I Failed to Reform the Protagonist [Transmigration] - Chapter 1

Canghua, Midwinter.

Beyond the clouds of the Outer Peaks, frost and snow blanketed the hanging bridge.

Upon the bridge, a group of rogue cultivators gathered from all corners of the world. They looked around, gazing at the seventy-two mountains floating majestically in the air behind the wind and snow, their faces filled with awe.

“I had long heard that Canghua’s Yunxiao Sect was a holy land for sword cultivators, and seeing it today, it truly lives up to its reputation. These seventy-two Outer Peaks alone are brimming with spiritual energy; the thirty-six Inner Peaks must be an even more uniquely blessed paradise.”

“I remember back then, when Yunxiao selected disciples, only one in a thousand was taken. The criteria were incredibly harsh, yet countless people still fought tooth and nail to get in.”

Someone chuckled and pointed to the hanging bridge beneath their feet. “Then you might not know that during the selection years ago, this very bridge was one of the trials. A group of teenagers who hadn’t even reached the Foundation Establishment stage had to walk it step by step. Evil ghosts and malevolent spirits would emerge to obstruct them. The road was long and dangerous; if one’s mental state wavered even slightly, they would fall. And once you fell, you were disqualified for life.”

The crowd froze.

The hanging bridge was famous for its peril, suspended between two mountain peaks. In the misty depths below lay a ten-thousand-foot drop. Even now, they didn’t dare look down. Walking on the bridge felt like treading on thin ice. It was hard to imagine how a group of teenagers had managed it back then.

They sighed. “No wonder. Out of ten famous sword cultivators in the world, nine come from Yunxiao.”

The blue-robed cultivator speaking at the front smiled thinly. “Indeed. The Biyun Sword, the Fuxia Sword, Master Liaoyi, the Trace-less Fairy during Yunxiao’s peak, an entire generation was filled with brilliant geniuses. But the most prominent of them all was the Head Disciple of Yunxiao at the time, the top ranker of the Heaven-Asking Trials—Pei Yuzhi.”

The crowd stiffened. Upon hearing that name, their expressions turned strange. “Pei Yuzhi?”

The blue-robed cultivator walked slowly through the snow, his voice tinged with a smile. “Yes. Though nowadays, what circulates are mostly stories of how he betrayed his sect, murdered his master, and fled.”

A young man in the crowd showed deep disdain. “He doesn’t even deserve to be called human; he’s a beast. To break through to the Nascent Soul stage, he didn’t hesitate to use his own disciple as a medicinal primer. Master Ziyang had to cripple his own cultivation just to escape his clutches.”

Another joined in: “What’s even more despicable is that fearing his reputation would be ruined, Pei Yuzhi acted out of desperation and personally murdered his master, the Sect Leader of Yunxiao, who had been as kind to him as a father. He then usurped the position and framed Master Ziyang for the murder, causing the whole world to hunt him. Such a wicked heart deserves death.”

“Fortunately, Master Ziyang was exceptionally gifted and favored by the heavens. He became Canghua’s first powerhouse at the half-step Out of Body stage. He returned to bring the conspiracy to light. At that time, Pei Yuzhi was still putting up a stubborn resistance, hiding behind the Yunxiao Sect like a shrinking turtle.”

At this point, the man’s face flushed with anger. “Because of him, tens of thousands within Yunxiao died tragic deaths, blood staining the one hundred and eight peaks. A great sect was severely wounded overnight.”

“Evil is met with evil. Pei Yuzhi was finally dragged out. Master Ziyang destroyed his cultivation, ripped out his tendons and bones, and threw him into the Cave of Ten Thousand Ghosts to suffer until he died. He got what he deserved!”

The words “deserved it” landed heavily.

The cultivators on the bridge nodded in agreement. Pei Yuzhi’s crimes were too numerous to record; dying like that was letting him off easy. A villain like him should have been cut into a thousand pieces.

Hearing the young man finish, the middle-aged blue-robed cultivator continued to smile unhurriedly. “It is indeed heartening. But you all might not know that before he suffered a cultivation deviation, Pei Yuzhi was also a legendary figure of grace and brilliance.”

He paced calmly, his robes brushing against the accumulated snow. “If you ask me, regardless of his crimes, the era Pei Yuzhi lived in was the most prosperous the cultivation world had seen in a thousand years, with young heroes emerging in droves.”

