Chapter One: The Stone Tablet of Inherited Power

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Early morning.

At 6:45, the world was slowly awakening. Brilliant sunlight poured down from the clouds, filtering through forests and fields, landing upon beds, shining into dreams. It should have been an ordinary day.

At least, until this moment.

Then, in the very next instant, while the sunlight still bathed the earth, an enormous translucent sphere of light suddenly appeared in the sky without warning. It was difficult to say how large it was—more like a projection, or a mirage.

But in truth, it was far clearer than any mirage or projection.

A strange, unfamiliar world had abruptly manifested.

In a matter of moments, people from cities and villages alike, atop mountain peaks and upon the seas, even those on the hemisphere slipping into night, all witnessed this spectacle, utterly unaffected by the time of day.

The appearance of the sphere defied all known laws of reality.

Click! Click!

Beep beep beep!

The streets erupted into chaos. People, always eager for excitement, snapped photos, took selfies, and posted them on every conceivable platform. Within a minute, the incident had become the top trending topic.

It evolved rapidly into a nationwide celebration.

Joyful energy was everywhere.

Except for those still sleeping, or those lying in bed—regardless of their state of consciousness or posture, so long as their bodies touched the mattress, they were instantly drawn into a strange, harmonious dream.

In this dream, there was only darkness—yet it inspired no fear. Instead, an ancient voice resonated gently, like an omnipresent background sound.

“Demonic invaders are coming; the sacred flame is fading. Across the three thousand worlds, humanity suffers calamity.

“You are the last descendants of mankind among these worlds. In three hundred years, the demons will invade this place and destroy everything.

“You may choose to act, or choose to do nothing.”

As the old voice faded, a ghostly flame flickered ahead, and then a second, and a third.

In moments, the lights expanded, revealing three stone monuments within their glow.

The stone stelae were intricate, peculiar, and extraordinary, with what appeared to be inscriptions upon them.

As the light grew stronger, many who had believed themselves merely dreaming now realized, in terror, that they were surrounded by a sea of people—thousands, perhaps millions, amidst the clamor of drums and gongs. When had so many entered their dreams?

Screams echoed throughout the dreamscape. Some shouted, “Don’t panic! This is my dream! Everything is an illusion, wake up now! Damn, it’s sleep paralysis…”

How could anyone remain calm?

Wei Cheng was also thoroughly shaken—not because he was timid, but because he suspected he might have died. As a thirty-year-old single office worker, he’d finally enjoyed a weekend without overtime, only to game through the night.

Life is short; enjoyment should be seized when it comes. He had just climbed into bed, ready to drift into sleep, when this bizarre event occurred. His first thought was that he’d crossed the Bridge of the Afterlife.

Especially since he couldn’t move a muscle. The feeling was utterly crushing.

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Yet this state lasted only a few seconds, for the brilliance from the three stone stelae above suddenly intensified severalfold, like a rising sun. In an instant, everyone—including Wei Cheng—fell silent. There was something in that light, a power that calmed the mind and soothed the spirit. Bathed in its warmth, one almost wished to fall asleep again, as if reborn anew.

But the light faded after three seconds, returning to normal and revealing the true forms of the three stelae.

The ancient voice returned.

“These are three transmission stelae, each inscribed with a martial cultivation technique. If you wish to prepare for the demon invasion destined to come in three hundred years, fix your gaze upon one of the stelae and choose accordingly. If you prefer to enjoy the present, or do not believe, you may awaken now.”

Who believed it? Wei Cheng certainly did not. But he was in no hurry to leave. If this was a dream, waking up early would be a waste.

Who was he to shy away from excitement?

Many shared Wei Cheng’s thoughts; skepticism was universal.

As Wei Cheng focused on the first stone stele, lines of text and vivid images appeared, shifting and swirling like tadpoles, yet somehow perfectly intelligible to him.

At the top were words of explanation: “The demonic invasion approaches; the sacred flame fades. Across the three thousand worlds, humanity suffers. These inheritances are left for those fated to receive them.”

