Chapter One: The Immortal Traveler

“I died again.”

Mo Wen opened his eyes in a narrow, pure white space barely wide enough for a single person to lie down. Staring at the familiar ceiling, he tried to draw lessons from his most recent demise.

The moment he landed in the new world, he felt the ground shuddering violently. At the horizon, a brown mass surged upward.

Only when that color swallowed even the sky, casting everything around him into shadow, did he realize the true nature of the spectacle: an enormous being charging across the land.

Its body towered above the clouds, blocking out the sun. Its speed surpassed storms, tearing open the atmosphere. Even without attacking, its mere existence was a calamity, devastating the powerless.

A giant? A stone demon? Or perhaps the god of the local people?

Mo Wen couldn’t identify what it was, but he knew what killed him.

An overwhelming, unmatched mass—just its movement shook the mountains, split the earth beneath its feet, and changed the very map. Such a vast disparity in power was the most difficult challenge he had faced to date.

Before Mo Wen could find a way to survive or a weakness to exploit, the colossal being reached him. The aftershock it generated erased him instantly.

In a heartbeat, he was back at the “Respawn Point.”

“Once again, I learned nothing and gained nothing. Died for nothing.”

By now, Mo Wen had lost count of how many times he’d died since being trapped in this white space and forced to randomly traverse worlds—perhaps a hundred thousand times or more.

Compared to deaths where he was reduced to dust yet still retained every sense, or petrified and forced to experience his body rotting away inside the stone shell—those exquisite deaths—this one was almost merciful, second only to dying the moment he stepped through the door.

No matter whether he lost his mind before dying or perished swiftly, the “Respawn Point” always restored him to peak condition. Even if he’d flayed himself alive in madness or devoured himself out of hunger, he would awaken as refreshed as the first time he entered, though any power gained or change in mindset would linger in some measure.

From being eaten alive by a bear to beating one to death barehanded; from lingering in the white space until the silence became unbearable, to pushing the door open while grumbling to himself—he had made considerable progress, even if most of his enemies were absurdly powerful.

Mo Wen couldn’t tell if this was a cruel curse or a warped blessing, but he had to find a way to break free.

Either sever the bond with the “Respawn Point” and enjoy true death and peace, or struggle on and live with purpose.

He rose quickly and strode toward the only anomaly in this white space: a somewhat battered door.

Every time he saw this door, older even than himself, Mo Wen couldn’t help but wonder why this pristine white space happened to steal such an out-of-place relic.

Yet the “Respawn Point” never responded to its sole occupant.

Why, when he pushed open the door to his apartment, did he end up here? That, too, remained an unanswered riddle.

All Mo Wen knew was that pushing the door sent him to another world; the “Respawn Point” never sent him to the same world twice, nor did it leave him a way back. Only upon death would he return directly to this place, which he mockingly called the “Respawn Point.”

He gripped the handle and pushed the door open as usual, stepping into a blinding white light.

When his vision cleared, he found himself facing a scene that resembled the aftermath of the apocalypse.

In an abandoned, desolate town, only half a telephone pole remained, its wires trailing in the dust.

Electricity! Man-made structures!

This was modern, maybe even near-future!

The sight reminded Mo Wen of the time he crossed into a zombie world.

Resources everywhere, canned food to gorge on, drinks to enjoy without fear of poisoning or contaminated water, and books aplenty to scavenge. Early on, the zombies were less threatening than some of the exotic creatures he’d faced—no real survival pressure. Once armed, he could even sweep through hordes for fun.

Even when a mutant that could swing a hundred-ton truck like a brick smashed him into pulp, it didn’t hurt much.

“Could this finally be a lucky break?” Mo Wen’s spirits soared.

Out of thousands or tens of thousands of worlds, a blissful run like this was rare: no immediate threats to his life, a survivable environment, even the promise of scavenging or a wilderness survival adventure. The zombie world’s bounty had only come once so far.

His last lucky break had been over a thousand deaths ago.

Perhaps this was a sign of his luck turning.

Mo Wen let his gaze sweep greedily over his surroundings. The symbols of civilization—even relics of a lost one—seemed beautiful beyond words.

“These steel and concrete walls, these power poles, this glass…”

He touched these wonders with the utmost care.

His fingers came away dusty, but the objects themselves remained, neither crumbling nor dissolving into nothingness, nor did some lunatic leap out to declare it all an illusion before killing him with manic laughter.

It was real—at least, as far as he could tell. Of course, he couldn’t rule out the possibility of a hyper-realistic hallucination.

His excitement quickly gave way to calm.

No matter what, if he wanted to survive, he’d need to start gathering resources, find and reinforce shelter, investigate the disappearance of the locals, and prepare to face any monsters.

If he moved quickly, he might even have a hot meal tonight.

Mo Wen sprang into action. But before he could break a window or help himself to the assets abandoned by the former inhabitants, he heard gunshots.

In his experience, gunfire didn’t always mean people. It could be rogue AI with a taste for shooting humans, inexplicable otherworldly creatures, or uncanny things that could mimic voices and read minds. Even if it was a person, someone firing a gun wasn’t necessarily a good person—there could be monsters that only guns could stop.

Yet, after a brief hesitation, Mo Wen chose to run toward the source of the shots.

He couldn’t die—not truly. Even if he was torn to shreds, he’d simply be sent back to the “Respawn Point” and on to the next world. But the best outcome would be meeting a living human.

A living person—he hadn’t seen one in ages.

If not for his mind being restored with each resurrection, Mo Wen thought he might’ve forgotten how to speak. The last time he’d had a conversation was during a bout of split personality.

He wasn’t sure if the languages of two worlds would be the same, but he’d never encountered a language barrier since he began crossing worlds. After bonding with the “Respawn Point,” he could naturally understand any language—beastly roars or insect chirps, as long as they formed a system, and he listened closely, he could comprehend. The same was true for alien scripts.

Of course, understanding didn’t guarantee safety; sometimes, deciphering powerful otherworldly writing would blow his head off, sending him straight back to the “Respawn Point.”

Aside from communication, living people also meant survival know-how. Mo Wen figured the locals would understand how to live in their own environment better than a mere traveler like himself, and life with them might be far superior to going it alone.

The existence of functional firearms meant there must be an industrial base—perhaps even a settlement with water, electricity, and food.

For someone like Mo Wen, who had died and resurrected so many times, even if he had to face a billion murderers tomorrow, eating a hot meal today was already better than ninety-eight percent of his previous misadventures.

In no time, Mo Wen reached the spot where the gunfire had erupted.

But he didn’t charge in recklessly. Relying on the habits forged through countless deaths, he slipped into the shadows and crept forward with silent, cautious steps.