Jack’s head throbbed like he’d been hit with a brick, which, given his past life as an underground fighter, wasn’t entirely out of the question. But this time, something was different. His bed felt too soft, the sheets too silky, and the scent in the air too… floral? Definitely not the damp, mildew-infested mattress he was used to.

He groaned, attempting to open his eyes, but the blinding light overhead made him wince. He forced himself to sit up, wincing as he felt the weight of something—or rather, two somethings—clinging to his sides.

“What the hell…?” Jack muttered, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

To his immediate left and right were two beautiful women, each draped in delicate silk robes, their faces nestled into his shoulders as they slept. One had golden blonde hair that cascaded over his chest, and the other had raven-black locks that contrasted sharply against the white sheets. Their breaths were soft and even, completely at ease, as if waking up next to a guy like him was the most natural thing in the world.

“What the actual hell…” Jack’s voice was louder this time, his brain struggling to keep up with what his eyes were seeing.

He looked down at his hands—hands that were clean, well-manicured, and, most importantly, not his. They were too soft, too refined. Not the scarred, calloused knuckles he’d earned from years of street brawls and dodging loan sharks.

Panic bubbled up inside him, but before he could fully process it, a flood of memories—not his memories—crashed into his mind. Parties, duels, lavish dinners, a never-ending stream of flattery from bootlickers, and the fawning adoration of women who would never spare a glance at the real him. He wasn’t Jack anymore. He was John Smith, the most notorious womanizer and spoiled young master in all of… Celestia Nexus?

“Wait… Celestia Nexus? Are you kidding me?” Jack muttered, the absurdity of the situation hitting him like a ton of bricks.

Celestia Nexus. The name was so ridiculous it had to be a joke. But as the memories kept pouring in, he realized with growing horror that it wasn’t a joke. He was inside a world that followed all the overused tropes of a low-budget web novel—the kind where the protagonist always had some overly badass name like “John Smith” and where everything was described in the most cringe-worthy, cliché terms possible.

“Of course, it’s Celestia Nexus,” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why not throw in some ‘Heavenly Dragon Sect’ or ‘Supreme Celestial Elder’ while we’re at it?”

As Jack—no, John—struggled to make sense of his new reality, the memories of the original John Smith filled in the blanks. John was the quintessential young master: arrogant, entitled, and utterly despised by every other man in the city, but inexplicably adored by women. He wasn’t powerful, but his family’s wealth and influence had kept him untouchable. That, and his uncanny ability to woo any woman he set his sights on, had made him the target of every jealous suitor and up-and-coming cultivator in the area.

“Seriously? I get reincarnated into a crappy novel, and I’m stuck as this guy?” Jack lamented, half-laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

But then, as he looked around at the opulent surroundings—gold-trimmed walls, plush carpets, and the sheer luxury of the bed he was in—he couldn’t help but chuckle. Sure, his life as John Smith might be cringe-worthy, but it was definitely a step up from his old life as a broke underground fighter.

“Alright, fine,” he muttered to himself, a grin spreading across his face. “If I’m stuck in this stupid novel, I might as well enjoy it. Beats getting my face smashed in for chump change.”

He carefully extricated himself from the women on either side of him, doing his best not to wake them. Not that he was worried they’d be upset; from what he could gather, John Smith had a way with women that was almost supernatural. They were probably so used to this that they wouldn’t bat an eye.

Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed, finally getting a good look at his new surroundings. He was in a brothel, that much was clear. The room was lavish, decorated with red silk drapes and golden accents, the kind of place only someone with serious cash could afford. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the perfume worn by the women who frequented the place.

The door creaked open, and Jack—still getting used to being John—turned to see a tall, muscular man standing in the doorway. He wore a deep green robe with intricate patterns that probably signified some kind of rank or sect, though Jack had no idea what. The man’s face was set in a scowl, his eyes filled with contempt as they landed on Jack.

“John Smith,” the man spat, crossing his arms. “You’re late for your duel with Harold Blackwood. Again.”

Jack—now John—raised an eyebrow. “Harold Blackwood? Who the hell is that?”

The man’s scowl deepened. “Don’t play dumb with me, John. You’ve been avoiding this duel for weeks, and Harold’s patience is running thin. If you don’t show up today, you’ll bring even more shame on the Smith family name.”

Jack mentally rolled his eyes. “Of course I am,” he thought. “There’s always some duel with a guy named Harold Blackwood. Why not?”

But as the memories of the original John Smith’s life continued to trickle in, Jack realized why this Harold guy was such a big deal. Apparently, Harold Blackwood was the epitome of the “righteous cultivator” trope—a young master with an impeccable reputation, unmatched talent, and an absurdly strong sense of justice. He was everything John wasn’t, which naturally made him John’s mortal enemy.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Great.

“Alright, fine,” Jack sighed, standing up and stretching. “Let’s get this over with.”

The man in the doorway blinked, clearly surprised by Jack’s sudden compliance. “You’re… actually going to show up?”

“Why not?” Jack grinned, walking past the man with a casual swagger that belied his lack of experience in this world. “Might as well see what all the fuss is about.”

As Jack made his way out of the brothel, he couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of it all. He was John Smith, a character straight out of a bad web novel, complete with a reputation for being a womanizer and a coward. But if he was going to be stuck in this world, he figured he might as well have some fun with it.

The streets outside were bustling with activity, filled with people who either avoided John’s gaze or sneered at him as he passed by. Jack couldn’t help but smirk. It was almost like walking through a video game, where every NPC had a pre-programmed reaction to the main character.