“A hundred years ago, there was a saying everyone in Canghua could recite: ‘Green flowers bloom in the blood pool, blue butterflies transform from white bones; the Sarira Buddha-heart and the Phoenix Eye, one sword frosts the Wuwang Peak.’ These words held hidden meanings, corresponding to the five greatest heroes decided by the Heaven-Asking Trials.”

“The last line refers to Pei Yuzhi. Back then, demons ran rampant at Wuwang Peak, leaving grief and desolation for a hundred miles. Rumor has it that Pei Yuzhi, alone with his sword, slaughtered the mountain and wiped out the demons in a single night. Blood flowed like a river, and bones were everywhere. When he stepped out of the mountain gates at sunrise, snow began to fall across the sky. The vast whiteness erased all the remains on Wuwang Peak. ‘One sword frosts the land’—that’s how the name spread.”

The crowd fell silent.

One sword covers the frost, ten miles of vast desolation.

Even if they weren’t from that era, they could imagine the style and spirit of the legendary young swordsman who was number one in the world.

Who could have guessed that such a person would eventually rot from the very core of his soul?

The blue-robed cultivator said softly, “When I was young, I grew up hearing stories of Pei Yuzhi. I didn’t expect that upon returning, everything would have changed. The Yunxiao Sect, once the number one sect, has declined to this state.”

He sighed, and the others felt a faint melancholy.

Fine snow fell from the gray sky; the mountains were silent. The one hundred and eight peaks of Yunxiao were covered in snow, masking the heavy scent of blood from years ago.

The hanging bridge was long, but they eventually reached the end. As the mist cleared, a green stone stood at the exit with three sword gashes carved into it. Beside them were the words: “Look up and down without shame; let the sword be the witness.”

Every stroke revealed a profound sword intent. The rogue cultivators felt a surge of respect. This stone, unchanged for a thousand years, stood at the bridge entrance, its presence a faint reminder of Yunxiao’s former glory.

Suddenly, a tall, thin young man wearing a black cloak stepped out from the crowd. He was shrouded in a dark mist, making it impossible to see him clearly. He gave off an icy, lonely vibe—like a stiff corpse.

The others had thought he was strange but, out of a mysterious fear, didn’t dare provoke or question him. Seeing him step forward, they watched in silent surprise.

The young man crouched down. His fingers were pale as he slowly touched the green stone.

The others frowned, one of them speaking up to warn him: “That stone was placed by the founding ancestor, Taoist Yunxiao. Doing that is a bit disrespectful.”

The black-robed youth was deaf to them. His hand was very white and thin—skin and bone—with a faint, deathly blue tint. His long fingertips slowly traced the words on the stone. In that moment, the wind and snow seemed to stand still.

The frost on the “Welcome Stone” melted under his touch, as if responding to an intimacy spanning a hundred years.

As the young man lowered his head, his long hair fell from under his hood. It was bone-white, whiter than the snow.

The crowd froze again.

This death-like man traced the eight characters one by one. The gray world seemed to be filled with an inexplicable sorrow. After a long time, he seemed to whisper something. His voice was low and raspy, his pronunciation strange, and the words were swallowed by the wind.

No one heard him.

The rogue cultivators were baffled.

But someone did hear him.

In the highest peak of Yunxiao, inside a cave dwelling, the protagonist of today’s Ascension Ceremony—the world-renowned Master Ziyang—slowly opened his eyes.

Drip.

Drip.

Blood meandered down the steps, staining the snow red.

The people who had come from all over the world never expected that Master Ziyang’s Ascension Ceremony would become a slaughterhouse.

The mysterious man finally revealed his true face.

Beneath the black robe was a deep, somber green—like moss growing in the dark crevices of rocks, cold and forest-like. Now, the green robe was soaked red with blood, and three thousand strands of snow-white hair draped behind him.

Blood dripped from the sword in his hand as he approached step by step.

Bodies and severed limbs littered the ground. Those still clinging to life trembled and shrank back, not daring to make a sound.

Ji Wuyou clutched his chest, forced into a corner of the hall. His bloodshot eyes were filled with obsession and hatred, mixed with disbelief and the terror of death.

“How can you still be alive! How can you possibly have come back alive!”

