Jin Long

  The assassin’s breath had ceased. The warmth of life had drained from the corpse, leaving only a husk—an empty vessel where ambition, duty, and struggle had once stirred. The body lay still, twisted in the grass, blood dark as ink against the green. The wind whispered through the valley, the rustling of leaves of ancient trees sounding like murmuring prayers for the dearly departed.

  Jin Long had killed a man.

  His hands had moved faster than thought. His strength had surged beyond his intent. In game, this would have been nothing—a vanishing health bar, an enemy fading into pixels. But here, in this world that smelled of damp earth, where the wind carried the distant chime of a temple bell, where the blood pooled thick and real, there was no respawn, no second chance.

  Jin Long knelt beside the body, reaching out with slow, deliberate movements. The assassin’s mask had slipped, revealing a face not of cruelty or monstrosity, but of hardship. Lines of suffering etched his features—too many battles fought, too many failures endured. This was no great villain. Just a fallen warrior.

  Death was an abstraction in games—distant, clean, and mechanical, despite all the gore modern graphics could conjure. Here, it had weight. It settled into the bones, thickened the air, left a scar not on the flesh, but on the soul.

  Jin Long clenched his fist. Did he feel a little remorse? Perhaps, even though he knew killing the man had been in the act of self-defense. He understood the simple truth, but that didn’t mean he had to like its outcome.

  If this world bore any resemblance to Nine Mystical Realms Online, then strength was the only currency that mattered—not just strength of the body, but strength of one’s will and of one’s beliefs. Jin Long knew that he not only had to be powerful enough to be able to uphold his ideals, but also he needed to have the conviction to actually act on them.

  He would not hesitate to defend himself should anyone seek his life, but neither was he a coward. He would not abandon the sanctity of life or blindly embrace the law of the jungle at the first sign of hardship. What separated man from beast was his ability to hold onto his beliefs, even in the face of adversity.

  He had no doubt his late father, a tough son-of-a-gun like most career deep-sea fishermen, would roll out of his grave and find his way to Empyrea just to beat Jin Long’s ass if he saw his son become anything less.

  “Johnny boy,” his old man used to say. “When you’re out there at the mercy of Mother Nature, you learn real quick what matters and what keeps you alive – faith in yourself and faith in your brothers. That’s all there is.”

  The assassin’s corpse looked small beneath the vast sky. For a moment, Jin Long simply stood there and let his thoughts settle, allowing the warm wind to kiss his face.

  It was soothing. The air was pure, untainted by car fumes, untreated sewage, or the acrid stink of burning plastic. It was quiet – no hum of traffic, no impatient drivers blaring their horns, and no distant wail of sirens that often plagued the streets of The City where he had lived all his life.

  Jin Long let out a slow breath, deliberately shifting his gaze downward, postponing the grim task of having to search the dead for valuables. The weight of taking a life still lingered, and he wasn’t quite ready to face the assassin’s corpse again. Instead, his fingers traced the fabric draped over him—moonsilk, impossibly smooth and soft, shimmering faintly. Recognition settled in.

  Indestructible. Self-cleaning.

  His end-game gear. These were the robes he had spent hundreds of hours grinding for, slaying mobs and bosses and collecting rare materials. But in the game, they had simply been numbers—armor rating, stat bonuses, passive abilities. Here, they were real, like everything else.

  His belt was fastened tightly, the embroidery of serpent dragons catching the light. His shoes, too, were pristine as freshly fallen snow, defying the dirt beneath them.

  Jin Long stretched his arms. His strength was undeniable—every movement felt weightless and effortless. He clenched his fist and felt power coil within him, waiting to be unleashed.

  I have no idea how to use this strength properly, and right now I’m relying on instinct and luck.

  His knowledge came from muscle memory rather than conscious thought. His techniques were ingrained, but disjointed—mastery bereft of the journey.

  He could fight. Maybe. But could he cultivate?

  Could he refine his qi? Enhance it? Conjecture and theorize its science? Break through his limits to achieve even higher realms?

  It was one thing to execute techniques at the push of a key, to chain combos, bind macros, click and level up a skill tree. But here, his body was his weapon. His mind was the controller. The game’s mechanics had become reality, and he needed more than just knowledge—he also needed experience.

  In the game, progression had been simple—kill enemies, earn experience, level up. But this world did not offer neat experience bars. This world required understanding, practice, and insight.

  What about my character inventory?

  Experimenting, he mentally reached inward, hoping to seek the mindspace where his treasures were stored.

