The First Transmigrat

Months passed by like falling leaves, quiet and steady.

Some of the younger students in the academy had started to notice me. Not that I did anything to draw attention—quite the opposite. I usually just sat in lotus position somewhere under the shade of a tree, or on the rooftop, or sometimes even in the hallway near the medical wing. Wherever the air felt good and the light wasn't too harsh.

To most of them, I must've looked like a weirdo.

A few stared at me like I was an idiot who had lost his mind under the sun. Some looked at me with awe, like I was some ancient hermit lost in eternal meditation. Others just ignored me completely, as if I was a rock on the side of the road.

I didn't care either way.

They didn't matter.

I spent most of my time with Old Dao anyway. The only person in this world who truly felt close to me.

We hung out almost every day—drinking cheap tea, laughing over broken bones and broken dreams, and occasionally mocking the ridiculous martial arts scrolls the academy sold as "divine inheritance." The man was a walking library of gossip, rumors, and biting sarcasm.

One day, while we were sitting on the veranda watching students run laps, Old Dao gave me this long sideways look.

"You know… you're not getting any younger," he muttered.

I glanced at him. "Is that your subtle way of asking me to settle down?"

"You've got a good head on your shoulders, an honest heart, decent looks—when you shave—and a mysterious aura. Women love that crap," he said with a smug grin. "Want me to arrange a meeting? I know a nice herbalist's daughter. Strong hips. Good with firewood."

I burst out laughing.

He kept a straight face for about five seconds, then started laughing too.

He was half-serious though. I could tell.

There was something weirdly comforting about it. In this strange world with its fake deities and ridiculous martial schools, Old Dao had become the closest thing I had to family.

We talked about everything—idiot nobles, failed revolts, wild rumors from the southern borders, even strange beasts sighted in the northern snowlands. Our jokes were dark, our stories dramatic, but our friendship was steady.

I even stopped shaving. Grew a long beard. Let my hair grow out till it reached my back.

Didn't care.

Old Dao said it made me look more dignified, like a wandering sage or an ancient scholar. I told him I looked like a homeless monk.

We laughed about that too.

As for my cultivation... I had long since refined my body—bones, muscles, nerves, organs, eyes, all that basic stuff. It felt easy, like polishing tools I already had.

Now, I'd moved on to more advanced things. Subtle, delicate systems. The edges of power where most people wouldn't even think to look.

Cells.

Every single cell in my body, one by one, was being refined using the cosmic energy I absorbed from the stars. It was slow, meticulous work—less about strength, more about control and optimization.

But I was patient.

My golden eyes made it easier to direct energy through the finest threads of my body. I practiced shaping the flow of power until I could guide it like water down narrow glass tubes. It was all about control.

Precision over power.

Mastery over muscle.

One of the biggest upgrades came from something I used to ignore—the Black Wind.

It was a strange energy that I had discovered earlier, but now… I understood it better. It wasn't just some elemental force. It was divine in nature—sharp, consuming, endlessly flowing.

Once I mastered its rhythm, I could use it without worrying about how much energy it cost. It became second nature—like breathing.

I could slice the wind with a flick of my hand.

Call shadows that obeyed my will.

Even silence the air around me so thoroughly that no sound could escape.

It wasn't flashy. It wasn't about destruction.

It was about precision. Subtlety. Refinement.

Then there was something new—something I named "Soul Sense."

The name sounded a little too dramatic, maybe, but it fit.

It started as a faint pressure—an awareness in my mind whenever people came near. Then it evolved. I could feel emotions—faint colors in the air around people. Joy had a warm golden hue. Anger felt like flickering red fire. Envy shimmered with a green haze. Despair was heavy, like black mist.

It was strange. Almost like I could see people's hearts.

Not clearly. Just shades. Impressions.

But it gave me insight. It let me understand others in a way I never could before. And more importantly, it gave me awareness. In a fight, that kind of emotional radar could mean everything.

But even then—I wasn't growing stronger.

Not in the traditional sense.

I wasn't trying to break through stages or ascend to a higher realm or whatever nonsense people here talked about.

I was refining what I already had. Digging deeper. Sharpening the blade instead of making it bigger.

My strength wasn't new—it was just more complete.

I could feel it, deep inside. My body didn't just contain energy—it became energy. Each step I took was lighter, sharper. Each breath I took filled me with clarity.

It wasn't about being more powerful than others.

It was about being more me.

One night, I sat out under the stars again, as I always did.

Hair wild. Beard untamed. Shirt open to the night air.

I closed my eyes and guided the black wind through my limbs, refining every strand of muscle, every neuron, every flicker of thought.

I reached deep into myself, testing the limits of what I could perceive, what I could feel.

The stars above flickered like silent witnesses.

My golden eyes opened slowly—glowing faintly in the darkness.

I smiled.

Not because I had gained something.

But because I had become something.

And for now, that was enough.