Chapter 1: The Summoning of the Celestial Demon

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Misty Soul Bay, a perilous stretch along the Qingyuan River, was perpetually shrouded in white fog. Those who entered were easily lost, unable to find their way back. Save for a handful of reckless fishermen, no one dared approach; it was a place of first-class danger. Deep within Misty Soul Bay, a peninsula jutted forth, its back pressed against the mountains and stretching into the waters—a shape reminiscent of a great fish leaping halfway from the river. The island was thickly wooded, exuding a tranquil and secluded air.

Hidden in the heart of this dense forest stood a mountain stronghold, silent and watchful as a wolf, coldly observing the world beyond, biding its time with patient calculation. This was the infamous lair of the River-Ravaging Bandits—Muyu Island.

Though Misty Soul Bay was treacherous, its outer reaches were calm and peaceful, forming an important commercial waterway that linked Qinghe County with the prefectural city, yielding abundant profits. The River-Ravaging Bandits set a carp free here, claiming it was an offering to the Dragon King of the River to bless passing merchants. Then they established a checkpoint: every trading caravan had to pay a hefty toll, or risk vanishing into the fog, goods and lives alike.

The officials of Qinghe County had mounted several campaigns to root out the bandits, but each time, the outlaws withdrew into Misty Soul Bay, relying on the natural defenses to thwart pursuit. Over time, the authorities grew weary of the cost in men and money, while the bandits’ reputation only grew. In the end, the officials quietly tolerated the bandits’ existence.

To be fair, the River-Ravaging Bandits were not without sense; they never targeted government vessels, demanded only money and seldom took lives, and took care not to cause any shocking bloodshed. If they did need to kill, they left no survivors and ensured no news escaped. Thus, the River-Ravaging Bandits came to dominate the hundred-mile stretch of Misty Soul Bay.

Night fell. The moon hung high and bright. The sprawling waterside fortress had settled into silence. Life in the stronghold was austere; at night, aside from the business of procreation, there was little entertainment. Most of the bandits were fast asleep, save for those on sentry duty.

Meanwhile, in a manor on the outskirts of Muyu Island, a young man of about twenty, clad in blue and with sallow skin, sat cross-legged in a basement, forming occult hand seals. His eyes were half-closed and his expression grave—this was Jiang Wang, a cultivator and one of the chief leaders of the River-Ravaging Bandits, his rank just below the three heads.

“Heaven and earth’s wandering souls—come!”

Biting his tongue, Jiang Wang pushed his incantation to its peak. At that moment, the three oil lamps in the chamber blazed brightly, casting a waxen glow over the room.

But in the next instant, an intangible, chilling wind swept in from the void. The flames of the three lamps flickered violently; two went out in quick succession. As the ritual collapsed, Jiang Wang, who had been sitting upright, suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood.

“Fai… failed? Why? I was certain I had prepared for every contingency. Has fate truly abandoned me?”

Blood streamed from the seven orifices of his face. His breath ceased. Jiang Wang collapsed to the ground, death written in every unwilling line of his face.

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At that same moment, a soul-light of unknown origin drifted in from the void and fused completely with Jiang Wang’s corpse.

Moments later, blood still trickling from his seven orifices, the man who should have been dead slowly rose to his feet, his eyes vacant and bewildered.

“Secret Art: Summoning of Souls…”

The blood tears at the corners of his eyes had not yet dried. The “Jiang Wang” who stood there cast a dazed gaze around, as if still caught in a dream, his soul not yet returned.

The chamber was small, little more than a root cellar for storing food. Furnishings were sparse: apart from a meditation mat, there was only an incense burner, from which wisps of fragrant smoke drifted, filling the room with a faint, pleasant scent. In the corner, three oil lamps had been placed; now, only one burned on, its pallid flame casting an eerie light.

“I am Jiang Chen; he is Jiang Wang.”

“I am a survivor from the apocalypse; he was a cultivator in this world.”

“I have transmigrated—or perhaps, borrowed this corpse to return to life.”

