Alright, Kong Di Qing it is.
It had a certain ring to it. Plus, it was a hell of a lot cooler than "Janson the Accidentally Transmigrated DJ." I practiced saying it under my breath a few times, testing out different inflections. A touch more swagger here, a hint of mystery there.
Yeah, this new identity had potential.
I glanced at the notebook again. The disguise technique, brilliant as it was, came with a time limit. Six hours, tops, before my own Qi signature started leaking through the cracks, like a busted bass speaker while my Qi actually ran out.
Six hours to make it out of this city.
Six hours to disappear into a world that I was pretty sure wanted to dissect me for being a "Heavenly Demon"
I think
Which, to be fair, whatever the hell that was, sounded kind of badass when you ignored the whole "hunted by everyone" part.
I shuffled towards the edge of the marketplace, trying to blend in with the few early risers starting to set up their stalls. A wanted poster, plastered onto a nearby wall, caught my eye.
"WANTED: The Heavenly Demon That Possessed Jang Ku," it proclaimed in bold calligraphy, accompanied by a rather unflattering portrait of yours truly.
They’d even gotten the sneer right.
I suppressed a groan. This was worse than I thought. My reputation preceded me, and it was about as appealing as a week-old bowl of noodles filled with nails and shit.
Discreetly, I channeled a sliver of Qi, measuring its flow through my meridians. My stomach dropped faster than a stone in a shitstorm from outer-space.
Five hours.
I had five hours until my charade crumbled, and I was back to looking like Public Enemy Number One. Five hours until I was fresh out of time… and dangerously empty on Qi.
The sun, already peeking over the horizon, seemed to mock my predicament with its cheerful glow.
Right. No time for existential dread. I needed information, supplies, and a decent map if I was going to outrun this "Heavenly Demon" debacle.
I spotted a woman, her back to me as she arranged a colorful array of herbs and potions on a stall. She had the aura of a seasoned cultivator, someone who’d probably seen more than their fair share of weirdness. Maybe she could point me in the right direction.
Taking a deep breath, I schooled my features into what I hoped was a neutral, non-demonic expression.
Time for Plan “Ask Nicely.”
I approached her, intending to ask, “Hey, lady, you know where I can find a place to get some Qi pills?” in my most charming, non-threatening voice.
What actually came out of my mouth was, “Respectable miss, could you direct this young cultivator to a nearby alchemist shop?”
The woman turned, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “Yes, young one,” she replied, her voice surprisingly gentle. “The nearest alchemy shop is down the street from here, two buildings with a green tiled roof.” She gave me a warm smile. “You are very polite. Have a wonderful morning, junior.”
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I blinked, taken aback by her kindness. Then, realizing I was probably staring, I mumbled a hasty, “Thank you, ma’am! You have a nice day too!” and practically sprinted down the street, leaving a trail of bewildered shopkeepers in my wake.
Well, that went… surprisingly well. Maybe 'Kong Di Qing' wasn't so bad after all. Now, about those Qi pills… and maybe a map. And possibly a new identity.
Well, apparently I need a lot of things. But first, those pills.
I paused, and ran that through my head again. I had said "Thank you, respectable miss, Have a serendipitous day." instead of what I was going for.
"Serendipitous day?" I muttered under my breath, replaying the encounter in my mind. What the hell was I, a character from a bad romance novel?
A wave of disorientation washed over me, followed by a chilling realization. It wasn't just my face that was different. My words, my mannerisms- they'd shifted, becoming strangely formal, almost archaic.
It was the disguise technique, I realized. It wasn't just altering my appearance; it was filtering my speech, adapting it to fit this world's customs. I vaguely remembered reading something about language barriers in one of those cultivation novels I'd devoured in a past life. Apparently, some techniques came with built-in translation software.
Convenient, sure, but also a little unnerving. It was like having a super-powered grammar nazi living in my brain, constantly judging my every syllable.
A mischievous thought occurred to me. If the technique could translate my intentions into this world's flowery vernacular, what would happen if I really pushed it?
I stopped dead in my tracks, ignoring the curious glances from passersby. Time for a little experiment.
Taking a deep breath, I channeled a surge of bravado, summoning every ounce of trash-talking swagger I’d absorbed from years of dealing with egotistical producers and cutthroat record labels.
"Yo, this motherfucking bastard," I snarled, picturing Jang Ku's punchable face in my mind, "who looks dumb and is a million times stupider than me, is cowshit crapping out death-poison from his dead mouth!"
The words left my mouth in a torrent of elegant, almost poetic, vitriol.
"Hello, I, your ancestral grandfather, have come to tell you this: your mother bedded you by accident to form your own incestuous, cow dung-looking image that is your rotten, stupid face, lacking the intelligence of even a mayfly, and one that will die just as fast."
I blinked, utterly stunned.
Okay, so maybe the translation software had a bit of a learning curve. Or maybe it was just messing with me.
But damn, it felt good.
A laugh bubbled up from my chest, a mixture of disbelief and exhilaration. Being this savage while still sounding like an aristocratic poet was strangely liberating.
"You dare?!"
A voice, shrill with indignation, pierced my bizarrely poetic musings. I turned to find a young man, practically vibrating with outrage, his hand hovering over the hilt of a rather ornate-looking sword.
He was the very picture of entitled youth, from his silk robes that screamed "Daddy buys me whatever I want" to the sneer that seemed permanently etched onto his face. His cultivation, however, was less impressive. A faint, sputtering aura clung to him, barely stronger than the ambient Qi in the air. Second level Meridian Forging, at best. Jang Ku, even with his self-sabotaged meridians, had been leagues ahead of this chump.
"Seriously?" I muttered under my breath, stifling a laugh. This guy was like a chihuahua trying to pick a fight with a tiger. A very poorly trained chihuahua, at that.
But then a jolt of fear shot through me. He might be a cultivation lightweight, but even a weak spark could ignite a wildfire. If he made a scene, if he attracted attention-
My body moved before my conscious mind could even catch up.
It was a blur of motion, a snap of violence orchestrated by instinct and muscle memory that even Jang Ku's inept soul hadn't completely extinguished. One moment the young master was sputtering threats, the next he was crumpled on the ground, out cold.
I didn't even remember striking him.
Adrenaline surged through me, a potent cocktail of fear and exhilaration. I scooped up the unconscious young master – surprisingly light, like a sack of potatoes with anger management issues – and tucked him into a nearby alleyway, behind a stack of broken crates. Hopefully, he’d sleep off his humiliation and I’d be long gone before anyone noticed.
Heart pounding, I melted back into the flow of pedestrians, my pace brisk but not panicked.
"That was close," I muttered under my breath, glancing over my shoulder one last time. "But I guess the quality of cultivation matters as much as the level."
I pondered why- even after shattering 'my' cultivation, level one of Qi-garbage-collecting was so darn good.
Then I gave up.
Either way, I had a feeling this was just the first of many close calls in my new life as a fugitive, falsely accused Heavenly Demon with a talent for accidental ass-kicking.
And honestly? I was goddamn terrified to see what other shit would happen at this point.