
He was the first person of Jianghu that Lin Yan had met upon entering this martial dimension.
Lin Yan dared not hesitate for a fraction of a second. He immediately followed the instructions.
He pressed his back hard against the rough tree trunk, bent his knees, and crouched deep in the muddy corner, reducing his presence to the absolute minimum. Clenching his jaw, he forced his ragged breathing to stop. His muscles were taut, his trembling uncontrollable, yet he forcibly stilled his body, daring not to make a single unnecessary movement.
He didn't dare look up at the brutal slaughter. He didn't dare stare at the splashing blood or the fallen corpses. Yet the sounds of clashing steel, tearing flesh, wounding groans, and dying gasps seeped into his senses from every angle, inescapable.
The icy mud soaked through his trousers, chilling him to the bone, but he felt none of it. At this moment, his mind was completely filled with profound shock and absolute clarity.
In this moment, Lin Yan fully recognized his situation.
The ordinariness, stability, harmlessness, and peace he had prided himself on for the past twenty-two years were not blessings in this lawless martial world. They were his most fatal weaknesses.
Without strength, he had no right to self-preservation.
Without skill, he had no right to choose.
Without value, he could only be slaughtered at will, his life and death entirely in the hands of others.
The terror in his heart remained intense, never fading. He was not a born hero; he had no fearless bloodlust. Faced with death, he still felt fear, panic, and tremors.
But beneath that terror, his mind was clearer than it had ever been.
He did not want to die.
He absolutely had to survive.
He had to find the hidden mission of this dimension, and he had to complete it.
Not to make a name for himself in Jianghu. Not to revel in vengeance. Not to conquer the martial world.
Simply for this: to go home.
To return to that mundane, bland, yet infinitely stable and warm reality. To return to that tiny rental apartment. To return to his ordinary,平凡 life.
The slaughter in the forest raged on.
Lin Yan remained crouched in the corner, motionless. He pushed all his terror to the bottom of his heart, using the tree trunk as cover, silently observing every detail of the battlefield.
He watched the techniques, the footwork, the rhythm of advances and retreats. He watched the underlying goals of the two factions, the expressions, the mindsets, the sacrifices of every fighter.
The gray-clad team fought with order. They valued technique, loyalty, and comradeship. Despite heavy casualties, they continued to cover each other, refusing to abandon their fallen.
The black-clad assassins were cold-blooded and unfeeling. They valued results, slaughter, and the mission. They would stop at nothing to win, completely devoid of any moral bottom line.
Through the fragmented roars in the brief lulls of combat, he vaguely caught a few key words:
"The token..."
"Cannot let it leave the mountain..."
"Ambush... leave no survivors..."
Fragmented clues slowly pieced together in his mind.
This bloodbath was not a senseless vendetta.
The gray-clad group was an escort team guarding a token.
The black-clad assassins were elite killers sent specifically to intercept the token and silence everyone.
The core of this battle, the focal point of this Jianghu feud, was that unknown token.
Lin Yan’s heart sank slightly.
Deep down, he had a premonition. The mission of this martial dimension, the reason he was here, was most likely tied to this mysterious token.
The wind continued to blow. The blood continued to flow. Life and death continued to alternate in the blink of an eye.
An ordinary youth from the modern world was trapped in this deadly Jianghu game.
This was his one and only chance to enter this martial dimension.
Complete the mission, and he could return home.
Fail, and he would be buried in Jianghu forever.
Lin Yan’s one-way trial in the martial world had officially begun.
11:07 PM.
The fluorescent tube in the cramped rental apartment had long since burned out. Only the faint, scattered neon from outside leaked through the slit in the curtains, casting a pale gleam upon the neat edge of the bed. The room was small, orderly, and monotonous—a perfect mirror of Lin Yan’s twenty-two years of life.
It had been exactly a year since graduation.
The recklessness and fervor of his student days had completely faded. He had been reduced to the most unremarkable face among the millions of ordinary people in this metropolis. Nine-to-five routines, subway commutes, spreadsheets, and tedious tasks. No waves, no surprises, no desperate crises. His days were as bland as a glass of water brewed over and over again—tasteless, yet stable.
Lin Yan’s personality had been slowly polished by these uneventful years.
Gentle, restrained, cautious, uncompetitive, and rarely emotional. To others, he seemed easygoing, approachable, and temperless—perhaps even a bit soft-spoken. But only Lin Yan knew that he wasn't weak. He had simply accepted the fate of an ordinary man long ago.
