Hello. You might be wondering who I am.
I'm just a cultivator—one cursed to die over and over again.
But this... is the story of how I became the strongest.
It began in a small farming village, tucked away between nameless hills.
I was born to poor but loving parents. My father tilled the soil with cracked hands, my mother sang lullabies while cooking rice over a woodfire. I had a younger sister with stars in her eyes and dirt on her cheeks. She believed I could fly.
This world is one of cultivation—Qi, sects, beasts, and legends. I saw that clearly because... I remember another life.
Blurry memories haunt me. A world filled with metal, people talking through glowing screens, towers of glass. I don't remember my name or face from that life, only the feeling that I didn't belong here—or there.
Still, I tried to fit in.
I picked up a battered scroll one day. A basic internal Qi technique, low-grade, barely worth copying. I tried to cultivate... but my body rejected the flow of Qi.I tried external arts—basic punching forms, breathing styles—but even those stopped working halfway through.
My talent was trash.
So I gave up.
I spent my days helping my father in the fields and playing with my sister. Our lives were simple, beautiful, and quiet.
Until the night everything burned.
It started with smoke.Then distant shouting.Then screams.
I rushed outside and saw chaos.
Dozens of men—bandits—rushed through the village like a swarm of beasts. They tore down doors, cut down neighbors, lit homes on fire.
"Get inside!" my father shouted, grabbing a rusty hoe.
But he stood in front of me, shielding me as three robbers approached.
"Move, old man," one of them growled. "Or die."
My father didn't move.
The sword came down before I could blink.
"F-Father…?" I whispered, as he collapsed, blood pooling beneath him.
"NO!" my mother screamed.
She grabbed my sister and tried to run, but one of them caught her by the hair.
"Mommy! Mommy what's happening!?" my sister cried, her little fists hitting the man's armor.
"Please! Spare my children!" my mother sobbed, falling to her knees. "Please, I'll do anything!"
"Tch. Annoying," the robber muttered, raising his sword.
I ran forward, screaming.
A foot slammed into my chest.
"Sit down, you little shit," one of them snarled. "What're you gonna do, cry me to death?"
"Look at this little runt." "Barely strong enough to stand. Pathetic.""Waste of a body. Could've at least screamed louder."
"Can't even hold a weapon. Trash born to trash."
The blade plunged into me.
As my life faded, I saw my sister screaming, blood on her dress.
"Big brother! Don't die! Please—!"
And then darkness swallowed me whole.
I woke up.
In my bed.
Same sunlight. Same birds chirping.
Same soft breath of my sister beside me.
"What…?" I whispered, sitting up in cold sweat.
Was it a dream?
Then a glowing panel appeared before my eyes.
SYSTEM ACTIVATEDTrait: [Regressor]Status: Alive
I stared. My breath caught.
I told my father everything. He laughed it off.
"You must've had a nightmare, boy," he said, ruffling my hair.
But I knew.I felt it.
So when the robbers came again—I ran forward.
I fought. Clumsily. Fists flailing. I tried to protect them.
I died again.
Then again.
And again.
I began to memorize their moves.The arc of their sword.The sneer before they strike.The way one of them always stepped with his left foot first.
The more I died, the clearer it became.
"Huh? He moved?""Tch, lucky dodge.""Try that again, brat—see what happens."
I couldn't explain it.
My body remained weak. My Qi still wouldn't stir.But my reactions… my instincts… were sharpening.
After dozens of regressions, I learned to dodge the first strike.Then counter with a punch.Then land a hit.
"Ow—did he just hit me?""He got lucky. Finish him."
Even when I landed a blow, it was weak.But each death brought sharper form. Faster feet. Harder fists.
After the 50th time, I knocked one of them off his feet.
"This punk's fast…!""Who the fuck taught him that move?!""Still trash. Just slightly less trash!"
"You little shit!""This is getting old—DIE already!"
After the 100th time, I could fight two of them at once.
After the 156th death…
I was dancing between blades.
Fist to gut. Dodge to the left. Spin. Elbow. Knee. Counter.
Their mouths hung open.
"Who the hell are you!?""He was nothing! How's he—"
I disarmed one. Took his blade. Felt it hum in my hand.
The others rushed me.
I cut them down.
First one. Then two.
Their blood steamed in the cold air. My hands trembled.
I looked around—other houses were still burning. More screams. More robbers.
"They haven't noticed yet," I whispered.
If they find their dead men… they'll come for us.
"I have to finish this.""I have to save my family."
And so I walked forward, blade in hand, death behind me.
Each step was heavy—but certain.