Canglan Continent, Wenyun Kingdom, Fog City — the Lewis Estate.
Under a pavilion, an elderly man in a long robe stood before a stone table, guiding a brush across rice paper without laying a finger on it. Pure energy controlled the pen, each stroke bold and powerful.
It looked serene, cultured even—but there was fire boiling inside him.
Suddenly, his breath faltered. The brush jerked, leaving a crooked streak across the page. Mr. Jones, brewing tea at the side, stiffened. He knew that slight slip meant something big.
Sure enough, the old man’s temper snapped. He flung the brush down, hard enough to rattle the teacups.
“Go check if that disgrace has woken up! If he’s conscious, drag him here. Now!”
...
“Qiankun Refining Cauldron... so I had to burn my spirit into it, make my body the cauldron... No wonder I couldn't break through before…”
Lying on the soft couch, Evan Lewis muttered under his breath, then shot up as realization hit.
“Wait a minute, I died... That explosion—how am I even still—?”
His eyes flew open.
He found himself in a lavishly decorated room, luxury screaming from every corner. Then a flood of memories slammed into his mind — two lives’ worth, clashing like thunder, leaving him drenched in sweat.
As the pain eased, he started piecing things together.
He was once a renowned alchemist back on Earth, a hidden master among the mortals. The cultivators of the inner world kept to forests and mountains, keeping the ancient ways alive. He’d stood at the peak of them all.
Until the Qiankun Refining Cauldron blew him into another world, into this young man’s body — a body that shared his name, Evan Lewis.
At first, he’d been pleased. A noble heir in Fog City? Not bad. But digging deeper?
The joy vanished quick.
This world worshiped strength, and cultivation ranked from Heaven, Earth, Black, Yellow, down to Origin, each level with nine stages. And this punk? Ten years of training, barely made it to Origin Stage Two. Worse than a dog.
Looking through all the idiotic things his new body had done was like skimming through a manual titled “How to Be Trash.” It made Evan feel sick.
Back on Earth, he’d been the Alchemy King. At thirty-eight, he refined ninth-tier pills like he was flipping pancakes. Cultivators bowed when they saw him.
Now? Some spoiled, lazy wreck who'd ruined a perfectly good body chasing wine and women—idiot even tried going after Sophia Carter, the city lord’s daughter, and got his dantian crushed by Conner Bates in a single slap.
“Something about all this doesn’t add up,” Evan muttered, frowning.Evan Lewis frowned, about to sort out his thoughts, when hurried footsteps sounded outside the door.
"Young Master!" Liza rushed in, panting, her voice filled with urgency. "Master wants to see you immediately!"
Evan calmly straightened his robe. "I'm on my way."
"You better go quickly, sir. The old man’s furious."
Liza’s voice trembled with concern. Evan gave her a faint smirk and ruffled her hair. "So, Grandpa’s ready to hand me my sentence, huh?"
He wasn’t the same fool he used to be.
Sure, he'd be scolded, but if he went in unprepared, he might say something wrong. Still, knowing Grandfather's rigid temper, dawdling might earn him a beating.
"Fine. I’ll change first."
"Your clothes are here, sir."
Liza quickly brought over a robe. Evan took one look and his face darkened.
The silk robe was a disaster—full of holes, glittering decorations dangling off the edges. It was loud, gaudy, and tasteless.
"Seriously, this was mine?" he asked in disbelief.
Liza nodded shyly. "Sir, it’s your favorite robe. You insisted Madam Wang modify it several times."
She looked puzzled—something about the young master felt different today.
"Strip those fancy trinkets and store them. Burn this thing. And get me something plain, clean."
Evan looked at the ridiculous outfit, shaking his head. If the old him had put this much energy into training instead of looking flashy, maybe he wouldn't have gotten his dantian shattered.
Liza stared at him, her mind circling a wild thought: Had the young master... come to his senses?
Evan made his way to the back courtyard, relying on memory.
In the distance, an old man stood by the pavilion, writing with a brush—composed on the surface, but Evan could sense his brewing fury.
"Grandfather, your grandson greets you."
Evan stepped forward, stiffly bowing.
Mr. Jones and the nearby servants were dead silent. The old man didn’t show anger outright, but the air was suffocating. The calm before a storm.
"Wham!"
"Crack!"
The old master slammed the brush down. It snapped clean in two.
"You disgrace! You’ve always been idle, but now you’ve got the guts to mess with the City Lord’s daughter? And failed at it too? How much more shame are you gonna pile on this family?!"
Evan stood stunned. That was his takeaway? “Failed”?
"When you were six, I personally tested your bloodline. Top-tier talent. A gift this family rarely sees! And what have you done with it? Nothing! Chasing skirts, wasting time, and now you’ve got your dantian crippled! You brought this on yourself—I can’t even look someone in the eye about it!"