In this lifetime, peace was already the greatest luxury.
Tonight was no different from the past thousand nights.
No headaches, no restlessness, no eerie omens. He turned off his phone, shutting out all the fragmented noise of the outside world, lay flat with his eyes closed, and let his exhausted consciousness slowly sink.
Sleep washed over him, gentle and heavy.
There was no dizzying disorientation, no bizarre sensation of his soul being pulled away, no blinding flashes of alien light.
It was merely the most ordinary of blinks.
And when he opened his eyes, the world had changed with a deafening roar.
A bone-chilling cold pierced his skin first. Soaked mud drenched his clothes, clinging tightly to his spine. The icy chill seeped through his joints, flooding his entire body and instantly stripping away every trace of warmth from before he slept.
The silence of the city's deep night was gone.
Instead, there was the wailing of gales tearing through the forest, the crisp clash of steel, the dull crack of shattering bones, and the suppressed, then suddenly unleashed, death throes of men on the brink of dying.
Boom—
Countless chaotic and ferocious sounds flooded his mind. Lin Yan’s brain went completely blank, his thoughts momentarily short-circuiting.
His eyes snapped wide open, his vision suddenly snapping into sharp focus.
Above him were ancient, gnarled trees with canopies so dense they blotted out the sky. The overlapping layers of black leaves blocked out the heavens, allowing only a few scattered, fragmented rays of light to filter down, casting a dim and eerie gloom. Beneath his feet was wet earth churned with mud and dead grass, uneven and treacherous, soft and sticky underfoot.
An overwhelming stench of blood filled the air—thick, heavy, and pungent. It choked his nostrils, sending waves of nausea churning in his stomach.
This was not his rental apartment.
This was not the modern metropolis he had lived in for twenty-two years.
A dark, dense forest. A desolate wilderness. An oppressive aura of slaughter blanketed everything.
And the clearing he now stood in had been transformed into a living, breathing slaughterhouse.
Two factions of martial artists, dressed in entirely different attire, were locked in a desperate, life-or-death struggle in the center of the clearing. There were no feints, no holding back, no worldly courtesies. Every single strike was aimed squarely at taking a life.
On one side were men in simple gray tunics, dressed practically and neatly. Their cuffs were tied tight, their waists bound with cloth belts, and plain broadswords strapped to their backs. Their footwork was steady, their advances and retreats measured. Their techniques were ancient and heavy, sweeping and decisive. They neither rushed nor relied on cheap tricks; every slash of their blades carried condensed strength, their offense and defense perfectly coordinated. Clearly, they were veterans who had walked the martial world together for years, living by the blade, moving in seamless, unspoken harmony.
On the other side were assass clad entirely in black. Their tight-fitting clothes hugged their bodies, their movements fluid and elusive. Each of them concealed twin short daggers within their sleeves. They did not clash head-on with their opponents. Instead, their movements were bizarre and unpredictable, striking from the shadows and exploiting every flaw, vital point, and blind spot. Their attacks were vicious and cunning, each thrust aimed precisely at the throat, heart, or dantian. Their killing intent was ruthless, completely devoid of any moral bottom line.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The dense, piercing clashes of metal rang out incessantly, echoing back and forth through the silent, deadly forest, numbing the eardrums. As blades rose and fell, blood sprayed wildly. Scalding crimson splashed onto the muddy black earth, instantly soaking into the dark soil.
The slaughter was brutal; life and death hung by a thread.
A man in gray took a blade to the shoulder, flesh torn open. Blood poured down his arm in a torrent, yet he seemed utterly oblivious to the pain. Gritting his teeth and sinking his waist, he swung a fierce horizontal counter-slash. The blade tore through the air, forcefully driving back two assass who had closed in on him. His ferocity was absolute.
On the other side, an assassin was a fraction of a second too slow in dodging. A broadsword cleaved into his waist, sending him flying backward like a kite with a snapped string. He struggled twice upon hitting the ground before falling completely silent, lying still in a pool of blood and mud.
Human life here was as worthless as grass, as cheap as dust.
There were no rules, no laws, no mercy. Only victory or defeat. Life or death.
Lin Yan stood frozen, his limbs ice-cold, his fingertips trembling uncontrollably.
