King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

Julian sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his breathing steady.

Outside, the world slept. Inside, the war had begun.

The lights were off.

Only the soft glow of the mana stone in his palm lit the darkness—

a slow, flickering pulse that matched the rhythm of his soul.

He closed his eyes.

He remembered this cultivation method.

A forbidden path.

Discovered during his travels at fifteen.

He had studied it then—not for use, but for curiosity.

By that time, his body had already been forged in another way.

But this…

This had always fascinated him.

A path not built on nature's gift, but on a soul's will.

A cultivation forged not by chance or divine affinity,

but by pure, defiant intention.

…

In the stillness, he whispered the first verse.

"Break the shell, forsake the weak,

Let bone and blood forget their peak.

When breath is pain and pain is peace,

The body's chains begin to cease."

Pain.

That was the key.

The first passage was the Tempering—

a process of tearing down the comfort of flesh.

Of mastering the body through suffering.

And if there was one thing this body knew…

It was pain.

Julian clenched his jaw.

The mana stone pulsed faster, melting into his skin, feeding the fire within.

His body began to tremble.

Muscles spasmed. Veins bulged. Bones creaked as if protesting the storm of will

invading a vessel too frail to contain it.

…

"Claim the ground beneath your stride,

Walk with weight, and none shall hide.

One field, one world, one soul's decree—

Where I stand, all bends to me."

His soul surged.

Power didn't come from outside.

It came from within.

This verse was the Declaration—

the soul's demand to bend reality, to overwrite the flesh through will alone.

Julian's back arched as a wave of pressure rippled through him.

The walls creaked. The floor groaned.

The air thickened, as if recognizing the weight of a new presence.

He exhaled slowly.

His spine straightened. His breath deepened. For a moment, his heartbeat synced with something ancient—

a rhythm older than flesh, louder than fate.

…

"To see, to know, to crush intent,

To break a thought before it's sent.

Let pride dissolve in just one glance—

No blade more sharp than dominance."

This was the Dominion stage.

Not the destruction of body—but of mind.

To stand before an enemy and see their defeat before the fight began.

To erase confidence.

To kill pride with presence alone.

Julian's skin burned.

Every nerve screamed.

But he remained still.

…

"O soul once torn, now forged anew,

Burn with truths the world once knew.

Not by chance, nor fate, nor grace—

But will alone shall take its place."

His soul no longer echoed.

It sang.

Its tune was raw. Relentless. Sacred.

With every verse, his spirit glowed brighter.

The mana stone in his palm crumbled—dust fading into his skin.

And then—

His body began to bleed.

Black ichor leaked from his pores.

Rot. Toxins. The remnants of weakness.

The stench filled the room—sharp, metallic, vile.

He did not flinch.

…

And finally, he spoke the last verse.

"I kneel to none, I bow to none,

My reign begins when theirs is done.

No gods, no kings, no stars above—

Just one soul, and iron will, and boundless love."

Silence.

The energy within him stilled.

Then—

Roared.

His soul ignited like a furnace.

Power, raw and ancient, flowed through his veins.

Every breath was a storm.

Every heartbeat, a drum of war.

Julian opened his eyes.

The wheelchair stood beside him, untouched.

He rose.

Slowly.

Steadily.

Without help.

No trembling. No gasping. No pain.

He stood on his own two feet.

The floor beneath him groaned again—not from his weight,

but from the force of his presence.

He inhaled.

And for the first time in this life—

He felt alive.

The weight that once anchored him to the ground was gone.

The ache that clung to every movement had vanished.

There was strength in his breath. Focus in his steps.

A warmth pulsed beneath his ribs. Not fire. Not rage.

But purpose. Clear and sharp. Unshakable.

But first—

He needed a shower.

The water was hot, and the steam filled the small bathroom.

Black residue still clung to his skin—what had once been rot, toxins, and dead weight.

It swirled down the drain in thin, ugly trails.

Julian didn't flinch.

He scrubbed harder.

By the time he was done, his body was clean.

And something else lingered beneath the surface—

Readiness.

Wrapped in fresh clothes, he stepped back into the room and sat at the edge of the bed.

"Ashi."

The little blue phantom flickered into existence beside him.

"Show me my status."

…

User: Julian Ashford

Age: 17

State: Partially Stabilized

Title: None

…

ATTRIBUTE

► Strength : 6 

► Agility : 7 

► Stamina : 4

► Technique : 2 

► Perception : 13 

► Instinct : 12

► Charisma : 5 

Total Stat : 49

…

Skill

➤ [Battlefield Mind] – Passive

You react like a warrior. Movement predictions, pressure reading, and timing enhanced.

➤ [Martial Memory: Lv.0]

Martial techniques will adapt into this world as your body grows.

Julian's eyes scanned the numbers.

It wasn't much.

His physical stats were still behind even average high school athletes.

But this wasn't about comparison.

This was about momentum.

The soul cultivation hadn't transformed him instantly—

but it had opened the door.

His breath was steady.

His joints didn't scream.

He could move.

And that was enough.

"Tomorrow..."

He looked at the screen again.

His Technique was abysmal. Just 2.

It didn't matter how sharp his instincts were if his form was sloppy.

"Tomorrow, I begin training."

Not just the body.

Not just the spirit.

But the art.

He would raise his Technique.

He would make this new body a weapon.

For now—

The system faded.

The lights dimmed.

And Julian, reborn and reforged, allowed himself to fall into sleep.

But even in sleep—

His soul burned.