DaoistaZyurL

In a world where brute strength and divine bloodlines determine destiny, Mo Han is reborn in a frail body—without Qi, with a shattered dantian, and a social status lower than trash.

Humiliated by his own clan, tortured by cruel traditions, and discarded as a genetic mistake, Mo Han seems doomed to insignificance.
But what no one expected was that he wouldn’t seek power through fists.
He would seek patterns.

With the mind of a scientist and the traumas of a survivor, Mo Han discovers that cultivation can be rewritten—not through energy, but through logic.
Pain becomes data. Failure, a formula.
And every defeat... a simulation.

On his solitary and ruthless path, he will face arrogant prodigies, dogmatic sects, and even the very limits of sanity.
Because when everything is taken from you, only one thing remains:

"Calculate. And survive."

The Engineer of Broken Souls

Three days had passed since Mo Mei's betrayal. Three days in which Mo Han did not speak, did not cry, did not beg. He simply observed. Every heartbeat, every involuntary muscle contraction, every fluctuation in pain. Everything was recorded. Logged in his mind like a living spreadsheet.

But that day would be different. That morning marked the Ritual of the Worthless.

It was a traditional event in the Mo Clan. A way to parade the "disposables" before the elders. A humiliating theater used to justify cuts, demotions, and expulsions. The weakest—those with no apparent talent—were gathered to demonstrate their abilities—or lack thereof—before a silent and merciless audience.

Mo Han was dragged out of the stable by two servants like a sack of trash. They tossed him a gray tunic, dirty and foul-smelling. He didn't complain. He didn't need to. That fabric was the clan's flag of shame.

The training grounds were packed. Disciplinarians, elders, members of main bloodlines, and a few young prodigies. Among them were Mo Ren and Mo Qing. Both watched with emotionless expressions.

One of the elders, dressed in a golden robe, raised his voice:

— "As is tradition, we give the unworthy a chance to prove they're not a complete waste of resources."

Mo Han, along with six other worn-out youths, was lined up. All wore the same gray tunic.

A servant brought out a small crystal. Each candidate was to channel their energy into it and make it glow.

The first failed. The second produced a faint flicker. The third cracked the crystal with brute force. Laughter. The fourth collapsed before touching it. The fifth touched it—nothing.

He extended his trembling hand. Skin still marked with bruises. He touched the crystal. No light. No reaction.

— "Total failure," one elder remarked. "No functional meridians."

— "Not even a martial soul?" asked another. "This isn't a cultivator. It's dead weight."

— "Let me show them what true talent looks like."

He stepped forward, touched the crystal—and it exploded with light. Golden rays flared. The crowd murmured in awe.

— "Perhaps we should give this trash a chance... to shine shoes for real warriors."

More laughter. More humiliation. But Mo Han didn't avert his gaze.

He wasn't listening to their words. He was observing their rhythms.

Mo Ren's breathing sped up slightly when all eyes were on him.

Mo Qing subtly clenched her fists whenever Mo Ren spoke.

One of the elders looked at the weak with boredom—but also with a trace of fear.

Everything was behavior. Everything was pattern.

— "It's over. The unworthy return to their holes."

Mo Han was dragged back like a bag of bones. But inside, something had shifted.

He didn't feel shame. He didn't feel anger. He felt clarity.

They think I failed because I didn't produce light.But while they reacted emotionally, I measured reactivity, posture, intention flow.They cultivate energy. I cultivate perception.

Lying back in the straw, eyes closed, he smiled.

Today, they exposed me to ridicule.Tomorrow, I'll expose their entire structure to collapse.

The Ritual of the Worthless