He was a mortal through and through. For twenty-two years, he had grown up in a safe, law-abiding modern society. He had known only the warmth of human connection and the glow of city lights. He had never witnessed true combat, never faced bloodshed, and never felt such naked, unvarnished cruelty up close.
Pure, unadulterated terror washed over him like a freezing tide, completely drowning him.
His feet were nailed to the mud, utterly immovable. His heart hammered wildly, his chest heaving violently as if it were about to burst through his ribs. His breathing was ragged and frantic, his throat dry and tight. He couldn't make a single sound; even his gasps were laced with an uncontrollable tremor.
He wanted to retreat, to hide, to flee this hell, to return to that mundane, stable world of a thousand glowing windows.
But he couldn't move.
A purely mortal body, suddenly dropped into a deadly martial trap, had nothing but confusion and terror.
A single drop of scalding, viscous blood splashed through the air and landed precisely on the back of his pale hand.
Warm. Sticky. Real.
The sensation was etched into his bones, unforgettable.
In that moment, the last shred of hope in Lin Yan’s heart that "this is just a nightmare" completely collapsed, vanishing without a trace.
This was not a dream.
The forest was real. The biting wind was real. The flashing blades were real. The slaughter was real. And the fleeting, razor-thin line between life and death was undeniably, terrifyingly true.
Without warning, without reason, he had fallen alone into a completely unfamiliar martial arts universe governed by the law of the jungle.
No cheat codes. No awakened talents. No forewarning. No quest prompts.
Yet, deep within his consciousness, he distinctly sensed a cold, cruel, and absolute rule burned into his mind:
—He could only return to reality by completing the specific mission of this martial world.
—If he failed, he would be stranded here forever, never to return to that ordinary, stable human realm. The rest of his life would be buried in this blood-soaked Jianghu.
This was his only path to survival, and his only path to death.
"Kid, you're asking to die!"
A cold, vicious hiss suddenly tore through the forest wind.
An assassin in black had just finished off his gray-clad opponent. His peripheral vision caught Lin Yan, frozen motionless beneath the tree.
In a battlefield where every second counted and death was the only outcome, any extra living person was merely an obstacle. There was no need to ask for his origins, no need to investigate his reasons. He simply had to be killed.
The assassin moved with blinding speed. His foot barely tapped the muddy ground as his body shot forward several feet. A cold glint of a short blade emerged from his sleeve, carrying a biting gust of wind as it slashed directly at Lin Yan’s neck. The move was vicious, utterly merciless.
The blade's wind hit his face; the killing intent pierced his bones. Death was inches away.
Lin Yan’s pupils contracted sharply. His brain completely short-circuited.
He knew no martial arts. He couldn't dodge, couldn't block, couldn't fight back. Unarmed and unskilled, he was nothing more than an ordinary urban youth.
Faced with this inescapable killing blow, he had no room to resist.
In the grip of ultimate terror, he could only instinctively curl his body, wrapping his arms tightly around his head. Trembling violently, he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting silently for death to claim him.
CLANG—!
An earth-shattering clash of steel exploded, sparks flying in all directions as a shockwave swept outward!
A plain, heavy broadsword had slashed out of nowhere, blocking fiercely in front of Lin Yan and firmly parrying the deadly short blade.
The man who struck was a gray-clad swordsman in his early thirties.
His face was resolute and steady, his eyes weathered by time. His cheeks were smeared with blood, yet they could not hide an aura of righteous integrity. His left arm was already deeply wounded, bone exposed, flesh torn open. His entire sleeve was soaked crimson, the wound grotesque and horrifying. Clearly, he was already severely injured, his stamina pushed to the absolute limit, his body swaying slightly.
Yet, the instant he saw the unfamiliar youth in mortal peril, he risked everything, pouring his remaining strength into a desperate rescue.
The webbing of his hand tore open from the violent impact. Blood dripped slowly down the blade, falling silently into the mud.
The man breathed heavily, his chest heaving. He glanced sideways at the trembling Lin Yan, his voice hoarse and rough, carrying the exhaustion and sharpness of a seasoned warrior, yet devoid of any malice:
"If you don't want to die, crouch under the tree and hold your breath. Hide. Don't move. Don't make a sound!"
In just a few words, he offered a lifeline.
He didn't ask about Lin Yan’s origins. He didn't question why a boy had suddenly appeared on a battlefield. He had no idle curiosity, no probing tests. On a battlefield of life and death, where every second dictated survival, not a single ounce of energy could be wasted on the unnecessary.
