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

That was how long Mo Han estimated since his arrival.With no sun, no clear cycles, he measured time through breath, internal rhythms, and the sounds in the tunnels.Time here was an illusion. But death was concrete.

He had already learned the basic patterns of the prison: the hunters didn't attack in groups, avoided loud noises, and had preferred hunting routes. They lived in burrows, rotated territories, and held a ferocious hostility toward one another.

Mo Han stayed alive by a thread of mental simulations.He feigned delirium, muttered nonsense, scratched walls like an animal. And it worked—for now.

But he knew it wouldn't last. Not for long.

On the fourth "night," he felt it.

A different sound.Not from a beast.Human.Light steps, but confident. A trained killer.Mo Han's instincts lit up, but he didn't move. Kept his eyes half-closed, his breathing shallow.As the figure approached, Mo Han activated his reflective listening rune—his body became like a membrane responding to sound.

Every step. Every breath. Every wrist movement.

A prisoner. Broad frame. Sunken eyes. A bone knife in hand. His face was twisted with crooked scars and old burn marks.His movements were rhythmic. Calculated.

He's not here to steal. He's here to kill.

Mo Han waited for the timing.Each step followed a three-second cycle—three to approach, two to strike.He was testing Mo Han's reactivity.

When the knife came, Mo Han twisted his body with a sharp, calculated motion. The blade sliced air. In the same instant, he threw his weight against the wall, flinging dust and fungus into his attacker's eyes.

With his other hand, he struck a precise sequence into the man's elbow joint. There was little strength—but the positioning was perfect.

The knife dropped.

They tumbled across the ground. Mo Han used his shoulders, his knees—anything. The muscle response rune he'd activated gave him small bursts of speed.He struck the side of the man's neck—right where the artery pulsed.

Mo Han didn't think. He grabbed the bone knife and pressed it hard against the throat.

Blood gushed—hot.The man's expression was one of shock.As if he couldn't understand how this had happened.

But Mo Han understood.

Repetition. Simulation. Execution.

He dragged himself to the back of the chamber, hands trembling.Covered in blood, he vomited.Then lay there, gasping.

It was the first time he had killed with his own hands.Not out of hatred.Not by instinct.But out of necessity.

The adaptive combat system had worked.

Predators in the Dark