Chapter 29: Cultivation World

Darkness. An endless void of nothingness. Asher Damien had long since grown numb to it.

For millions of years, he had drifted in the abyss, a being beyond gods, beyond limits. He had shattered systems, erased false deities, and broken the chains that bound reality itself. And in doing so… he had lost purpose.

But the void never remained empty forever.

A force stronger than anything he had ever felt pulled at him, twisting, distorting—dragging him into an abyss deeper than the one he had known. It was not destruction. It was not oblivion. It was something far worse.

Rebirth.

A sharp breath. The sensation of air filling his lungs. The warmth of a sun too bright for his eyes. A body too weak, too small, too… unfamiliar.

Asher's fingers twitched. His hands trembled as he lifted them to his face, feeling the roughness of his skin—thin, malnourished, fragile.

Then, the flood came.

Memories that were not his own—yet they were. The life of a boy named Asher Damien, an orphan in a world unlike any he had known.

A world of Immortals.

The moment he processed it, a slow, amused smirk tugged at his lips.

After all these years, after all his victories, after reaching the peak of existence—he was weak again.

And he had never been more excited.

The first thing he noticed was hunger. A deep, gnawing emptiness in his stomach that clawed at his insides. His body was pitifully frail, his limbs too thin, his muscles weak from years of malnutrition. His clothes were rags, barely enough to shield him from the cold breeze that swept through the alleyway he had woken up in.

He was in a slum. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and rotten food. Beggars, orphans, and crippled mortals lined the streets, their eyes hollow with despair.

Asher exhaled, pushing himself to his feet. His body protested, aching in ways he had long forgotten. It was an unfamiliar sensation. Pain. Weakness. Vulnerability.

And yet, deep inside, he was laughing.

In his past life, he had broken fate itself. He had shattered systems, defied gods, and rewritten the rules of reality. Now, fate had given him a new game to play.

Fine. He would play.

He needed information first. He didn't have his old power—he could feel it. The energy that once surged within him like an unstoppable storm was gone. He was no different from the beggars around him.

But he still had something far more dangerous than power.

Knowledge.

He listened. Watched. Every conversation in the slums was a puzzle piece, a fragment of the world's structure. And quickly, he began to understand.

This world was a realm of cultivation. Mortals could ascend beyond their limits, evolving into beings beyond comprehension. But it was a world of hierarchy. The strong ruled. The weak perished. Sects, clans, and alliances dominated everything, and resources determined one's path to power.

He had neither background nor wealth. Even the lowest-level cultivation technique required silver, and he had nothing but the rags on his back.

His stomach growled.

For the first time in millions of years, Asher Damien was broke.

His lips curled into a smirk.

Time to fix that.

The first step to power was money. Without resources, he couldn't cultivate. Without cultivation, he had no future.

His first target? The city's gambling den.

The place reeked of alcohol and desperation. It was filled with low-level cultivators, men who had just stepped into Qi Gathering and thought themselves superior to mortals. They were arrogant, reckless, and most importantly—stupid.

Perfect.

Asher approached one of the dice tables, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. He was just a street rat in their eyes, a skinny orphan who had no business being here.

"Oi, kid," one of the gamblers sneered. "You lost? Or are you here to beg?"

Asher smiled. "I'm here to play."

The table erupted into laughter.

"You?" The dealer, a middle-aged man with a scar across his nose, grinned. "You don't even have a single copper."

Asher reached into his pocket, pulling out a single coin. The last possession of the body he now inhabited. He placed it on the table.

"One round," he said.

The dealer shrugged. "Your funeral."

The game was simple—three dice, highest roll wins. The cultivators were cheating, of course. Subtle manipulation of Qi allowed them to influence the outcome. But Asher didn't need Qi.

He needed observation.

The moment the dealer shook the dice cup, Asher's eyes locked onto his movements. He had spent lifetimes mastering the ability to read opponents, to see patterns in chaos. The slight flick of the dealer's wrist, the tension in his fingers—predictable.

Asher smirked. "It's going to be a ten."

The dealer scoffed. "Big words, kid." He slammed the cup onto the table and lifted it.

The dice revealed a perfect ten.

Silence.

Then, murmurs.

The dealer frowned. "Lucky guess."

Asher leaned forward, tossing his winnings back onto the table. "Let's go again."

And again.

And again.

Minutes turned into hours. His coin pile grew. The gamblers grew agitated. Luck? No. Luck didn't work consistently. This boy was playing them.

And they didn't like it.

A hand slammed onto Asher's shoulder.

"You've had enough," a burly man growled. He wasn't just any thug—he was a Foundation Establishment cultivator. To a mortal, he was untouchable.

Asher looked up at him, smiling. "What's wrong? Scared of losing to a kid?"

The man's face twisted with rage. "I'm about to break your damn legs, brat."

Then he swung.

Asher moved before the punch even began. Experience trumped raw strength. He ducked, letting the fist fly over his head, and struck back—right at the man's throat.

Not with strength. But with precision.

The cultivator choked, staggering back. The entire gambling den went silent. A mortal had just struck a cultivator.

Then the other gamblers surged forward.

Asher's grin widened.

Now this is fun.

He lost, of course.

It was inevitable. Against cultivators, with his weak body, he didn't stand a chance. He was beaten, thrown into the streets, his winnings stolen.

But Asher didn't care.

Because he had already won.

The money didn't matter. The lesson did. He had tested his limits. He had learned the speed, the reaction time, the weaknesses of low-level cultivators.

More importantly?

He had figured out his first step to power.

Limping into an abandoned alley, Asher pulled out a book he had stolen during the fight—a basic cultivation manual.

It was trash. The lowest of the low. But it was a start.

He sat beneath the moonlight, flipping through the pages. The diagrams were crude, the instructions basic. To anyone else, it was worthless.

To Asher Damien? It was enlightenment.

He inhaled, closing his eyes.

For the first time in this world—he cultivated.

And in the darkness, something stirred.

A whisper in the void. A presence he had thought lost.

His power was not gone.

It was waiting.

The air trembled. Shadows flickered around him. And in the silence of the night—

Asher Damien smiled.