He had saved him not out of familiarity, not for profit, and not with ulterior motives. It was simply the last shred of compassion and innate conscience remaining in a martial artist who had lived half his life by the blade.
He had the spirit of a hero, but he was no saint. He had kindness, but he was no fool.
With those words, he did not linger. Gritting his teeth, he raised his blade, enduring the agonizing pain, and plunged once more into the deadly fray. A wounded body, bathed in blood, fighting on. His retreating silhouette was resilient and solitary.
This man was named Chen Yi.
He had spent years traversing the border mountains, escorting merchants and guarding tokens. He had seen countless treacherous hearts and bloody vendettas. He was decisive in battle, clear-headed, and had stared into the darkness without being consumed by it. Even in this chaotic martial world, he still guarded a fraction of his original conscience.
He was the first person of Jianghu that Lin Yan had met upon entering this martial dimension.
Lin Yan dared not hesitate for a fraction of a second. He immediately followed the instructions.
He pressed his back hard against the rough tree trunk, bent his knees, and crouched deep in the muddy corner, reducing his presence to the absolute minimum. Clenching his jaw, he forced his ragged breathing to stop. His muscles were taut, his trembling uncontrollable, yet he forcibly stilled his body, daring not to make a single unnecessary movement.
He didn't dare look up at the brutal slaughter. He didn't dare stare at the splashing blood or the fallen corpses. Yet the sounds of clashing steel, tearing flesh, wounding groans, and dying gasps seeped into his senses from every angle, inescapable.
The icy mud soaked through his trousers, chilling him to the bone, but he felt none of it. At this moment, his mind was completely filled with profound shock and absolute clarity.
In this moment, Lin Yan fully recognized his situation.
The ordinariness, stability, harmlessness, and peace he had prided himself on for the past twenty-two years were not blessings in this lawless martial world. They were his most fatal weaknesses.
Without strength, he had no right to self-preservation.
Without skill, he had no right to choose.
Without value, he could only be slaughtered at will, his life and death entirely in the hands of others.
The terror in his heart remained intense, never fading. He was not a born hero; he had no fearless bloodlust. Faced with death, he still felt fear, panic, and tremors.
But beneath that terror, his mind was clearer than it had ever been.
He did not want to die.
He absolutely had to survive.
He had to find the hidden mission of this dimension, and he had to complete it.
Not to make a name for himself in Jianghu. Not to revel in vengeance. Not to conquer the martial world.
Simply for this: to go home.
To return to that mundane, bland, yet infinitely stable and warm reality. To return to that tiny rental apartment. To return to his ordinary,平凡 life.
The slaughter in the forest raged on.
Lin Yan remained crouched in the corner, motionless. He pushed all his terror to the bottom of his heart, using the tree trunk as cover, silently observing every detail of the battlefield.
He watched the techniques, the footwork, the rhythm of advances and retreats. He watched the underlying goals of the two factions, the expressions, the mindsets, the sacrifices of every fighter.
The gray-clad team fought with order. They valued technique, loyalty, and comradeship. Despite heavy casualties, they continued to cover each other, refusing to abandon their fallen.
The black-clad assassins were cold-blooded and unfeeling. They valued results, slaughter, and the mission. They would stop at nothing to win, completely devoid of any moral bottom line.
Through the fragmented roars in the brief lulls of combat, he vaguely caught a few key words:
"The token..."
"Cannot let it leave the mountain..."
"Ambush... leave no survivors..."
Fragmented clues slowly pieced together in his mind.
This bloodbath was not a senseless vendetta.
The gray-clad group was an escort team guarding a token.
The black-clad assassins were elite killers sent specifically to intercept the token and silence everyone.
The core of this battle, the focal point of this Jianghu feud, was that unknown token.
Lin Yan’s heart sank slightly.
Deep down, he had a premonition. The mission of this martial dimension, the reason he was here, was most likely tied to this mysterious token.
The wind continued to blow. The blood continued to flow. Life and death continued to alternate in the blink of an eye.
An ordinary youth from the modern world was trapped in this deadly Jianghu game.
This was his one and only chance to enter this martial dimension.
Complete the mission, and he could return home.
Fail, and he would be buried in Jianghu forever.
Lin Yan’s one-way trial in the martial world had officially begun.