Sun Shi had tasted every kind of victory.
From the blood-slicked underground arenas of Rio to the ancient temples hidden in the Himalayas, his fists had carved a legend no one dared challenge. He had dismantled masters, prodigies, and monsters alike. No style was beyond his grasp—he had swallowed entire disciplines whole and rebuilt them inside himself. Krav Maga, Wing Chun, Capoeira, Sambo, Muay Thai, Systema—he didn't just learn them. He transcended them.
But with each fight, each win, came a deeper silence.
No cheer could fill the void that had taken root in him. He was the strongest man alive. And yet, he felt like a ghost haunting his own legacy.
Then, one night, everything changed.
It was supposed to be a routine practice session—stretch, shadowbox, test the limits of motion. His dojo was quiet, surrounded by bamboo groves whispering under the moonlight. He moved through his forms with mechanical precision, muscle memory flowing like water. But then, as he delivered a spinning heel kick, something fractured.
Mid-air, the world split.
There was no impact, no pain. Just light—blinding, searing light that tore him from reality. He didn't scream. He didn't have time to. The floor vanished. The walls folded inward. Sound dissolved into static.
And then...
...silence.
When Sun Shi opened his eyes, he wasn't breathing heavy. He was gasping.
The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and rotting wood. His back ached, but not the kind of ache he knew. This was foreign—tight skin over frail bones. He looked down.
Small hands. Soft. Pale.
His heart jumped in his chest as realization clawed at him.
These weren't his hands.
He scrambled upright, limbs clumsy, and hit his head on something low and wooden. He groaned, wincing, and looked around.
A shack. Crude, tiny, with mud-packed walls and a thatched roof that sagged with age. There was a single flickering candle stuck to a bowl of dried herbs. A rat squeaked and darted across the floorboards.
He reached for his reflection in the cracked metal plate beside him.
A child stared back.
Dark hair, large eyes, a boy no older than ten. Malnourished. Weak. Powerless.
"What the hell…?" His voice came out high and soft. The shock turned to dread.
This wasn't a hallucination. This wasn't a dream. He could feel his heartbeat. He could taste the stale air. It was real.
He stumbled outside, bare feet landing on dirt and stone. Beyond the hut was a dying village. A few crooked houses, rice paddies overgrown with weeds, and smoke drifting lazily from a crude kiln. Children ran barefoot through the mud. Men with ragged robes carried firewood. And in the distance, a tattered banner hung from a broken archway:
Wuji Sect.
Sun Shi's breath caught.
He had read about Murim once—fantasy tales of sword saints, Qi cultivators, and demonic beasts. Fiction. Legends. But this… it felt more real than anything he'd known.
"Oi! Shi!" a voice called.
He turned.
A boy his age—bony, cheerful, missing a tooth—ran up to him, holding a wooden practice sword. "Sifu wants everyone for morning drills. You forgot again?"
Sun Shi blinked. "I… yeah. I just woke up."
The boy tilted his head. "You okay? You look weird."
"I'm fine," Sun Shi said quickly, trying to mask the panic beneath his skin. "I'll catch up."
The boy shrugged and sprinted off. Sun Shi stood still, watching the others gather in a clearing. They were training—sort of. Their stances were sloppy. Their footwork was all over the place. No discipline. No flow. Just imitation and effort.
It was like watching children play warrior.
Sun Shi crossed his arms, staring. His body was weak, sure. But his mind? It still remembered everything. How to strike without wasted motion. How to read an opponent from a single breath. How to turn a heartbeat into a kill.
And yet here he was… a child among the powerless.
Back in his world, he had been a god of fists.
Here, he was nothing.
No reputation. No muscle. No mastery.
But the fire inside him hadn't died.
It smoldered.
I may have been reborn into a fragile shell, he thought, but the spirit of who I am didn't die. The body is a vessel. And vessels can be reforged.
Later that night, when the others slept, he returned to the clearing alone.
The moon hung low, casting silver light across the dirt. He stood barefoot, shirtless, feeling the cold seep into his bones. He exhaled. Slowly. Deliberately.
And moved.
His limbs resisted at first—tight, underdeveloped—but he pushed through. He began with simple motions. Horse stance. Breath control. Flow drills.
It felt wrong. Sloppy. Weak.
But he smiled anyway.
This was the beginning again. And beginnings were sacred.
He would train when the others slept. He would rebuild this body from the ground up. No shortcuts. No pills. No cheats.
Because one day, they would come. The Qi masters. The inner disciples. The so-called geniuses of this world.
And when they did, they would look at him—a nobody from a dying sect—and laugh.
Until he silenced them with a single punch.
Until his name echoed across Murim like thunder on the mountain.
Sun Shi.
The man whose fists defied heaven.