Before Lu Yi’s vision stretched an endless void—color itself stripped away. His eyeballs seemed present yet constrained, unable to move or focus, leaving him immersed in absolute nothingness.

Lu Yi sensed this unprecedented emptiness. Strangely, no fear stirred within him; he remained calm, even finding the sensation oddly novel.

Was this the world after death?

His memories lingered on the sickbed: the hospital ceiling, the faint echo of a nurse’s panicked cries, the dense mist beyond the window.

At seventeen, Lu Yi fell gravely ill, confined to bed until his passing at twenty. Though that journey had been long and agonizing.

So… what now?

A tidal wave of images flooded his mind—like exquisite slides flashing through consciousness, cramming strange yet familiar memories into Lu Yi’s head all at once.

Such a brutal, unreasonable assault should’ve drawn a cry of “My head hurts!”…

But Lu Yi felt no pain.

Because he had no head.

Horrifying, yes—a headless person shouldn’t think, let alone live.

Yet Lu Yi clearly sensed he existed in a state akin to a “soul.” His body was present but incomplete: a mass of flesh [minimally functional], far from the intricate, marvelously crafted structure of a human form.

So… this must be transmigration.

Memories of Noah Purwin surged relentlessly, insisting Lu Yi now inhabited the body of a man named Noah.

Noah Purwin had died long ago—from the same illness that claimed Lu Yi. By rights, he should be sealed in a coffin, resting eternally in the dark, damp earth.

Transmigrating into a corpse?

Lu Yi couldn’t confirm if he’d fully “merged” with Noah. Would fusing with the corpse kill him too?

After all, he’d just died minutes ago.

He sincerely hoped a repeat of this would only appear under a soda bottle cap.

But judging by current progress, worry was unnecessary.

With time, Lu Yi sensed the vessel for his soul steadily completing—his flesh reshaping at astonishing speed.

The sensation was wondrous.

He felt flesh buds intertwine, weaving nerves and vessels like surging waves binding to hand bones. Within seconds: his first anatomical structure.

A middle finger.

Lu Yi tried raising it. But the newborn nerves and flesh resisted control—the finger wouldn’t rise to form that universally “friendly” gesture.

Thankfully, reconstruction accelerated.

At this rate, a full body was imminent.

Good news!

In life, Noah Purwin had been a robust adult—far sturdier than Lu Yi’s frail former self. The type whose fist swings carried weight, whose bare arms could make children cry.

Had a strange illness not cut his life short, he’d surely have made his mark on the Southern Continent.

If remade, Noah’s illness would vanish too.

Lu Yi hadn’t felt running or jumping in ages.

But then—his soul sank.

Ah, right. No heart yet.

Regardless, joy faded, replaced by unease.

The Ayn Continent Noah once called home brimmed with magic. Devotees of deities and sinister Heretic Deviants roamed freely. Racial tensions flared constantly; wars erupted nearly every decade.

Those wielding arts like [Necromancy]? Either Heretic Deviants or high-ranking followers of dark cults.

Resurrection sounded great—unless a necromancer did it. Then: lifelong slavery, cannon fodder in every battle…

Please. Not a necromancer. Definitely not a Heretic Deviant.

Even a dark cult’s high-ranking follower was acceptable. Though suppressed by light-aligned sects and scorned by common folk, they were still better.

Devotees of a dark goddess might only get spat on.

The others? Drowned in a pig cage—or straight to the executioner’s block.

Lu Yi shared a name with Louis XVI, but prayed his fate wouldn’t mirror the king’s.

And whoever resurrected him—please show mercy. He didn’t want to sprout three heads and six arms like Nezha.

…Wait, would Nezha need three ropes to hang himself?

As Lu Yi’s thoughts spiraled and he silently prayed to the Goddess of Death, flesh regeneration peaked. Vessels and nerves wove with exquisite precision, repairing the corpse stitch by stitch.

Organs revived one by one. A surge of vibrant energy bloomed in his chest—warm currents flooding his being.

His heart paused, adjusting to its new vessel, then beat steadily onward: a labor lasting until death itself.

Good. Now he had a heart to “sink” properly.

Lungs, kidneys, stomach followed. Working with the heart, they gently reeled Lu Yi’s drifting soul toward this nearly perfected body.

On a certain year, month, day, and hour—

Lu Yi was reborn.

His soul plunged into this unfinished masterpiece of nature. In an instant: cold.

Blood flow began. Body heat returned. Then—touch.

Rebirth felt… chilly. Like standing on Siberia’s frozen tundra, watching unsprouted potatoes at his feet while biting winds froze him solid.

Still, Lu Yi was deeply satisfied. To return so swiftly after dying with regrets? Immense luck.

Smell returned next.

Rot. Decay. Burnt ash. The foul mix assaulted his newborn senses like a physical blow.

“Holy crap—rotten stench and freezing wind? What kind of hellhole is this?”

He tried opening his eyes, but vision hadn’t synced yet—eyeballs freshly settled, nerves not yet linked.

His ears, however, worked perfectly.

And so, Lu Yi heard the first words of this world:

“Holy shit… Did I dig up the wrong grave?”