It started when a bloody rain was about to fall.

The acidic rain began to erode civilization.

The concrete surface hissed and burst open with honeycomb-like pores, exposing the rusted steel bars; the glass curtain wall was corroded into a frosted state, shattered into countless pieces, and fell from the sky, turning into murder weapons in the rain.

The asphalt road surface softened into black mud, leaving deep footprints with every step, which quickly filled with red rainwater—like containers filled with blood.

The steel corroded at a visible rate, like blood bubbles. This was not ordinary oxidation, but a process that accelerated corrosion a thousandfold.

Bridges groaned, vehicles were paralyzed, and the steel frames of skyscrapers groaned under the strain. The metal, like bones afflicted with a malignant disease, peeled away piece by piece, revealing the spongy structure within.

But this physical dissolution is only the gentlest prelude.

Rainwater contains a heterogeneous substance called "source matter".

It is neither a virus nor bacteria, but a living, violent rule—dark strokes that forcibly rewrite the map of life, coming from the depths of the universe, a complete mockery of the four billion years of evolution of life on Earth.

It landed on the skin, not with a cool sensation, but with a strange warmth—as if something was trying to burrow into the veins, into the bone marrow, into the deepest part of the soul.

That wasn't the warmth of life, but the lingering warmth of a corpse, the last trace left by death itself.

Sixty percent of the world's population experiences a breakdown and rebuilding process starting at the cellular level within 72 hours of being rained on.

They first developed a fever—their body temperature soared to over fifty degrees Celsius, and their skin was so hot that an egg could be fried in it.

Then came the spasms—the whole body's muscles convulsed uncontrollably, the joints twisted in the opposite direction, and the bones cracked and popped.

Next comes proliferation—extra limbs sprout from all parts of the body, the skin is stretched into a translucent membrane, beneath which unknown organs surge.

Finally, there is alienation—facial features are erased and reconstructed into a repulsive form somewhere between a human and a beast.

Reason was torn to shreds, replaced by an uncontrollable, primal hunger for raw flesh and blood.

Official records refer to it as a "mutant".

In the trembling whispers of the survivors, they had only one name: Ghouls.

Of the remaining 40% of the "lucky ones," about 15% triggered some dormant code within their bodies when they were in extreme fear or on the verge of life and death.

Flames rose from their palms—in that moment, they were both firewood and flame itself; their will distorted reality—the boundary between thought and existence collapsed before them; their speed broke the limits of physics—when they ran, even their shadows couldn't catch up with their bodies.

They are called the "Awakeners," the original totem of the new era, and also the source of endless conflict.

The remaining mortals—the 25 percent of ordinary people who are neither alienated nor awakened—were the majority in the old era, but in the new era they have become the most naked "resources".

They are the consumables struggling to survive, the cold numbers on the chessboard of various forces, and the walking blood bags and labor force in the eyes of the awakened.

Their value depends solely on what they can provide—labor, blood, flesh, or as "consumables" to lure mutants.

In the third week, the gears of the old world came to a complete halt.

Governments and international organizations have vanished amidst self-rescue and chaos.

The massive military machine shattered into countless armed separatist regimes—some loyal to the surviving generals, some seized power by the awakened, and some disbanded on the spot, with soldiers fighting independently with their weapons.

Law, morality, contracts, and the warm consensus of human nature... the veil woven by thousands of years of civilization is as thin as a cicada's wing before the naked hurricane of survival instinct.

True darkness descends only after the blood rain has ceased.

That was the darkness of cannibalism—when the last bag of biscuits was eaten and the last can of water was drunk, some people began to look at their “companions” with strange eyes.

That was a darkness where swords would be drawn for a bottle of clean water—after the cloak of civilization was stripped away, what was revealed was the essence of a primeval jungle from 70,000 years ago.

That was the darkness that crushed trust into bargaining chips—the phrase "You saved me today, I will repay you tomorrow" became "You saved me today, I can betray you a little later tomorrow".

Amidst the ruins, power and violence redraw the landscape. Greed dons the guise of a "survival strategy," betrayal becomes a common word, and conscience is the first baggage to be discarded.

The old era bled its last drop of blood on that day.

And the new era, from that pool of blood, opened its scarlet eyes...

Lin Ye opened his eyes, recovering from the memories of the blood rain that descended in his previous life.

Just then, the morning light slanted in through the gaps between the buildings opposite, warmly bathing the windowsill. The light was liquid gold, flowing slowly, reflecting a gentle sheen onto the old paint of the windowsill.

A succulent plant that had long since withered remained in the corner, its dry leaves curled up to the size of a fist, as if it were gathering itself in advance for something that was about to arrive.

A sparrow landed outside the security bars and tilted its head to look at him.

The sparrow's eyes were black, round and bright, reflecting the entire sky. It seemed curious about the motionless person in the room, turning its little head from side to side and chirping twice. Then, it fluttered away and disappeared among the buildings bathed in the golden light of the morning sun.

"It's too quiet, too clean, too unreal." Looking at everything before him, Lin Ye couldn't help but sigh in his heart.

In his previous life, he was just the lowest and most insignificant among the 15% of awakened beings.

Possessing a rare spatial ability, but initially only able to store items—in a ruined world where strength reigns supreme, this ability is practically useless.

All he could do was hide the food he found in his spatial storage, hoping to live a few more days than the average person; and put away the weapons he found, hoping to have a better chance of struggling when facing danger.

The evolution of superpowers requires rare and precious materials containing "source essence"—mutated plants and mineral crystals born after the blood rain that have absorbed the essence of source essence, or some kind of more mysterious "legacy".

However, these resources are now controlled by rising powers and strong individuals.

They occupied all known source mineral veins, monopolized the hunting of all mutated beast cores, and branded every stone that could enhance supernatural abilities with their own mark.

Outnumbered and outmatched, he could only eke out a living for five years in the shadows of ruins, like a rat in a sewer—by picking up scraps they disdained, by venturing into dangerous places they dared not set foot in, and by risking his life for a tiny chance to become stronger.

Five years.

One thousand eight hundred and twenty-six days and nights.

Lin Ye has witnessed the extreme distortion of human nature, as well as the glimmer of hope that remains; he has buried those who trusted him with his own hands, and has also been pushed into the abyss by those who trusted him; he has learned to smile in the deepest despair and to remain calm in the fiercest hatred.

Ultimately, in a recurring betrayal and ambush, Lin Ye was forced to unleash the ultimate forbidden technique, with a success rate of only three in ten thousand—

Spatial exile.

Intending to perish together with the enemy.

Then, we returned to the present.

"In this life..."

Lin Ye muttered to himself. His voice was as cold and hard as tempered steel, each word as if carved from an icy abyss, carrying an undeniable weight.

The weight was so real, as if each syllable left visible ripples in the air as it fell.

"We will never repeat the same mistake."