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 darkness was thick as mud, and the air dense like old smoke. Every step Mo Han took was followed by a wet squelch, as if he were walking on living flesh. The ground beneath his feet was uneven, covered in slime and bones that creaked under pressure. His eyes took time to adjust, but soon he understood: the Prison of Black Roots wasn't made of stone.

It was made of things living, dead, and forgotten.

There were no guards. No bars. The gate had closed, and that was it. A fate sealed by indifference. In this place, the law was simple: survive.

The main chamber where he'd been thrown resembled a deep pit, with multiple dark tunnels carved into the walls like the burrows of starving animals. The walls pulsed with orange fungi. Moisture dripped like sweat from the stone.

That's when he saw them. Eyes. Many eyes. In pairs, in threes, some alone. Some watched. Others approached.

The first attack was nearly silent. A disfigured shape—thin, long claws, skin clinging to bone. Mo Han rolled to the side by reflex. The blow smashed into the wall, crumbling the stone. Another creature lunged, aiming for his shoulder. Mo Han drove his elbow into its throat. It collapsed, choking.

He ran.There was nowhere to go.But he ran anyway.

The tunnels were narrow, suffocating. The creatures followed. Some laughed. Others just growled. None spoke.

Mo Han slipped into a smaller chamber, partially sealed by stalactites that forced him to crawl to enter. A natural trap. But, for now, a fortress.

There, for the first time, he breathed. And observed.

They don't attack as a pack. They compete. Predator instinct. Constant hunger. Mental isolation.

That's good. It means I can use their fear against them.

He mentally inscribed a simple rune of focus and observation. The pain from the blows still made him tremble, but he isolated it—like always.

Here, no one wants to lead. Everyone just wants to survive. But if I seem more insane than they are… maybe they'll leave me alone.

He lay down, feigning collapse. But his ears remained open. He heard crawling footsteps in the tunnels. Heard the sounds of fights between others. And within his mind, the calculations had already begun.

At the bottom of the abyss, where hope was a legend and light a myth,Mo Han began constructing his new battlefield:

The ecosystem of hell.

The Bottom of the Abyss