He coughed up blood fitfully, his fingers pressing into the ground until the bone turned white. He screamed with heartbreaking intensity.

The blood-clad young man remained cold. Before he began killing, he had looked like a walking corpse—indifferent, lonely, and gloomy. Now that he had killed, the underlying violence and bloodthirst were triggered, casting a layer of crimson over his entire being.

He had returned from hell; he was meant to be this world’s nightmare.

Pei Yuzhi seemed to smile. He swung his sword without blinking, first crippling Ji Wuyou’s legs.

“AAAAGH!”

Ji Wuyou let out a scream of agonizing pain. His eyes nearly burst from their sockets.

Terrified, he looked at the man before him—bloody, cold, and malevolent like an Asura. He couldn’t reconcile this man with the graceful, gentle, and patient Master he once knew.

A few drops of blood splashed onto his white hair, strikingly red. Pei Yuzhi’s eyes were as black as an abyss, suppressing a madness and resentment that could destroy the heavens. In his raspy, strange voice, he said: “Cripple my cultivation, rip out my tendons, kill my master, destroy my sect, and frame me before the whole world… Ji Wuyou, how should we settle these debts?”

The fear in Ji Wuyou finally overflowed. His scalp tingled, and his pale face was filled with struggle and resistance. He spoke incoherently: “No, you can’t kill me. I am the descendant of the Heavenly Demon, you can’t possibly kill me.”

Pei Yuzhi didn’t speak. With another stroke, he severed the tendons in Ji Wuyou’s wrists.

At the sight of blood, he was a madman. His blade cut into Ji Wuyou’s face, and the entire world turned red. Stroke by stroke, a thousand cuts.

Ji Wuyou made a dying struggle, screaming hoarsely: “PEI YUZHI—!”

Pei Yuzhi’s final strike pierced directly through Ji Wuyou’s throat.

All sound stopped.

Ji Wuyou’s wide eyes stared fixedly at Pei Yuzhi, filled with resentment, loathing, and murderous intent. As his consciousness faded under a layer of blood mist, those feelings turned into something deeper and more complex.

Pei Yuzhi reached out with his pale, bluish fingers and gouged both eyeballs out.

Ji Wuyou couldn’t even scream anymore!

Only empty sockets remained, facing upward.

Pei Yuzhi straightened up. His hair, clothes, and hands were covered in blood. His expression was cold and cruel, his eyes a landscape of slaughter. He turned and walked away.

Stepping out, he saw the vast snow of Yunxiao still falling.

Ji Wuyou was finally dead. His soul was dissipated; there was no possibility of survival.

Standing under the gray-blue sky, Pei Yuzhi slowly looked up. It was another year of snow. In a very distant memory, in another world, he had looked out a window at a similar snowfall. Or perhaps not long ago, before Wuwang Peak, the deep snow was the same.

Once, his sword had frosted the land, making him famous.

It had only been a hundred years.

Kindness repaid with betrayal, life and death between master and friend.

Ji Wuyou was dead. The protagonist was dead. What would happen to this world?

Soon, the Heavenly Dao and the world itself gave him an answer.

In an instant, the sky changed color. The wind and snow twisted, astral winds rose, and a torrential rain poured down. The light was swallowed, leaving only a vast, pitch-black void. Gold and purple light became thunderous tribulations, and wild winds roared, tearing apart space and time.

Pei Yuzhi began to laugh—a silent, mad laugh.

In the distorted world, the rain formed a curtain, and the water condensed in the air to form a mirror. Through the thick mist, the pitch-black surface slowly reflected a person’s figure.

Pei Yuzhi’s smile froze.

In the mirror was a young man in a white shirt. He had a handsome face and held a cup of tea, smiling at him from an immense distance. His eyes were clear, clean, and bright.

An indescribable pain and anger suddenly burned through his sanity. Pei Yuzhi spat out a mouthful of blood.

With one sword strike, he shattered the young man’s face in the mirror. He stumbled forward a step, the rain on his face mixing with blood, his white hair as cold as the deep snow.

Walking through this collapsing world, in the cracks of the darkness, he muttered to himself one last time: “Even if the heavens fall, the earth rends, and the sun and moon are overturned. I will coexist with this universe and this time. Forever… I will never die.”

Never die.