Not everyone likes xianxia.

For instance, if you asked Herkel Wiggins of Hoopskatchawootchie, Iowa, what he thought of the genre, he would say the following in reply:

“Aaarrggghhhh!”

Admittedly, this reply would have had less to do with a reasoned consideration of the genre and its merits and more to do with the fact that someone was then trying to kill him.

But had we found him in happier circumstances (and had he known what xianxia was), our answer, I suspect, would have been much the same.

The one-time mechanic, one-time unknowing demonic cultivator hopped and pranced about the burning noodle shop, panicking, desperately trying to figure out where he was, why magic suddenly existed, and why some rebellious young rogue with weird hair was trying to decapitate him while screaming all sorts of edgy lines about death.

To make matters even worse, while the shop was full of patrons none of them were paying him the slightest bit of attention.

As tables imploded and balls of fire flew madly about the room, the patrons merely adjusted their soup bowls or got up to move, occasionally hunkering down if they were trying to focus.

This, of course, was because they were aware that this was a cultivation world, where violence was the norm, only the strong prevailed, and noodle shops had a lifespan of one week.

But Herkel Wiggins (of Hoopskatchawootchie, Iowa) had no clue what was happening.

One moment he was leaving his mechanic’s shop, reading something called a ‘webnovel’ that his nephew had sent him and wondering what in the ballyhoo ‘cultivation’ was; the next he felt something hard crash into him. Then he fell, and everything went dark.

He woke up shortly thereafter in a blindingly white hall, with some sort of prancing little girl in a pure white sleeping robe telling him that he had been chosen by the gods or something or other.

Herkel didn’t much care what she said - so far as he was concerned, this whole situation was sketchy. Very sketchy. Had he been kidnapped? He’d thought he’d been hit across his entire body - as if by a truck - but maybe he’d only been conked on the head, and this was some drug-induced hallucination.

Then she mentioned something about ‘cheats,’ and he realised what this was: a scam. The only time someone told you that you’d been ‘chosen by the gods’ and offered you ‘cheats’ is because they were about to sell you something, of that he was sure.

He sure as all get up wasn’t planning to be convinced by the hallucinogenic nightwear girl of anything, thank you kindly, and he told her as such.

She pouted, cheeks sticking out, and the next thing he knew he was an ugly knave named ‘Xie Xia,’ drinking soup in a noodle shop. Herkel experienced a brief spike of panic, which calmed down as he tasted the soup.

He could learn about this other world later; it was a crime to waste a good dinner.

A crime, alas, that would shortly be committed, as some kid with spiky hair and a spunky attitude kicked the door down - seriously, could he not walk in normally? - pointed a bloody sword at poor Herkel’s head.

Then he demanded the location of the Heavenly Numinous Divine Carp from Herkel, else he was courting death.

Herkel didn’t know anything about any carps, Heavenly Numinous and Divine or otherwise - it was his brother who was the family fisherman - but he figured the rapscallion was simply here for the fish soup and was pointing the sword at him by accident.

Herkel refused to believe the boy was willing to kill someone over a fish. The very idea was ludicrous - probably hunger had prompted an undue degree of hyperbole. As the ol’ ads used to say, ‘you’re not you when you’re hungry’… and Herkel himself had referred to food as ‘divine’ or ‘heavenly’ after a long day’s labour.

This deduction made, Herkel’s anger faded, and he smiled at the young lad.

Nodding, he politely directed the young man to the counter, where the chubby and cheerful proprietor was cleaning some tankards. The proprietor waved, and motioned above him to a sign in some foreign language.

(Which, strangely, Herkel could read - it said ‘Fresh Fish Soup, 2 persnickels.’)

Unfortunately this did not placate the lad as Herkel had hoped - if anything, it just made his anger explode. The youth hurled several inscrutable insults at the increasingly confused Herkel, who could do nothing in reply but shrug.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The youth screamed in rage, chopping Herkel’s table in half and spilling his tasty soup all over the floor. A weird, yellow light burst out around him as he swung for Herkel’s head, with the latter only barely dodging out of the way.

If it were only the sword, then however discombobulated Herkel may have been, he could have dealt with the lad. Anyone who swung a sword at someone’s head over a fish was clearly insane, and would lack the acumen and self-control to fight with a measure of skill.

But the weird light was another matter - it couldn’t be magic, it couldn’t be - and Herkel was totally out of his depth as the table behind him exploded. All he could do was dash about the room - his body strangely light - as the shrieking lunatic dashed after him.