  In the game, his inventory had been boundless—an endless void brimming with weapons of legend, artifacts steeped in forgotten power, and relics of ancient lore. It was a treasury untouched by weight, time, or scarcity.

  But here, that vast trove had shrunk to something disappointingly less.

  Jin Long’s consciousness brushed against the void, and only two objects appeared—the Indestructible Abomination and the Divinewood Flute.

  His brows furrowed. Where was the rest of his collection?

  He failed to sense anything else–no advanced potions, celestial armor sets, rare artifacts, ancient cultivation manuals, or the endless stacks of crafting materials. Where was his hoard of spirit stones gleaming with condensed qi? They were gone–items and tools that had once made him a force to be reckoned with and put him at the top of the leaderboards.

  Had the heavens stripped him of his wealth, or had the journey between worlds simply left him with what mattered most? Or was this all a cruel, vivid nightmare orchestrated by some sadistic being?

  Jin Long sighed, letting his focus shift inward once more, and reached for the Divinewood Flute.

  A pulse of energy rippled through him, and with a mere thought, the flute materialized in his grasp—a relic of dark, polished wood, its surface etched with delicate carvings of soaring cranes and drifting clouds and arcane text. It was light as breath, smooth as flowing water, yet within it, he could sense the latent power that slumbered beneath the surface.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  He turned it over in his hands, brushing a thumb over the golden inlay at the mouthpiece. He had equipped this flute many times in Nine Mystical Realms Online—an artifact once belonging to an elder of a long-forgotten sect, rumored to command the winds themselves. In the game, it had been a collector’s item, only one-of-one in quantity, and thus much sought after by a small group of hardcore players.

  The Divinewood Flute was not an ordinary instrument. It had a history woven from time and tragedy in Nine Mystical Realms Online, shaped by the ambitions of men and the whispers of the heavens.

  It had been crafted centuries ago from the wood of the Jade World Tree, a sacred tree said to have stood at the heart of the Empyrean World, and had roots entwined with the currents of qi itself. When the tree fell, its essence seeped into the earth, blessing it with unfathomable energy, and from its remnants, only a handful of artifacts were ever forged.

  Later, the flute had fallen into the hands of Elder Feng Yao, a master of sound and qi who once led the Zephyr Cloud Sect, a sect renowned for its harmonious techniques—arts that tamed storms, guided winds, and calmed raging souls. They were not warriors in the conventional sense. Their blades were melodies, their shields woven from sound, their attacks so refined that the very air seemed to bend to their will.

  Legend told that when Elder Feng Yao played this flute, the winds would still in reverence, the clouds would part, and even the restless spirits wandering the mortal plane would pause to listen. His music could shatter stone or mend a broken heart, summon a tempest or lull a wild beast into slumber.

  But his sect had been wiped from history, and now few relics remained that paid homage to the sect of old.

  But here, as Jin Long held it beneath the cerulean sky, it felt like the world wanted something more. The air had stilled, as if itself leaning in to prompt a song.

  Curiosity overtook Jin Long, who lifted the wooden flute to his lips.

  The first note was soft, uncertain, like a whisper carried by the breeze. Then, with a slow inhale, he let the melody unfurl—a wandering tune, neither joyous nor sorrowful, an echo of something forgotten.

  The music drifted through the nearby forest, threading between the trees, dancing atop the tall grass like ripples upon still water. The wind, which had been quiet, stirred in response, curling around him, lifting strands of his dark hair as if playing with him.

  The last note faded into the field, dissolving into the hush of rustling leaves.

  Seems like I have some talent with music. Perhaps I can make a living here as a traveling musician?

  Jin Long mused and lowered the flute, turning it once more in his hands before, with a mere thought, willing it back into storage.

  The weight of the flute lingered, as did the memory of the melody.

  Jin Long didn’t attempt to summon the other object in his inventory—the Indestructible Abomination.

  Not yet.

  He wasn’t foolish enough to wield something so powerful without fully understanding its consequences. This sword was not just an instrument of destruction, it was a statement, a declaration of one's existence in the grand scheme of heaven and earth. And this sword… its very name whispered of calamity.

  If even half of its in-game descriptions manifested into reality, the repercussions would be monumental. He could already imagine the destruction—landscapes sundered, the souls of humans and beasts alike stripped, the laws of nature bending under its edge.

  It was not something to wield carelessly.

  For now, he let the weapon remain in the void. There would be another time and place for chaos and corruption. For now, he needed to understand this world before he tried to carve his place in it.

  Instead, his golden gaze swept over the carnage around him, surveying what could be scavenged.

