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

The day dawned with an eerie stillness. Mo Han awoke feeling heavy, but different. As if something inside him had aligned. The pain was still there—faithful as ever—but sober. Measurable. He understood it now. It was like an old equation that finally made sense.

The composite rune had left internal marks—not just on the body, but on the mind. For the first time, he had a reference point. Something to repeat, adapt, refine. He knew he was only at the beginning, but this beginning was real. Tangible.

Three men appeared at the stable entrance, hooded, unmarked. One of them carried ropes. None spoke.

He understood. The clan had noticed. Or rather, suspected. Maybe they didn't comprehend what he was doing—but fear alone was enough. And for the Mo Clan, fear was all the justification needed to erase a name.

He was bound, gagged, and placed into a covered cart. No words. No formal sentence. No eye contact. It was as if he were no longer a person. As if he no longer existed.

The journey lasted hours. The path was rough, the soil dry. When the cart finally stopped, the air was denser—stifling. They dragged him out and threw him to the ground.

He stood before a black gate, embedded in living stone. Cracks veined its surface, releasing thick vapor. Beside it, a crude iron plaque bore three words:

Black Roots — Go and Not Return

One of the men removed his gag only to say:

— "We consider this mercy. Good luck, worm."

The gate shut behind him with a clang that sounded like a gravestone sealing a tomb. Darkness engulfed him. The dampness touched his skin like sticky fingers. The air reeked of dried blood and something else... decayed.

Each step echoed as if a thousand others followed.Distant sounds. Whispers. Low laughter.

Mo Han knew where he was. Not by the name.But by the absence of everything.

He was in the Prison of Black Roots.

The place where the clan buried its mistakes, its condemned, and—most importantly—its forgotten.

And now, he was one of them.

The Silent Sentence