"Yo, JanKu, man, time to wrap it up!" I called out, my voice echoing a bit too loudly in the sudden silence. He always left it all on the boards, that boy. Pure dedication. Not like those other prima donnas the music industry churned out.

JanKu, with his messy blonde hair and those bright blue eyes that could make a grandma blush, offered a sheepish grin. "Just one more track, Big Tim? I promise, this one's gonna be legendary."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Don't you always say that? Manager's orders, man. Besides, you gotta save some of that magic for the Grammy's next week, right?"

He laughed, that easy, carefree laugh that had half the world singing along to his tunes. "Right, right. Grammy's. Gotta keep the people happy."

He started packing up, a whirlwind of controlled chaos as always. Kid was a walking contradiction - white as a snowdrift in an industry full of melanin, but he was the most down-to-earth, generous soul you ever met. Always pushing for diversity, donating his money to causes, using his platform to lift others up.

He flashed that megawatt smile one last time as he headed for the exit. "See you tomorrow, Big Tim! Keep the beats bumpin'!"

I watched him through the security cameras as he walked down the street, whistling along to some tune in his head, probably already working on his next hit.

Then the sky ripped open.

It wasn't thunder, not like any storm I'd ever seen. A blinding spear of white-hot energy, thicker than a sequoia, slammed down from the heavens, engulfing JanKu in its fury. No explosion, no sound, just a sudden, terrifying flash of light, and then... silence.

The cameras went dead.

My hand trembled as I reached for the phone, cold dread gripping me like a vise.

The first sensation that assaulted me wasn't pain, but a burning, acrid stench. Like overcooked meat mixed with the sharp tang of lightning. My eyes snapped open, but the world swam before me in a dizzying blur of gold and crimson.

Groaning, I tried to sit up, my limbs heavy and uncooperative. My head throbbed with a dull ache, a symphony of agony playing behind my eyes.

Where...where the hell was I?

This wasn’t my studio. This wasn't even Earth, if the ornate screens depicting fantastical landscapes and the silk-draped furniture were anything to go by.

Panic tightened its icy grip around my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.

Fragments of memories, alien and unwelcome, slammed into me, each one a fresh wave of nausea.

A sneering face in a bronze mirror, handsome in a cruel, predatory way. Hands, not my own, calloused and stained with something that made my stomach churn. And a name…

Jang.

Waste of the Ku Clan. A title spat like a curse, laced with venomous disdain.

I lurched to my feet, stumbling over silk robes that felt as foreign as the memories flooding my mind.

Murders, casual cruelty, a life lived in the pursuit of selfish pleasure… it was all there, a grotesque tapestry woven into the fabric of my very being.

This wasn’t me. It couldn’t be. I was JanKu, the kid who spent his nights crafting music and his days trying to make the world a slightly better place.

A choked sob escaped my lips as the horrifying truth settled in, cold and inescapable as a tomb.

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I was dead.

And somehow, I was also this…this monster. This Jang.

"FUCK!"

The word echoed in the opulent chamber, a desperate plea against a fate far crueler, far more twisted than any nightmare I could have ever imagined.

"FUCK!" The word ripped from my throat again, less a curse and more a primal scream of frustration. It was official: I was trapped in the body of the human equivalent of a dumpster fire.

Memories, vivid and unwelcome, played like a highlight reel of awfulness. Extorting shopkeepers, tormenting servants, and the one that made my non-existent vegetarian self gag - bragging about using aphrodisiacs on unsuspecting women.

Seriously, what kind of sociopathic man-child was this Jang?

As if to add insult to injury, fragments of cultivation knowledge flickered through my mind, a jumbled mess of half-learned techniques and arrogant pronouncements from what I could only assume were this world’s equivalent of personal trainers for superpowered jerks.

And that's when the full horror of my situation slammed into me harder than a bass drop in a crowded club. This imbecile, this Jang, had single-handedly sabotaged his own cultivation for the sake of... longer bedroom performances?

I mean, I got it. Everyone wants to impress in the bedroom. But sacrificing your potential for power, for literal superhuman abilities, just so you could last an extra round or two? Talk about misplaced priorities.

According to the snippets of knowledge I could access, Jang was at the 8th level of Meridian Forging, just shy of Meridian Opening. That meant he could probably bench-press a small car and run a six-minute mile in a literal second, which was impressive by Earth standards, but here? It was apparently the equivalent of being the scrawny kid who always got picked last in gym class.

This idiot was practically radiating untapped potential, like a neglected power station on the verge of going critical. And instead of using it to become some kind of legendary hero, he'd squandered it all for... that?

Despair threatened to engulf me, but then a spark of defiance ignited in my chest. I might be stuck in this garbage fire of a body, branded with a reputation that would make Satan blush, but I was still JanKu on the inside. And JanKu didn't give up, no matter how terrible the shit situation he's in.

I might not have been able to control this world’s version of magic yet, but I was damn well going to figure it out.

First things first: damage control. I had to undo whatever this moron had done to his cultivation before I could even think about escaping this gilded cage.

Easier said than done, I suspected. Especially with a body that seemed determined to sabotage me at every turn. But hey, even the most complex track started with a single beat.

Time to get to work.

The echo of the name Janson Kullan reverberated strangely in the cavern of my mind. It felt both familiar and distant, like a song from a childhood I could barely remember. JanKu was gone, incinerated in that celestial light show, leaving me with the wreckage of Jang Ku and a desperate hope that I could salvage something from this mess.

One memory, a stray thread in the tapestry of Jang's idiocy, offered a glimmer of possibility. His tutors, exasperated by his utter lack of discipline, had once suggested a complete reset. Return to zero, scrub the metaphorical hard drive, and start over.

'You need to rebuild your foundation, Jang Ku,' one exasperated old man had said, his words echoing in my mind. 'Start from the beginning, with a proper technique, or you'll never progress!'

Of course, Jang, in his infinite wisdom, had scoffed at the idea. Six months of tedious meditation and careful Qi re-circulation? The young master had better things to do, like picking his nose and terrorizing street vendors.

'Thankfully, he wasn't a simple moron, but one with the knowledge to do this.' I thought as I hummed my breath. Because a reset, a complete system reboot, was exactly what I needed.

I vaguely recalled the concept of 'Peak-Violet' cultivation techniques – the kind even powerful clans, or even a city lord, in higher grade cities- would kill for. I had access to one, naturally, because the universe apparently thought further irony was a hilarious seasoning to sprinkle over my new life.

But first things first: system wipe. Fuck this corrupt hard-drive, bro.

I channeled a sliver of Qi, the feeling surprisingly instinctive despite my lack of practice. It felt… different from what I remembered. Denser, somehow, buzzing with an almost electric hum. It responded to my will, though clumsily, like trying to play a complex melody on a rusty instrument.

Focusing on the memory of that reset technique, I pushed the Qi into a five-finger release, the hand position oddly familiar. It was almost like… muscle memory. Has this body used this technique before?

Before I could ponder it further, a searing pain ripped through me when I clearly did something wrong. I'd envisioned a controlled implosion, a gentle dismantling of my flawed foundation. Instead, it felt like I'd just uppercutted my own dantian.

"Gah!" I doubled over, my insides churning. My ears rang, and for a moment, the ornate ceiling seemed to be doing the funky chicken.

"Young Master? I have your—"

A young woman, presumably a maid judging by her simple attire, stood frozen in the doorway. Her eyes, wide with alarm, darted from my contorted form to my glowing hand, still frozen in its awkward position.

"Eh?" she squeaked, her voice small and uncertain.

Well, this was going swimmingly.