Zhao Cheng

The sun hung high in the sky; though autumn had arrived, the air still carried a lingering touch of summer heat.

In the classroom, Zhao Cheng rested his head on one hand while idly spinning a pen with the other, his open textbook looking brand new.

On the podium, a tall, middle-aged man drew circles and squares on the blackboard freehand, displaying impressive skill.

As for Zhao Cheng, he was zoning out; while his body remained in the classroom, his mind had drifted off to parts unknown.

His thoughts were unbridled. Though he appeared dull on the outside, a storm was raging within his brain, churning through ideas that seemed profound but were, in reality, entirely meaningless.

At this moment, Zhao Cheng was wondering: if he treated this classroom as the "outside," would the vast universe beyond the walls become the "inside"?

The place where he sat was the edge of the inner world; he could even transcend the dimension of "inside and outside" and achieve a dimensional leap just by reaching out his hand.

After all, the window was right by his left hand.

The sunlight from outside the window shone on him, feeling a bit hot.

Zhao Cheng thought about reaching out, so he put down his pen, looked at his palm, and splayed his five fingers.

Under the sunlight, his palm, though not large, appeared translucent and crystalline, like some kind of jade.

Seeing this, Zhao Cheng's thoughts continued to wander, jumping straight to the idea that "sunlight has a great beauty filter effect." This train of thought led him to consider absurd methods like using filters to turn fried chicken into a beautiful woman, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

"Life like this isn't actually bad!"

"Not only did I get to live twenty-some years longer, but I've also been restored to my youth. This is a total win-win; I've won big."

Zhao Cheng's thoughts shifted again, turning to his past life.

"I just wonder if Old Zhang, Old Wang, and the others managed to survive."

Zhao Cheng was a transmigrator, but not in the conventional sense. Compared to soul-snatching, his experience was closer to reincarnation.

He had simply swapped worlds.

However, Zhao Cheng's reincarnation had been a bit of a rough adjustment. When he was first born, he was no different from an ordinary infant. It was only as he grew older that he began to experience sudden, intense feelings of familiarity upon seeing certain scenes, eventually leading to dreams filled with fragments of memories from his past life.

It wasn't until six months ago that Zhao Cheng finally broke through that barrier. It was a moment where the world suddenly became clear; everything was remembered, and everything made sense.

The final memory of his past life was of snow covering the sky, surging like a tidal wave, roaring and tumultuous, fully displaying the biting, heavenly might of nature.

That scene was nothing short of breathtaking, especially when one was caught in the middle of it. The sensations he felt were far beyond what any video could capture.

It was a kind of majestic, explosive, and surging beauty.

The only downside to experiencing that beauty was the cost: one life per attempt.

Of course, Zhao Cheng wasn't the only one buried alive by the snow; his friends were there too.

Zhao Cheng knew exactly how he had died, but he didn't know if his friends had managed to create a miracle of life.

After all, luck is a fickle thing.

The moment Zhao Cheng recovered his memories, he realized he had transmigrated to a different world.

This current world was not only over a hundred times larger than the Earth of his past life.

Most importantly, this world possessed a form of near-transcendent power.

He called it "near-transcendent" because this power wasn't supernatural; there was no spiritual energy in the air, nor were there any transcendent particles.

No one could summon wind or rain, nor could they command wind, fire, or lightning.

Yet, people could temper their bodies and spirits through special means, causing their physical forms to gradually become "indestructible" and their spirits to become "immortal."

The strong among them displayed feats that, from the perspective of Zhao Cheng's past life, were extremely "unscientific."

Slicing iron with a wooden sword!

Splitting gold with a flick of a finger!

Even the traces they left behind held an intent that could endure for a thousand years!

To the people of this world, these displays were commonplace, just as people don't find the act of breathing strange.

The people of this world felt no surprise that one could gain transcendent power through cultivation.

But for Zhao Cheng, a transmigrator who had lived in a world of ordinary people, cultivation was a magical, even inconceivable, thing.

This was undoubtedly a cognitive dissonance.

And it was precisely because of this dissonance that Zhao Cheng developed a longing—a longing for the "transcendent."

This was a very normal psychological reaction; the more one lacks something, the more one desires it.

Only those who have endured hunger truly understand the value of food. Having lived in an ordinary world, Zhao Cheng developed a strong obsession with the transcendent.

This obsession was something many of the natives of this world did not possess.

Thus, over the past six months, Zhao Cheng had shed his former laziness.

Perhaps because he had awakened the memories of his past life, or perhaps because of the transmigration itself, Zhao Cheng's talent for cultivation was not bad. While not one in ten thousand, he was certainly one in several thousand.

Coupled with his obsession and diligent practice, his progress over the last six months could be described as rapid.

Reflected in reality, his vitality had become more robust, his body stronger and more powerful, and his spirit increasingly sharp.

At the same time, due to the transmigration, a strange change had occurred within him: he could perceive every bit of progress he made, no matter how small.

It was a strange sensation, yet not ethereal; rather, it was as vivid and tangible as the act of breathing.

Beyond that, Zhao Cheng sensed another shift—a certain power, or perhaps a fundamental essence within him, was "adapting" to this world.

The feeling was difficult to articulate; if one had to describe it, "adaptation" was the only word that fit.

Of course, it was possible that the power was adapting to the world, or perhaps the world was adapting to the power.

However, this question was much like Zhao Cheng's earlier musings on the "inside and outside" of the world—seemingly profound, yet ultimately inconsequential to the situation at hand.

As time passed, especially over these last few days, Zhao Cheng felt a vague sense that this transformation was nearing completion.

The moment of completion might be two or three days away, or it might be the very next second.

Zhao Cheng was curious about what would actually happen once the change was finished.

Had this been back when he first awakened the memories of his past life, he might have hoped to suddenly gain some heaven-defying power, capable of slaying gods and Buddhas alike.

But now, after half a year of cultivation, while his strength hadn't increased significantly and he hadn't become a superman, his heart had grown calm.

He understood that cultivation emphasized the tempering of the mind; power beyond one's control was like a child wielding a sledgehammer—one slip, and it meant self-destruction.

Therefore, although Zhao Cheng was curious and understood that this was undoubtedly a beneficial change, he did not indulge in fantasies about suddenly acquiring immense power.

Because that would be no blessing at all.

The true essence of cultivation lies in subduing the mind.

This was a Buddhist maxim, but it was also Zhao Cheng's own hard-won realization.