Cold pierced his bones before pain reached his mind.
The sensation dragged him out of unconsciousness, rough and unkind, as if the world itself had no intention of welcoming him. His eyelids trembled, heavy as stone, before finally parting.
Dim light stabbed into his eyes.
A cracked wooden ceiling came into view, its surface mottled with mold and dark stains. A spiderweb clung to one corner, swaying gently as a draft slipped through unseen gaps in the walls. The air smelled damp, mixed with something sour—rotting straw, unwashed bodies, old blood.
He tried to breathe.
His chest tightened immediately, lungs burning as though each breath scraped against rusted blades. A weak cough escaped his throat, hoarse and shallow, sending sharp pain through his ribs.
"So… fragile."
The voice was his.
And not his.
The thought surfaced naturally, carrying an ancient calm that clashed violently with the body's misery. Memories stirred—not of this place, not of this body—but of endless darkness, of laws collapsing, of lightning forged from Heaven's will tearing everything apart.
The Divine Heavenly Void Emperor had died.
That truth was clear.
Yet he was breathing.
He attempted to move an arm. The moment he exerted even the slightest strength, agony flooded through his limbs. Muscles screamed in protest. His vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges.
This body was worse than he had anticipated.
No—this body was trash.
A second current of memories surfaced, uninvited and overwhelming.
A narrow room. Mocking laughter. Fingers pointing. Words like useless, freak, why were you even born?
A boy kneeling on a cold floor, head lowered, slender shoulders trembling as voices pressed down on him from every direction.
The memories were vivid. Too vivid.
The Emperor did not reject them.
He understood immediately.
The soul fusion was complete.
This body belonged to a boy who had been discarded by his world long before death had claimed him. Weak constitution. No talent. No backing. Even in a cultivation world, such existences were common—fodder for others to step on.
A slow, shallow breath entered his lungs.
"Both of us… ended as trash," he murmured.
The voice that left his lips was soft, almost fragile. Too light. Too easily broken.
Footsteps sounded outside the room.
His body stiffened instinctively, fear rising before reason could suppress it. The emotion did not belong to the Emperor—it belonged to the boy whose soul now shared his existence.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped inside, middle-aged, dressed in coarse robes marked with the emblem of a minor sect. His expression twisted into annoyance the moment he saw the figure on the bed had opened his eyes.
"Tch. Still alive?" the man said.
He walked closer, gaze filled with open contempt.
"You really are hard to kill. Even beaten half to death, you still cling on."
The Emperor watched silently.
Information aligned itself naturally in his mind.
This man was a servant. No—lower than that. A caretaker assigned to the outer disciples' refuse. To bodies like this one.
The man reached out and grabbed his collar, lifting him slightly before letting him drop back onto the straw mattress.
"Listen carefully," the servant said coldly. "You're being transferred tomorrow. The sect doesn't waste food on useless trash anymore."
Transferred.
The word carried no kindness.
In cultivation worlds, it often meant labor pits, experiment grounds, or worse.
The Emperor felt no panic.
Only clarity.
This body could not cultivate.
This soul could not yet wield the Void.
But he was alive.
And Heaven had failed to erase him.
The servant turned and left, slamming the door shut behind him.
Silence returned.
The Emperor closed his eyes, focusing inward.
His soul was fractured. His Void Dao reduced to faint fragments drifting like broken stars. His cultivation—nonexistent. Even sensing spiritual energy caused a dull ache to pulse through his head.
Weak.
Painfully weak.
Yet beneath the instability, something remained.
Endurance.
The boy's soul contributed a stubborn will born from years of silent suffering. The Emperor's soul contributed patience forged over countless eras.
Together, they formed something incomplete—but unbroken.
"…Very well," he whispered.
Not as a threat.
Not as a vow.
But as acceptance.
If this cultivation world wished to treat him as trash, then he would begin as trash.
And climb.
One painful breath at a time.