Chapter 001: Half-Demon Henry Clark

“Looks like I really have transmigrated—”

Inside a lavishly decorated carriage, Henry Clark stared expressionlessly at a round mirror before him.

The reflection in the mirror was clearly that of a youth not yet grown. About thirteen years old, with a pale complexion, but those features were exceptionally handsome, exquisitely refined.

A pair of long, narrow phoenix eyes shimmered with brilliance. Yet at this moment, they held a trace of bitterness and helplessness.

He remembered that not long ago, he had an utterly ordinary, forgettable face—one that would never stand out in a crowd. He worked as a librarian in the capital of a small country in the Cloud Realm, muddling through life, waiting for death, his identity as ordinary as could be.

But unexpectedly, upon waking from this dream, his body had become that of this strikingly handsome youth. Though somewhat sickly and frail, he was undeniably first-class in looks. Even in his previous life, those top male celebrities famed for their good looks couldn’t compare. If anything was lacking, it was only in temperament.

Yet at this moment, Henry Clark felt no joy at all—only a sense of sorrow and helplessness.

It was as if a fish, once free and swimming in the vast ocean, had suddenly found itself on land.

Everything around him, aside from the suffocating strangeness and astonished bewilderment, was tinged with a sense of fear and loneliness.

Unwilling to give up, Henry Clark pinched his own cheek hard, immediately feeling a jolt of pain. Naturally, he found no trace of cosmetic surgery on his face.

“—I can feel pain, so I’m probably not dreaming? But who am I now? And where on earth is this place?”

‘Henry Clark’ was the name in the memories of his current body. In his previous life, he had another name, but in this time and place, it no longer mattered.

Muttering to himself, Henry Clark sighed and looked away, his chest filled with despair, having completely given up hope of returning or ‘waking up’ from this dream.

In fact, he had been in this body for several days already. Almost every time he woke up, he would repeat the same actions as just now. Today was the seventh day.

Judging by the style of the carriage’s interior, it seemed ancient, yet not quite.

Pulling aside the curtain, he saw vast stretches of open fields outside, endless and lush, filling the heart with comfort. The air was fresh and pleasant, without a trace of the pollution from his own era.

Looking down, he noticed that although the carriage had wheels, it floated three feet above the ground. The sixteen unicorn horses at the front also trotted through the air, able to rise and fall at will.

Thus, though the carriage was huge—the compartment alone was forty square meters—it could traverse any terrain as if on flat ground.

At this moment, there was no one driving up front, yet the carriage sped straight ahead, racing into the distance.

The knife and sword marks on both sides of the carriage were also quite striking.

Henry Clark felt a wave of dizziness and collapsed onto the velvet-cushioned couch.

The horses were tamed spirit beasts, and the carriage was a Cloud-Turning Carriage. But as far as he knew, these things only existed in the Cloud Realm more than twelve thousand years ago—they should be ancient relics.

With a thought, a series of memories surfaced in his mind.

They were all fragmented and incomplete. There were many words, many faces. Sometimes he was practicing martial arts, sometimes reading. He had witnessed life-and-death battles, and seen people fly through the sky and burrow into the earth. There was also a towering mountain piercing the clouds, and an academy so vast it occupied most of an island in the middle of a lake.

It all felt both strange and familiar, tinged with a vague sense of fear. His emotions were impossibly complex.

Finally, in the deepest part of his mind, there was a single, intact memory. Countless mysterious characters came together to form a complete book.

He was extremely familiar with these characters—he had studied them extensively as a student, even publishing specialized papers on them.

“The Indeterminate Spirit Emperor Art, and this demon script. Could this really be the era of martial cultivators and spirit masters from over ten thousand years ago? The features in these memories shouldn’t be wrong—”

He recalled the spirit masters in the academy from his fragmented memories, casting spells and wielding all sorts of spiritual powers every day. The corners of Henry Clark’s mouth twitched involuntarily, his face full of bewilderment.

He had seen similar scenes before, but only in games.