Cold sweat dripped down my collarbone, soaking the thin cotton of my tunic. Breathing felt like sucking air through a wet straw. This body was pathetic. Reborn. Reincarnated. Slapped into the body of a sickly throwaway extra in the Qiu Clan—the very family featured in the opening chapters of 'The Abandoned Star', a webnovel I had spent my previous life's final hours hate-reading and systematically tearing apart in online forums. Every nerve ending in my new frame screamed with a dull, throbbing ache. My mind, however, was sharper than it had ever been. In my past life, I was a data analyst, a man who spent his days exposing corporate pyramid schemes and deceptive marketing funnels. I had spent years dissecting the false promises of 'guaranteed returns' and 'revolutionary products'. Now, I was looking at the ultimate, cosmic equivalent of a multi-level marketing scam: xianxia cultivation. Most idiots in this world began cultivating at age ten, waiting for their spiritual roots to 'awaken' under the guidance of expensive clan elders. They waited for a miracle, blindly trusting the flowery, poetic manuals handed down by their ancestors. Spiritual roots were not magical, divine channels; they were nothing more than a biological filtration system. By treating the body as a thermodynamic system rather than a mystical vessel, I had already begun my own secret, logical training. Instead of following the clan's dangerous, high-pressure breathing guides, I focused on basic heat transfer and pressure differentials. A soft, rhythmic pulse vibrated within my lower abdomen. My small chest rose and fell in a perfectly calculated cadence, cooling my core temperature just enough to draw ambient environmental energy inward through my pores. While the rest of the clan's youths slept or played, I spent my nights refining a pure, frictionless energy cycle. Heavy, self-important footsteps rattled the wooden screen of my chamber. My father, Qiu Zhen, was currently leading a gathering in the central courtyard. He was a man whose entire existence was built on a foundation of unearned superiority, loud declarations, and cheap hair oil. Dragging my frail frame toward the window, I slid the wooden slats apart just enough to peer outside. Dozens of young clan disciples had gathered on the stone tiles, their eyes wide with desperate, naive hope. At the center of the courtyard stood Qiu Zhen, his silk robes billowing with artificial wind generated by a low-grade wind-talisman hidden in his sleeve. "Behold!" Qiu Zhen's voice boomed, rattling the very tiles on the roof. He raised his hands toward the sky, his face contorting into a mask of intense, theatrical concentration. "Today, I demonstrate the Heavenly Primordial Breath of the Nine Heavens! A manual recovered from the deepest depths of the Forbidden Abyss!" A collective gasp rippled through the crowd of teenagers, many of them dropping to their knees in sheer awe. I almost snorted aloud from my hiding spot. Qiu Zhen began to move, his arms tracing wide, dramatic circles in the air. He took a massive, rattling breath, puffing his chest out like a mating pigeon. Look at him. He actually believes he is channeling cosmic divinity. In reality, he is just hyperventilating to induce hypoxia. Let's break down this 'Heaven-Grade' technique that the clan spent half their treasury to acquire. First, the rapid, shallow chest-breathing forces a massive drop in carbon dioxide levels in the blood, causing cerebral vasoconstriction. Second, the violent lung expansion puts pressure on the vagus nerve, dropping his heart rate and creating a false sense of spiritual peace. Third, the spiritual energy he is drawing in isn't being refined; it is being crammed into his primary meridians like wet sand into a narrow pipe. Why did the creator of this manual design it this way? Simple. The original creator was likely a mutant with an abnormally wide central meridian who needed massive volume to feel anything. For anyone with normal, healthy human anatomy, this technique was a slow-acting poison. Over time, these violent pressure spikes would cause micro-tears in the spiritual pathways. And how do you fix those scarred, bottlenecked pathways? Naturally, you buy expensive 'Meridian-Soothing Pills' from the very same sect that distributed the manual in the first place. A wave of deep, cynical amusement washed over me. It was a literal subscription model disguised as a divine gift. I leaned my chin on my hand, watching the show unfold with cold, analytical eyes. Purple smoke—likely generated by burning a cheap, sulfur-based herb hidden in his brazier—billowed around Qiu Zhen's feet. "Incredible!" shouted Clan Elder Qiu Gong, his hands trembling as he stroked his long, wispy beard. Old Qiu Gong looked like he was about to burst into tears of pure, uncritical devotion. Qiu Zhen finished his demonstration with a loud, theatrical grunt, stamping his foot so hard a paving stone cracked. "With this technique," Qiu Zhen declared, wiping a thin trail of sweat from his brow, "our Qiu Clan will rise to dominate the province!" If they keep practicing that, half of them will be paralyzed by age twenty-five. I closed my eyes and returned to my own breathing. My small, logical cycle continued. No purple smoke. No cracked paving stones. Just a steady, frictionless accumulation of energy that bypassed the major meridians entirely, distributing the pressure safely across my micro-capillaries. Footsteps approached my door. Our wooden door slid open with a sharp, annoying clatter. My mother, a tired-looking woman with hollow cheeks and worried eyes, stepped into the room holding a bowl of bitter, black medicine. "Ling'er," she whispered, her voice laced with a fragile, heartbreaking anxiety. "You must drink your medicine. Your father says your spiritual roots are too weak to join the demonstration." "No need for the demonstration, Mother," I said softly, taking the bowl. I sniffed the liquid. It was a basic concoction of low-grade Qi-stimulating herbs, mostly cheap fillers that would irritate my stomach lining more than help my energy. Drinking it slowly, I let the liquid pool in my stomach before using a localized temperature drop to neutralize the toxic alkaloids. "Do not speak so lightly of your father's teachings," she murmured, gently smoothing my tangled hair. "He strives so hard for us. The Heavenly Primordial Breath is a gift from the heavens." A familiar tightness gripped my chest, not from physical weakness, but from pure, unadulterated contempt for the lies this world fed its people. Heavens don't give gifts; they sell them at a premium, and the currency is your potential. I nodded quietly, keeping my face blank. "I understand, Mother. I will rest." She sighed, patted my shoulder, and left the room, sliding the door shut behind her. Walking back to the window, I watched the end of the courtyard spectacle. Qiu Zhen was now lecturing the young disciples on the importance of absolute obedience to the technique's flow. "Do not question the pain!" Qiu Zhen roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "The pain is merely the impurities leaving your body! It is the heaven's fire tempering your mortal clay!" No, you absolute idiot, the pain is lactic acid buildup and arterial inflammation. I watched as a young boy, no older than twelve, tried to mimic the breathing. Within seconds, his face turned pale, and he collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest. Instead of helping him, the instructors nodded approvingly, calling it a sign of 'deep resonance'. Clenching my small fists, I watched the boy writhe in agony. This entire world was a massive, glittering pyramid scheme built on the bones of the desperate. I would not play their game. I would dismantle it, brick by brick, law by law, using nothing but cold, unyielding logic. My own refined Qi hummed quietly in my lower abdomen, a perfectly balanced sphere of energy. Outside, the demonstration reached its peak. Elder Qiu Gong stepped forward, his eyes shining with a fanatical, blind light. "Truly," the elder cried, raising his staff toward the heavens. "This is the path to immortality!" As the clan elder praises the 'profound' technique, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor ripples through the air, carrying a voice that whispers, 'The Architect's blueprint unfolds...'

Chapter 1: Reborn to Mock Heaven