As he continued down the street, he started to get a feel for the city. It was a strange mix of ancient Chinese architecture and bizarre anachronisms. There were pagodas and temples, but also carriages that looked suspiciously like limousines, albeit pulled by spirit beasts instead of horses. The people, too, were a mix of traditional and modern, with some wearing robes that wouldn’t look out of place in a wuxia movie, while others sported outfits that seemed inspired by European aristocracy.

“This place is so damn weird,” Jack muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Eventually, he arrived at the city’s central plaza, where a crowd had already gathered. It didn’t take long to figure out why—at the center of the plaza stood a raised platform, clearly designed for duels and public spectacles. And standing on that platform, looking every bit the part of a noble young master, was Harold Blackwood.

Harold was tall and handsome, with sharp features and a regal bearing. His black hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, and his robes were pristine, emblazoned with the symbol of his family—a black tree on a silver background. He looked every bit the part of the heroic protagonist, the kind of guy who would always win, no matter what.

“Oh great,” Jack thought, rolling his eyes. “Here we go.”

As Jack approached the platform, the crowd parted to let him through, their murmurs of disdain and disgust filling the air. Apparently, the original John Smith had a reputation for showing up late, making excuses, or just not showing up at all. The fact that he was here at all was enough to shock most of the onlookers.

Harold’s eyes narrowed as Jack approached, his expression hardening. “John Smith,” he said, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. “I’m surprised you actually showed up this time.”

Jack shrugged, giving Harold a lopsided grin. “Well, you know me. Always full of surprises.”

Harold’s expression didn’t change. “You’ve dishonored your family and insulted mine for the last time. Today, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget.”

“Yeah, yeah, big talk,” Jack thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He knew how these duels went in novels—lots of posturing, lots of trash talk, and then the inevitable face-slapping. And given that he was now the “arrogant young master” character, he had a sinking feeling that he was supposed to be on the receiving end of that slap.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Jack said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve got better things to do.”

Harold’s eyes blazed with righteous fury, and he drew his sword—a gleaming, ornate blade that practically screamed “heroic protagonist weapon.” The crowd gasped in awe, as if they hadn’t seen this exact same scene a thousand times before.

Jack, on the other hand, had no idea what he was doing. He could feel the weight of a sword at his hip—John’s sword, a supposedly “legendary” weapon that was really just a glorified piece of junk. But he didn’t have the years of training or innate talent that Harold undoubtedly possessed. All he had was his experience as a street fighter, which was about as far removed from cultivation dueling as you could get.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Jack thought, drawing the sword and immediately regretting it. The blade was dull, rusty, and looked like it hadn’t been used in years. It was a miracle it hadn’t fallen apart yet.

The crowd laughed, their derision clear. Even Harold looked slightly amused, though he quickly masked it with a look of steely determination.

“This is going to be embarrassing,” Jack muttered to himself, taking a stance that was more instinctual than anything else.

Harold wasted no time. With a burst of speed that was frankly unfair, he closed the distance between them in an instant, his sword arcing toward Jack’s neck in a move that was probably supposed to be some kind of finishing blow.

Jack, relying on pure instinct and the muscle memory of a lifetime spent dodging punches, managed to duck under the swing at the last second. Harold’s sword whooshed through the air just above his head, missing him by a hair’s breadth.

The crowd gasped, clearly not expecting that.

“Whoa, that was close,” Jack thought, his heart pounding. “Guess those years of getting the crap beaten out of me weren’t for nothing.”

Harold, clearly thrown off by Jack’s unexpected dodge, regrouped quickly. He wasn’t going to let this go on for long—that much was clear. He lunged again, this time with a series of quick, precise strikes that were meant to overwhelm and humiliate.

Jack, still running on pure survival instinct, managed to parry the first few strikes, though it was more luck than skill. But as Harold pressed the attack, Jack’s lack of experience began to show. His movements were clumsy, his parries weak, and it was clear to everyone watching that he was outmatched.

But then, something unexpected happened.

As Harold went in for what was clearly the finishing blow, a thought suddenly popped into Jack’s mind—one of those ridiculous cultivation techniques he’d seen in John’s memories. It was called the “Divine Reversal Palm,” a move that was so cliché it hurt, but supposedly powerful enough to turn the tide of any battle.

Jack had no idea if it would work, but at this point, he didn’t have much to lose.

As Harold’s sword came down, Jack instinctively raised his free hand and shouted, “Divine Reversal Palm!”

To his utter shock, a burst of golden energy erupted from his palm, catching Harold completely off guard. The force of the attack sent Harold flying backward, crashing into the ground with enough force to crack the stone platform beneath him.

The crowd fell silent, their disbelief palpable. Harold, the unbeatable young master, had just been floored by John Smith—the laughingstock of the city.

Jack stood there, staring at his hand in disbelief. “Did… did that really just happen?”

But before he could process what had just transpired, the System’s voice echoed in his mind, dripping with sarcasm:

[Congratulations, Host! You’ve successfully activated the “PlotArmor” function. Don’t get used to it.] 

Jack blinked, still trying to wrap his head around everything. But as he looked around at the stunned faces in the crowd, a slow grin spread across his face.

“Maybe this won’t be so bad after all,” he thought, already imagining the chaos he could cause in this ridiculous world.

And with that, Jack—now John Smith—walked off the platform, leaving behind a city full of people who had no idea what had just hit them.