Then:

“Mountain-Moving Technique: Martial Realm.

“Cultivating this technique generates Mountain-Moving Inner Force—unyielding and fierce, it strengthens the flesh, muscles, bones, and skin, greatly enhancing defense. Its weakness: limited agility.

“Compatible external techniques: Golden Bell Shield (80% match), Iron Shirt (70%), Iron Head Skill (60%).

“Friendly reminder: Immortal arts are profound, the sacred flame mysterious, and the art is not easily taught. I have done my best to make it understandable.”

“Hmm?”

Wei Cheng was immediately intrigued.

He shifted his gaze to the second stele and quickly read the contents.

“Swift Swallow Technique: Martial Realm.

“Cultivating this technique generates Swift Swallow Inner Force—exceedingly agile and adept at redirecting force. It lightens the body like a swallow, making evasion swift as lightning. Its weakness: limited power.

“Compatible external techniques: Cloud-Stepping (80% match), Water Treading (70%), Grass Skimming (60%).”

After reading the second stele, Wei Cheng could already guess the nature of the third. Clearly, he was dreaming—a never-ending team fight, it seemed.

He wagered the third would be a healer’s technique.

“Purple Mist Technique: Martial Realm.

“Cultivating this technique generates Purple Mist Inner Force—deep and enduring, balanced in motion and stillness, gathering strength for explosive power. It sharpens the senses, coordinates the limbs, stabilizes breath, and delivers tremendous damage. Its weakness: slow cultivation speed.”

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“Compatible external techniques: Wandering Dragon Palm (80%), Eight Direction Sword (70%), Cloak Staff (60%).”

“It’s not a healer’s technique after all.”

Wei Cheng was a little surprised, but it hardly mattered. The three techniques were clearly divided into defense, agility, and offense. Which should he choose?

After brief consideration, he dismissed the slow-cultivating Purple Mist Technique and chose the first stele—the Mountain-Moving Technique.

As for the Swift Swallow Technique, well, as someone who’d been overweight his whole life, that was out of the question.

When Wei Cheng made his choice, a small part of him still believed it was just a dream. Yet in the moment his selection was complete, the words and images from the stone stele surged into his mind, a tide of information pouring into him. A warm current took shape from nothing, circulating three times through his body, then settling just below his navel, indescribably profound.

Before he could fully process the sensation, he awoke abruptly—not in his bed, but inside a dimly lit stone cavern.

Judging by the rough rock walls and chisel marks, it resembled a mine shaft.

Wei Cheng froze for a few seconds, then pinched the inside of his thigh hard enough to make himself shudder in pain, eyes brimming with tears. Miraculously, the warmth in his lower abdomen flowed over the pain, instantly soothing it, though its volume seemed to diminish by a tenth.

“Damn!”

Wei Cheng swore inwardly. So it was real—this was his Mountain-Moving Inner Force.

But what now?

Was there a status panel?

Was there a system?

Where was the old man with the golden finger?

Scattered thoughts raced through his mind, but Wei Cheng quickly calmed himself. The truth was irrelevant; adaptation was all that mattered.

“Three stelae, three techniques—the technique you chose determines your beginning.”

“My Mountain-Moving Technique reduces damage, so it’s defensive. The stele recommended external techniques, but didn’t provide them. So, do I have to find them myself, or will they drop from monsters?”

Thinking aloud, he held his breath, listened carefully, and observed his surroundings. All was quiet—he could even hear his own heartbeat.

He was at the end of a mine shaft, perhaps three to five square meters in size, faintly illuminated by a strange, glowing moss. The air was fresh; survival seemed manageable.

As for weapons, Wei Cheng’s search soon revealed a set of coarse clothing, a pair of cloth shoes, a basket containing a water flask and two rock-hard vegetable buns, and finally, a pickaxe.

So, it was a miner’s start for him.

(New author, new book—please support and give this fledgling writer some encouragement. Many thanks!)