  Looting in the game had been simple—a click, a window displaying all the spoils, a choice to take or leave behind. But here, in this world of flesh and consequence, it was a slow and deliberate act—hands searching, breath steadying, fingers brushing against rigid-cold corpses.

  The dead told no tales, but their possessions spoke volumes.

  Most of the valuables had already been taken, their owners picked clean by others. Jin Long sifted through the bodies—most bore only the violent signs of a life abruptly ended. Torn robes. Cracked weapons. Trinkets that held no value beyond sentiment.

  There was only one last place to search—the assassin’s body.

  Jin Long crouched beside the corpse once more, brushing aside strands of windblown grass. The fabric of the assassin’s robes was coarse, frayed at the edges, dyed a dull black meant for discretion rather than grandeur. He checked the assassin’s sleeves, his belt, his inner pockets.

  Nothing.

  Nothing but the bare necessities.

  Except for one thing.

  A simple silver band, gleaming faintly beneath the assassin’s lifeless fingers.

  A spatial storage ring was something every NPC cultivator possessed in the game. Unlike the limitless, omnipresent inventory granted to actual players for a hefty subscription, NPC cultivators were bound to the laws of the game. They relied on these rings—artifacts imbued with spatial properties—to store their belongings, keeping their treasures hidden from covetous eyes and prying hands.

  Carefully, he slipped the ring off the assassin’s stiffening hand and onto his own. It was unadorned, simple, lacking the ostentation of a noble’s jewelry. This was a ring meant for practicality, not vanity.

  Bind with qi.

  A faint pulse resonated through him. The ring shuddered, as if sensing its new master. Then, a warmth spread through Jin Long’s fingertips, a thread of energy linking the artifact to his qi.

  He willed it to open.

  And within the ring’s spatial field, three objects surfaced.

  First – a jade slip, empty and unclaimed. These were objects typically used for storing information and long-distance communication.

  Second – three thousand advanced spirit stones. They were small gems brimming with condensed and partially purified qi. Three thousand was not much, but it was certainly better than nothing. Spirit stones were the currency of cultivators, used for everything from market exchanges to qi replenishment.

  And lastly, an old cultivation manual—the Empyrean World Cultivation Standard. Jin Long summoned the book from the ring, running his fingers over its bounded cover. It felt worn by the touch of countless hands before his. The golden characters on its spine shimmered under sunlight.

  A basic text, nothing legendary, but a foundation. And a foundation was exactly what he needed.

  Never thought I’d see the day I’d get excited about reading a textbook.

  Its pages were filled with intricate calligraphy, written in the same foreign language the assassin had spoken. Yet, as Jin Long’s eyes skimmed the text, comprehension came effortlessly, as natural as reading English.

  Only now did he fully realize—he hadn’t just learned this language, he had always known it. The knowledge was embedded in him, woven seamlessly into his mind as if it had always been there.

  Why?

  It was yet another unanswered question, another thread in the growing tapestry of mysteries surrounding his existence in this world. And for now, he would have to wait before he could get answers.

  Jin Long’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. While he had more questions than answers, the existence of this manual did confirm one crucial piece of information for him – he was indeed in the world of the Nine Mystical Realms Online, or at the very least, in some version of the game manifested into reality.

  He stored the book away, along with the spirit stones and the jade slip.

  Then there was the matter of the assassin’s blade lying where it had fallen. Jin Long picked it up, giving it a cursory glance. It was a well-crafted and well-balanced weapon designed for an expert bladesman.

  Guess it’s mine now.

  He looked down at the dead man once more.

  The assassin’s fate had been sealed, his possessions now Jin Long’s by necessity, by survival.

  A lingering sense of guilt settled in Jin Long’s chest, heavy as the still air before a storm. He instinctually harnessed his qi, letting it pulse through him as he used his sheer physical power to carve a makeshift grave into the earth. The soil yielded easily beneath his strength, and when it was done, he laid the fallen assassin to rest.

  It was not the work of a skilled gravedigger, nor was it adorned with the dignity of a proper burial. But it was something. And sometimes, something was enough.

  With the deed finished, Jin Long felt unburdened and lifted his gaze toward the distant horizon, where the sky stretched endless and unknowable. The sky had begun to darken, yellow bleeding into a mix of red and orange. A flamehawk’s cry echoed across the valley, a sharp, piercing sound that spoke of unseen things watching, waiting.

  The sun dipped lower, casting longer shadows that stretched toward the winding road ahead.

  He had spent enough time loitering. It was time to take to the roads, whether they’d be less traveled he did not know.