But let it not be said that Herkel was alone in his frustration, for someone else in the noodle shop was struggling, too.

Once upon a time it was a dark and stormy night, but not upon the night our story begins.

That was because it was the middle of the afternoon.

“No no, that’s a terrible opening. After all, in setting a mood it’s important to be precise, and while the reader can certainly picture the night, given the descriptive adjectives - dark, stormy - they have no clue as to whether the afternoon is bright and calmy or, say, grey and balmy - or, perchance, aquamaroon with disco lights flickering in the sky.”

Yue sighed and examined her manuscript, idly ducking as a bolt of fire flew overhead.

“And besides, laying aside the state of the weather, it is entirely impossible for a dark and stormy night to be upon a time. Time is not a place one can stand on; and dark and stormy nights are abstract nouns, not concrete ones, so they can’t do any standing.”

“BANZAI!” someone screamed, and a six foot long broadsword flew through the table Yue was using as a shield, stopping inches from her nose. She swore.

“Do I need to scrap the whole opening? Xianxia fans are infamous hard-nosed realists, renowned for reading only the most scientifically accurate of literature. If I dare publish this, they’ll flay me alive. I’ll be courting death - or receiving all sorts of nasty letters in the mail.”

“You dare! Kowtow one hundred times, and this one shall forgive you.” Some cultivator from the Toasty Tofu Sect declared, and demonstrated his mercy by bursting into flame.

Yue tsked as her table was incinerated. Imagine, making a performative statement and then immediately contradicting it through your actions. The nerve of some people.

She climbed onto her feet, stretched to get the kinks out of her muscles, and then walked slowly across the noodle shop, lightly stepping over the various bits of refuse littering the floor. She hid behind another table.

“But wait! All this time I’ve been interpreting ‘once upon a time’ as a strictly spatial statement discussing the object location of the ‘dark and stormy night,’ when in fact it is entirely apropos to interpret the core preposition - ‘upon’ - as referring not to the place of the dark and stormy night but to the nature of the time within which the dark and stormy night occurs.”

“Foolish boy! As if I would listen to the likes of you!” Returned some cultivator, name unimportant, of the Ebullient Beef Sect, and hurled himself at his foe. (Herkel had given up on reason, since it clearly didn’t apply here.)

It was not a particularly impressive manoeuvre, but qi is qi and there was a small explosion as the two of them met in the middle of the room, the blast wave making Yue’s hair fly straight to one side.

“‘The nature of the time?’” Wang Pi, the longtime proprietor of the noodle shop, studiously examined the underside of the table Yue was hiding behind. (Presumably to make sure no one had stuck any gum to it.)

“Well, if you’re going to do that, why not include some mystical murmurings? Everyone loves it when the opening lines of a novel are filled with vague and flowery language!”

Yue nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent suggestion!”

Once upon a time it was a luminous night, one quiescently burning with silent thunder.

And then, tragedy struck - Yue ran out of ink.

“Oh, great, well there goes my day.” She said, and then uttered several entirely unladylike lines which are unfit for printing in a respectable publication. Wang looked at her sympathetically, and the realisation of who she was talking to caused Yue to wince.

“I suppose I can’t be too upset. After all, your day has probably been worse-” she started, but Wang waved her concerns away.

“Oh, don’t worry. I figured this would happen when I heard that they were hosting a tournament, so I got insurance. The repairman should be here soon.”

Even as he spoke, there was a gentle knock upon the door, and-

Wait.

Hold up.

Has the story started yet?

You’re telling me you can read this?

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. No, the story hasn’t started yet - the first line, ‘Not everyone likes xianxia,’ was merely me making a note to myself.

(Knowing your audience is important.)

Oh dearie me.

My most sincere apologies.

There I was, innocently taking some records, and the story just had to go and start on me.

And where are we, anyways? Let me scan the record.

Humdeedum. Oh dear. It looks like we took off in media res, without any context and, worse, without a hook. And every story needs a hook.

Y'know, something startling, engrossing, the sort of sentence that, if your spouse were suddenly to burst through the door, strip off their clothes, and cry "Take me!" would make you reply "Shh, not now."

In other words, it needs to be a sentence both original and impressive, in the literal sense of creating an impression. So without further ado - if you wouldn't mind forgetting everything you just read, up to and including this sentence - I will now wow you with an opening line of outstanding and, dare I say it, unparalleled artistic genius: