Time passed, though he could not tell how much.
The pain did not stop, but it changed. It dulled into something heavy and constant, like his whole body was submerged in heat.
His skin burned. Sweat soaked into his clothes and dried again, over and over. His head throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache that made every thought feel slow and distorted.
It felt like a fever dream.
His thoughts came apart easily. He would focus on something simple—breathing, counting, staying still—and lose it halfway through. His mind slipped, images blurring into each other without meaning.
His body felt too hot, like it was overheating from the inside. Every joint ached. Every muscle felt weak and sore, as if he had been sick for days without rest.
His mouth was dry, his tongue thick. Swallowing hurt.
'I wanna die...,' he thought.
For a moment, he wished he would just die. Not dramatically. Just quietly, so the pain would end.
But it didn't.
So he endured it.
He stayed curled on the floor, breathing shallowly, waiting for each wave to pass.
He had no choice but to endure. He had done it before, in another life, in another bed. This was different, worse in some ways, but the habit remained.
Endure first. Think later.
Eventually, the pain softened enough for him to stay conscious without screaming.
His body still burned, his head still hurt, but he was there.
He lay there, exhausted, feverish, and waiting, because waiting was something he knew how to do.
When the pain eased enough for him to think again, one need pushed everything else aside.
'Water.'
His throat felt raw, like it had been scraped from the inside. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when he swallowed.
He licked his lips out of habit and felt how dry they were. There was nothing around him. No bowl. No light. Nothing he could see.
He stayed still and focused, forcing himself to listen.
At first, there was only silence.
Then, faintly, he heard it. A soft, irregular sound.
Drip. Drip.
His heart lifted slightly.
He crawled toward it, dragging his body across the floor. Every movement felt slow and heavy, his muscles still weak from the fever.
He followed the sound carefully, adjusting when it grew louder.
When he reached the wall, his fingers brushed over damp stone. Cool and wet.
He pressed his palm against it to be sure. Water was seeping through, thin but steady.
He leaned closer, exhausted. Without thinking further, he stuck out his tongue and pressed it against the wall.
The water tasted like stone and rust.
He stayed like that, breathing shallowly, licking at the wall whenever a drop formed, taking whatever he could get.
After he had taken in enough water to stop the worst of the thirst, he forced himself to keep moving.
He didn't want to waste the chance.
He picked up the empty bowl and crawled back toward the damp wall. His arms shook as he moved, and every shift of his body sent a dull ache through his muscles.
The fever hadn't fully left him.
He pressed the bowl against the wall, tilting it slightly, waiting. Drops collected slowly. Too slowly.
He adjusted the angle, dragging the bowl along the stone to find where the water seeped out more steadily.
Each movement hurt. His shoulders burned. His legs felt heavy and uncooperative. He had to stop more than once just to breathe.
"Damn it."
He crawled around the room, testing different spots, listening for the sound of dripping.
When he found another place, he held the bowl there again, patient and stubborn.
It took time, but eventually a shallow pool of water gathered at the bottom. Not much, but enough to matter.
He set the bowl down carefully and rested beside it, chest rising and falling slowly.
His body throbbed from the effort, but the water was there now, saved for later.
His body still hurt.
Not sharply anymore, but deep and constant, like soreness layered over exhaustion. He lay there and wondered what the hell they had mixed into that food.
It didn't feel like something meant to kill. It felt like something meant to change him.
His head was clearer now. Thoughts lined up again instead of slipping away. His throat hurt badly, raw from screaming earlier. Every swallow scraped.
He didn't know what to do next. There was no plan forming. Pain. Hunger held at bay for now. Water saved carefully.
His mind drifted, back to old habits. Games. Systems. Menus. Mechanics that explained things.
Without thinking, he whispered, "System."
Nothing happened.
No screen. No voice. No response.
He let out a dry breath, half amused, half disappointed.
'Yeah… figures,' he thought, staring into the dark.
He tried again, mostly out of habit.
"Settings."
Nothing.
"Menu."
Still nothing.
He almost stopped there, but another word surfaced, instinctive and familiar.
"Status."
Something changed.
Light bloomed in front of him. Not real light—nothing illuminated the room—but something sharp and clear appeared in his vision, like a screen layered over reality.
Lines of text hovered, steady and unmoving.
He froze.
His first thought was that he was hallucinating. His head still hurt, a dull pressure behind his eyes, and the fever hadn't fully faded.
'Yeah, I'm fucked,' he thought.
'I finally lose it.'
But the panel didn't flicker. It didn't blur when he blinked. When he shifted his focus, it stayed exactly where it was, perfectly readable.
