God-Tier Fishing System Chapter 5

The aggressive hammering against his door pulled Ethan from a sleep that was little more than a thin veil. His limbs throbbed with agony after an entire night spent on the unforgiving, frozen floor, shielded by nothing but a ragged cloth that barely qualified as bedding. Each muscle fiber revolted as he attempted to adjust his posture, a brutal reminder of his current station. He grumbled to himself in frustration. The fabric beneath him was saturated with moisture from the icy dampness, and he could sense the biting chill rising through the floorboards, as if the floor itself hungered to sap the remaining warmth from his skin. His joints felt locked and brittle, mimicking the decrepitude of an old man far beyond his youthful years. The ambient temperature had plummeted further overnight, causing his breath to swirl in visible, ghostly wisps amidst the dim beams of light piercing the hut's decaying walls.

Ethan’s mental state was chaotic, his senses dulled by profound fatigue and the sheer nightmare of his restless night. Dread had weighed heavily on him, his mind looping through the same grim inquiries: How could he persevere in this wretched location where he was a total stranger? He lacked allies, connections, and status, armed only with the tattered clothes on his back and the looming shadow of his imprisonment. Whenever he neared slumber, the stifling aura emanating from the ancestral tomb flared, tracing freezing patterns down his spine and filling his head with visions of bony fingers clawing up from glacial depths. The mental strain was nearly catastrophic, knowing that legions of powerful cultivators resided beneath that lake, their lingering residue potent enough to shatter a mortal mind.

The previous host of this body had been isolated not by intent, but by systemic disdain. Within this world of Cultivation, those who walked the path of physical refinement were viewed as outcasts, held in contempt by spiritual practitioners who considered them inferior. Deep-seated memories surfaced, highlighting a history of relentless ostracization that had defined Ethan’s internal life. In the outer Sect, he was grudgingly tolerated but never truly welcomed. While spiritual practitioners congregated to meditate, share insights, and cement bonds through their collective search for immortality, physical practitioners remained trapped in solitude. They were relegated to the most demeaning labor, the squalid housing, and were afforded minimal respect. Even the kitchen servants received greater deference than those disciples pursuing the body refinement path.

Spiritual Cultivation was recognized as the supreme route to immortality, the golden road to ascending unto higher planes and obtaining godlike dominion. History was littered with spiritual cultivators who had shattered the mortal shackles to reach the immortal realm, their sagas serving as beacons for future generations. Their identities were memorialized in stone, their techniques preserved in sacred scrolls, and their triumphs lauded in grand festivals. Conversely, there was no record of a physical cultivator ever reaching the zenith, let alone achieving immortality. Such an outcome was deemed not merely improbable, but entirely impossible; the very notion was a source of mockery among the cultivation populace. Most spiritual adepts looked down upon mortals who lacked the necessary spiritual roots, yet they harbored even greater malice for physical cultivators who dared to overstep their station.

The logic was as cold as it was pervasive: mortals at least possessed the sense to acknowledge their insignificance and lead mundane lives. Physical cultivators, conversely, were dismissed as pathetic zealots disconnected from reality. The conventional wisdom was fixed; without spiritual roots, one was consigned to a simple life as a merchant, farmer, or parent. Physical Cultivation was mocked as a hollow, grasping attempt at power that would always remain a fantasy—akin to a cripple declaring he could outrun a warhorse.

Beyond the societal stigma, a more pressing danger had haunted Ethan throughout his sleepless vigil: the intense yin energy radiating from the ancestral tomb. This malignant chill seemed to infiltrate his marrow, carrying whispers of insanity that intensified with every passing hour. This energy was not merely a nuisance; it was fundamentally hostile to living matter. It groped at his consciousness, hunting for vulnerabilities to corrupt his thoughts and dissolve his sanity. It was as if glacial claws were pressing against his cranium, attempting to fracture it and inject frigid venom directly into his consciousness. If he were a spiritual cultivator, he might have warded off this influence with protective formations or purification techniques. However, as a physical cultivator, he could only endure the onslaught and pray his constitution would adapt before it shattered him.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The successive barrage of strikes was significantly more violent, causing the entire ramshackle hut to shudder in protest. The noise jerked Ethan back to reality, jolting him from his cycle of misery. Dust and debris rained from the rafters as the walls groaned under the onslaught. His faculties remained clouded, his respiration ragged and inconsistent, as if he had just survived a desperate battle. Every breath proved a labor; his heart fluttered with a weak, irregular rhythm. The synthesis of physical depletion, psychological trauma, and the incessant drain of yin energy had forced his constitution to its nadir.

Utilizing the ground for leverage, Ethan hauled himself to his feet with agonizing slowness. Even standing upright felt like ascending an impossible peak. His knees buckled like a shaky newborn, threatening to abandon him at any moment. Once vertical, he had to collapse his weight against the wall to anchor himself. He navigated toward the door with painful, measured movements, his gait uncoordinated and clumsy, resembling a man intoxicated. The short, eight-foot expanse felt like leagues, with every stride demanding immense focus. Just as his fingers closed around the door handle, bracing for whatever ordeal lay ahead—

WHAM!

A massive impact obliterated the door, slamming it inward with catastrophic intensity. The wooden barrier, his primary defense against the elements, redirected the kinetic energy of the blow into his fragile frame, striking him with the force of a stampeding beast. The collision was completely one-sided. His history of physical Cultivation, which should have granted him superior resilience, proved utterly futile against such overwhelming power. He was hurled backward like a discarded ragdoll caught in a gale, helpless against the momentum that sent him flying across the room.

CRASH!

Ethan’s spine struck the far wall, the impact vibrating through his very marrow. The hut rattled violently, its support beams screaming as if on the verge of total collapse. Pain flooded his senses in waves of sheer agony. His spine felt fractured, his ribs groaned in protest, and blinding sparks danced across his vision as his cranium jolted against the unyielding timber. For an instant, his consciousness vanished into a void as his nerves overloaded. He attempted to move, to crawl away, but his nervous system failed to respond. He simply slid in a broken pile, descending from the indentation his body had etched into the wood.

Through the high-pitched ringing in his ears, he detected heavy, authoritative footsteps encroaching rapidly. An intruder had arrived, though his sight remained too unfocused to discern any identifying traits. He could only perceive a towering, dark form growing larger as it neared. Ethan struggled to lift his head for a better view, but the exertion sent fresh jolts of searing pain through his lacerated body. His coordination had been annihilated by the strike. The silhouette loomed over him, close enough that Ethan could feel the oppressive aura even through his fading senses. Just as his awareness began to dissolve, he registered a voice, dripping with confusion and surprise: "I thought he was supposed to be a physical cultivator."