As the memories in his mind slowly dissolved, the confusion in “Jiang Wang’s” eyes faded, replaced by clarity and color.

“Death is no great loss. There was little to cherish in that apocalyptic world. To live anew in this strange world is a stroke of immense fortune. Judging by the fragments of Jiang Wang’s memories, this world’s circumstances are not so bad—at least, there is no threat of starvation.”

“Most importantly, this world seems to possess a complete system of cultivation, and beings known as immortals.”

Having digested the remnants of Jiang Wang’s memories, Jiang Chen quickly accepted the reality of his own transmigration and resurrection in a completely new world.

He had originally been a person of the Profound Star Realm. Though he had lived as a humble laborer, life was peaceful, food and clothing were never lacking, and he had been content—until a mysterious catastrophe struck, upending everything. The apocalypse had come.

Humanity, once the overlord of Profound Star, was cast down from its throne, plunged into the mire, left to struggle for survival. Jiang Chen had suffered greatly—fighting stray dogs for scraps, betrayed by his own kind. If not for his later awakening of supernatural abilities, he would have perished long ago. Even with his abilities, he changed little, only growing more numb with each loss. Compared to the overwhelming disaster of the apocalypse, his meager powers were insignificant.

“My abilities remain.”

His gaze deepened, as though a dark sea lurked within. Sensing his own condition, the last vestiges of unease faded from Jiang Chen’s heart. Having survived the apocalypse, he knew that all things were fleeting—only power was truly reliable. With his abilities intact, he had a foundation on which to stand.

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“Soul Mirror!”

A faint ghostly light flickered in his eyes. Jiang Chen activated his ability, delving deeper into the fragmented memories in his mind, determined not to miss a single detail.

In this alien world, information was crucial. The only source available to him was the lingering soul of the original Jiang Wang. Fortunately, his soul-based abilities excelled at precisely this—making the dead speak was no miracle for him.

After a time, the ghostly light faded from his gaze. Jiang Chen ceased his probing. By now, the pieces had assembled; a relatively complete story had taken shape in his mind.

The tale was simple enough: a cultivator nearly driven mad by his pursuit of immortality, desperate to alter his own fate, recklessly invoked a forbidden ritual and brought disaster upon himself—body and soul utterly destroyed.

“This is Qinghe County, in the Southern Realm. Judging by the cultivation lore left behind by Jiang Wang, I suppose I could be considered an ‘outer-realm demon’ now,” Jiang Chen mused, lost in thought.

In this world, cultivation began with Inspiration, followed by the stages of Qi Refinement and Foundation Establishment, among others. Inspiration was the starting point: the cultivator calmed the mind, sensed the spiritual energies of heaven and earth, and allowed these energies to wash over the body, gradually transforming it from mundane flesh into spirit-touched matter, better attuned to qi.

When the process was complete and every part of the body was infused with spiritual resonance, the cultivator would have crossed from mortal flesh into a spiritual embryo.

Of course, this stage was foundational; true qi was not yet born, nor magic manifested. The practitioner could not yet wield supernatural powers, relying mainly on the increased strength of the body. Outwardly, there was little to distinguish them from martial artists in the mortal world. The previous owner of this body, Jiang Wang, had been stuck at this step.

He had begun cultivating at fourteen, using the Qi-Inducing Formula to draw spiritual energy into his limbs. Six years of bitter effort had allowed him to complete the tempering of his arms and legs—but when it came to refining his torso, he made no progress, wasting two more years in vain.

It was this desperation that drove him to risk everything, setting up the Summoning of Souls ritual in hopes of capturing errant spirits to strengthen his own soul. By fortifying his soul, he hoped to forcibly draw in more spiritual energy and break through this bottleneck.

After all, above the torso lay the even harder task of tempering the head. If he delayed any longer, he might never reach the next stage of cultivation.

“Is cultivation in this world truly so arduous?” Lost in memories of Jiang Wang’s life, Jiang Chen frowned slightly beneath the pale, flickering lamplight.