JOHN WILSON

John had always prided himself on his ability to keep cool. Whether it was a lousy day at work, an unexpected rent hike, or lying awake at two in the morning listening to his obnoxious neighbors shagging their brains out, he had a simple philosophy—roll with the punches. Life was unpredictable and had a habit of kicking in your teeth when you’re already down. But John endured. He learned to adapt, to survive.

But this? This was different.

The sky stretched above him, vast and infinite, a tapestry of blue so rich it seemed almost unreal. It was not the dull, muted blue of New York City, washed out by neon lights and veiled in haze and smoke, but a sky that belonged to the dreams of poets. Wisps of white drifted lazily, their shifting forms like brush strokes upon an unfinished canvas. The sun shone high, a pale gold disc that cast light so pure it seemed to cleanse everything it touched.

The wind whispered, warm and fragrant, carrying the echoes of a world untouched by post-industrial machines. He could smell the crisp scent of pine, the delicate perfume of blooming lotuses, the faint lingering trace of incense—as if monks had folded their prayers into the very fabric of the air. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell chimed, deep and resonant, extolling some unknown hour.

The grass beneath his fingers bent softly, jeweled with the last remnants of morning dew. In the distance, bamboo groves swayed like silent sentinels, their hollow rustling a song of forgotten ages. And beyond, perched upon half-shrouded mist-laden cliffs, were pagodas with golden rooftops that curved like dragon wings, gleaming in the sunlight.

John sat up and realized everything was wrong.

He was dressed in wide, flowing silk robes, of white and deep azure, without embellishment yet crafted with a quality that defied reason. The fabric shimmered with every movement, light as a whisper, firm as tempered steel, as though woven from something not entirely bound by this world. 

Then he felt it—a current deep within.

John sucked in a sharp breath. It was like brushing against the surface of a vast, unseen ocean, its depths stretching beyond comprehension. A hum, a vibration, a pulse of something primal, coiling and uncoiling within him like a serpent of untamed power. It moved with his breath, a torrent of sheer, unfiltered energy flowing through unseen pathways inside his body.

Qi.

It wasn’t just energy—it was something greater, something immense. It surged through his limbs, boundless, intoxicating. He knew—if he willed it, he could flatten mountains, call forth arcane power, and step into the sky itself. His body felt weightless yet unbreakable, a vessel too perfect, too other, for his very human mind to fully comprehend.

And yet, it wasn’t his.

His breath hitched. His hands—his hands—were smooth, unblemished, and strong, strangely unmarred by scars or callouses. They were not the hands of an overworked 27-year-old trying to make ends meet, nor the hands of a battle-hardened warrior as one might expect. Yet his mind whispered that he had a warrior’s history, that this body had memory, though he felt an eerie disconnect—like stepping into the skin of a legend, wearing power that did not feel entirely earned.

A glint of shattered glass caught his eye.

Among the mangled corpses and strewn weapons, a fractured hand mirror lay half-buried in the dirt. Beside it lay the corpse of a woman in white silk robes, once pristine, now stained crimson, her delicate hand still clutching the frame. A noblewoman, perhaps, a figure of station in a world whose rules he did not yet know.

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John hesitated, then reached for the mirror. The glass was cracked, but within the fractured pieces, he saw his own face.

It was a face he had seen before.

Dark golden eyes, burning with something ancient and untamed. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline. His black, wavy hair fell past his shoulders, caught by the wind like an ink stroke against the sky. A face that belonged to legends, to cutscenes, to a max-level character he had painstakingly customized down to the finest detail in Nine Mystical Realms Online.

Jin Long.

His fingers brushed his cheek, his jaw, tracing the contours of a face that was both his and not his. His heart pounded.

This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

And yet, when he exhaled, the breath that left him carried the weight of something irreversible.

A sound. A shift in the air.

Jin Long turned.

A figure stepped from the trees, clad in black from head to toe, his movements fluid and measured—like a predator stalking its prey. His face was masked, but his presence bled danger. This was not someone to be trifled with.

The man sighed, shaking his head. "I apologize," were the only words he spoke, voice low and coarse like gravel against steel. 

Jin Long didn’t have time to process what the apology meant before the stranger moved.

A flick of the wrist—qi surged.

A lance of energy, sharp and shimmering, tore through the air toward him.

Jin Long flinched. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—his feet shifted, weight adjusting, and the world seemed to slow. He twisted, stepping aside as the projectile hissed past his cheek, incinerating the bark behind him.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

That was close. That was too close.

The assassin remained unfazed. Hands moved in a blur—more projectiles, cutting through the space between them like blades of light.

Jin Long’s mind screamed run, but his body knew. Without thinking, his hand flicked outward, and qi rippled around him—an invisible force pushing against the air, breaking the projectiles before they could reach him.

The assassin stilled, eyes narrowing.

Jin Long exhaled sharply. "Look, I don’t want to fight you," he said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline pounding through him. "I don’t know what’s going on, but I have no beef with you. Can we talk like civilized men?”

The assassin studied him in silence.

Then—the killer moved, closing the gap between them in a few inhuman strides. A steel blade flashed into existence, its edge singing through the air. Expert swings—calculated, ruthless. Aimed to kill Jin Long.

Jin Long instinctually sidestepped all of the assassin’s attempts, his footwork sharp, precise, and too perfect. He barely had time to register the weightless momentum before his palm moved on its own, striking forward—

The assassin's body convulsed violently. A sickening crack filled the air.

The assassin staggered, blood seeping through his face cover. His knees buckled, then gave out. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps before he slumped forward, motionless.

Jin Long’s breath was heavy in his chest.

I just killed someone.

The realization should have horrified him. Should have left him paralyzed with guilt.

Yet, even as he contemplated, his breath stilled, his pulse slowed.

He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t shaking.

Why?

He looked down at the body of his assailant.

Taking his life seemed easy, almost too easy.

The silence stretched, vast and unbroken.

Jin Long finally remembered to exhale again. His own voice, hollow.

"What the hell?"

The wind offered no reply, save for the faint chime of a distant temple bell.