He swallowed, throat protesting.
'…Okay,' he thought. 'That's new.'
The pain in his body was still there, grounding him. The ache in his limbs. The rough floor beneath him.
None of it felt dreamlike.
He stared at the panel longer, heart beating a little faster, caught between disbelief and a quiet, rising excitement.
[ Name: Zhao Zhiyu ]
[ Cultivation Base: Mortal ]
[ Strength: 7 ]
[ Agility: 6 ]
[ Endurance: 8 ]
[ Vitality: 9 ]
[ Perception: 5 ]
[ Willpower: 11 ]
[ Condition: Weak | Feverish | Poisoned (Residual) ]
[ Soul Status: Unintegrated ]
[ Body Compatibility: Incomplete ]
[ Notes: Soul and body are not fully synchronized. ]
He stared at the panel for a long moment, then closed his eyes. He opened them again.
The panel was still there.
He let out a quiet breath and felt something warm rise in his chest. Against his expectations, against common sense, he actually had a system... Or a panel.
The thought made him smile despite the lingering pain in his body.
'So I really am the transmigrated one,' he thought, mildly amused.
His eyes drifted to the name at the top. Zhao Zhiyu. It sounded natural in this world, but it didn't mean anything to him. He didn't know the characters. He didn't know the meaning.
It felt like borrowing someone else's name and wearing it anyway.
He scanned the rest of the panel again. The condition line confirmed what he already suspected.
Poisoned.
He sighed softly at that. At least it explained the pain.
'Figures,' he thought. 'They really did put something in the food.'
Still, the panel itself felt reassuring. It meant he wasn't completely blind here. He had something to rely on, even if it wasn't a miracle.
Then he noticed it.
There's no additional points.
He frowned slightly. That meant improvement wasn't automatic. If he wanted to be stronger, faster, or tougher, he would have to earn it. No instant growth.
He sighed again, this time longer.
'So it's one of those systems,' he thought.
It wasn't generous. But it was clear. His condition, his limits, his progress... all reduced to numbers he could understand.
He lay back against the wall, exhausted but steadier than before.
'Fine,' he thought.
'At least now I know how weak I am'
He stared at his name again, letting the letters roll around in his mind.
Zhao Zhiyu.
It sounded… normal, almost boring, but he didn't know what it actually meant. Maybe "Zhiyu" was something fancy in this world. Maybe it meant "awesome mortal" or "guy who gets poisoned a lot." He snorted quietly at the thought.
'Yeah, probably not that,' he thought.
His eyes flicked back to the panel. Soul Status: Unintegrated.
'Okay… that's weird,' he muttered. 'My soul isn't in my body yet. Makes sense, kinda… I guess that's the transmigration thing.'
He leaned back, legs stretched awkwardly, and considered it carefully.
'So souls exist here,' he said to himself, frowning. 'Like… actually exist. Not just theory from my last world where everyone argued about... Plato and Socrates would go wild in here.'
He flexed his fingers slowly. His arms still ached from crawling, but he felt steady enough to think.
'Not integrated yet, huh? Maybe I need time to integrate it?'
He grinned a little, feeling a goofy sense of satisfaction.
'And hey, if souls are real here, maybe I can do cool stuff later,' he thought.
'But for now… I need to live.'
He waited again. Hours passed slowly, and he didn't move much. His body still ached, and every shift reminded him of the ropes and the pain he had endured.
He stared at the panel, the numbers and words reflecting back at him. It was the only thing steady in this dark, empty space.
Then another discomfort hit him.
He needed to shit.
Badly.
His stomach twisted and squirmed, and he realized just how long he had been holding it in.
He groaned quietly and pressed his knees to his chest, trying to ease the pressure.
'Great,' he muttered. 'Just… another thing to deal with.'
He looked at the panel again, letting his mind wander. He didn't think about glory or power. He thought practically.
How often did the man come with food? How often had the sounds passed outside his room? Could he predict the pattern?
He tried counting in his head, remembering the previous feeding. Sixteen hours had passed before the first bowl.
That meant the next one could be… maybe twelve hours? Could be shorter. Could be longer. He had no way of knowing for sure.
'Okay,' he thought. 'I need to be ready, but I also need to survive until then. Don't overdo it, just conserve energy.'
He shifted slightly, careful not to push his body too far. Breathing slowly, he focused on the panel again.
Numbers were safer than guessing the man's schedule.
His stomach growled angrily, reminding him of its presence.
He sighed.
Survival wasn't fun. It was boring, slow, and uncomfortable.
'Just… survive,' he told himself. 'Then maybe figure out the rest later.'