The morning sun peeked over the horizon, splashing pink and orange hues across the sky in a way that would make poets weep. A gentle breeze carried the scent of jasmine—pleasant, refreshing, completely inappropriate given the corpse sprawled on the brick floor.
At first glance, he could be mistaken for someone meditating, maybe even achieving enlightenment. Upon closer inspection, however, it became clear he wasn’t contemplating the mysteries of life—unless the mysteries of life involved face-planting into the ground with all the grace of a collapsing bookshelf. His hair was a tangled mess, matted with what one could hope was mud, though the dried, crusty texture hinted otherwise.
From a distance, it might have looked like he’d taken an elegant dive off the railing above, aiming for a refreshing swim—except there was no water, just bricks. And as they say, gravity always wins.
But then, a raspy, broken groan shattered the serene morning air, startling a few birds into reconsidering their life choices. The "corpse" twitched. Slowly—like a man who’d just remembered gravity was optional—he shifted, pressing his face against the brick floor in search of a more comfortable position.
So much for the statue contest. The statue won by a landslide.
Waking up to a sharp pain in his elbows and knees, he attempted to sit up—only to collapse back onto the floor with a groan that sounded suspiciously like a dying walrus. A throbbing ache pulsed through his chest, his heart pounding in erratic bursts, as if it had just remembered it was supposed to be doing something important.
He relaxed his body against the cold stone floor, hoping a moment of peace would help him think. It didn’t. His body had other plans.
Well, at least breathing didn’t hurt. Small victories.
He lay there, trying to wrap his head around how he ended up in this mess, but the relentless pain kept pulling his thoughts in another direction—mostly toward regret. After what felt like an eternity, his heart finally calmed down, allowing him to attempt standing. Bad idea.
Every attempt to move sent spikes of pain shooting from his elbows and knees. Only from his elbows and knees. It seemed even his injuries had a sense of humour.
As the pain dulled, he blinked groggily, his eyes darting from side to side like a confused mole trying to escape the daylight. The limited view from his spot on the ground wasn’t promising. His gaze eventually settled on a picturesque row of trees and flowers lining the wall—blooming peacefully, swaying in the breeze.
Lovely. Nature was thriving. Meanwhile, he couldn’t even manage to sit up without feeling like his knees were held together with duct tape and bad decisions.
He sighed and let his head drop back against the stone floor.
What happened?
The last thing he remembered was finishing that cursed assignment. The one that had kept him up all night. He could still picture the final question—something about orbits and stabilizers. Not from physics, though. From math. And why was it still so vivid in his mind? Why could he remember that but not how he ended up sprawled on the floor like roadkill?
For a moment, the weight of it all settled on him. The confusion. The pain. The surreal calm of the scene around him. Something was wrong—deeply, fundamentally wrong. And he had no idea what to do next.
Then his elbow slipped.
With a yelp, he tipped sideways and landed face-first in the dirt again.
Wonderful. Absolutely perfect. He let out a dry chuckle that bordered on hysterical. At least the flowers weren’t judging him. Probably.
After the pain dulled further, he managed to sit up properly, groaning like an old man with bad knees. Blinking slowly, he took in his surroundings—or tried to. There was a large pond… or maybe it was a spring? A waterfall? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that somewhere nearby, water was trickling softly, the sound both calming and unsettling in equal measure.
The courtyard—or garden, whatever it was—stretched before him, bordered by rows of trees and flowers. Bamboo shoots swayed gently at the back, rustling in the breeze. It might have been peaceful if not for the half-clotted mess squishing under his palm.
His gaze dropped. Ah, yes. That.
Blood.
He had known it was blood from the moment he felt it, but his brain had done a wonderful job pretending otherwise. Now, faced with the sticky red smear spreading beneath his hand, there was no more room for denial.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe slowly. Don’t panic. Don’t freak out. Definitely don’t think about how much blood that actually is. His heart had only just calmed down, and the last thing he needed was another round of irregular pounding.
Reluctantly, he wiped his palm on the ground and glanced at his hands, then down at his clothes—or rather, the clothes he wasn’t wearing.
Gone were his familiar T-shirt and boxers. In their place was a long robe, plain but elegant, made of a fabric that was far too luxurious for someone who usually fell asleep surrounded by snack wrappers and unfinished assignments.
He frowned.
Thoughts fired through his brain like a malfunctioning vending machine. Did he sleepwalk? That seemed unlikely, considering he lived on the third floor. Besides, he didn’t even know where the gardens were.
Which left one other possibility.
The classic novel situation.
His eyes narrowed. Slowly, he stretched out his legs and studied them. Definitely longer than they should be. His arms, too. And when he reached up to touch his hair, he found it longer and thicker than he remembered.
Yep. That confirmed it.
“Well,” he muttered to himself, “at least I’m not a side character.”
He turned slowly, taking in the sight behind him. A large closed wooden door stood at the back, flanked by equally massive windows that gleamed in the sunlight. In front of the door, a swing seat with plush cushions swayed gently, the kind of thing you’d find in a luxury villa ad—where rich people lounged with drinks in hand, basking in their wealth and good fortune.
Yep. Definitely a fancy place. He was way out of his tax bracket.
Above the door, a balcony jutted out dramatically, casting a shadow over the courtyard. He could almost picture the scene: someone standing up there, gazing down at the peaceful garden below. Maybe they were pushed. Maybe they jumped. Either way, it looked like a place where something had happened.
He shuffled awkwardly, trying to stand. The pain in his joints flared again, but it was more manageable now—just a dull ache. As he straightened up, he noticed something strange.
No headache. No dizzy spell. No foreign memories crashed into his mind.
His brow furrowed.
Wasn’t that how these things were supposed to go? You wake up in a new body, confused and disoriented, with someone else’s life flashing before your eyes. But he felt… fine. No identity crisis. No emotional baggage. No "who am I?" moment.
A creeping dread began to gnaw at him.
His hands trembled as he touched his chest, then his arms. Everything felt right. But there was one final check he needed to make.
Slowly, reluctantly, he reached down and touched his crotch.
Relief flooded through him like a tidal wave. His legs almost gave out as he let out a shaky exhale.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, wiping sweat from his brow. “At least I’m still me.”
Then his eyes narrowed, scanning the luxurious surroundings once again.
“Now, where the hell am I?”
Deciding to stop being a sitting duck, I pushed myself toward the pond. Staring into the water, I saw a strikingly handsome young man with piercing purple eyes glaring back at me. Wait. Were those eyes actually shining? I leaned closer, the details sharpening in the reflection. Strong jawline, high cheekbones, smooth, glowing skin—though not glowing like the eyes, but glowing enough to make me wonder if I’d accidentally stumbled into some sort of supernatural spa.
I couldn’t help it—I reached down and plunged my hands into the water, disturbing the glassy surface. The water rippled out in a rush of red, and I froze. Great. As if things weren't weird enough, now I was probably covered in blood.
Ignoring the pain in my knees, which still throbbed with every movement, I crouched down and tried to clean my hands without completely soaking my sleeves. Focus. Don’t panic. I needed to check for injuries. My fingers brushed through my hair, pulling it behind my ears. It was longer than I expected—almost like it wasn’t even mine.
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I hesitated for a moment before deciding to dip my head into the water, feeling the coolness against my skin. Maybe the shock of it all would clear my head—or at least drown out the weirdness of seeing myself look... way better than I felt.
The water was unnervingly clear. I could see the smooth stone bottom sloping gently away from the edge, like it was trying to get out of sight, as if the pond itself was shy. The walls were lined with neatly stacked stones, adding to the oddly pristine feel of the place.
I pulled my head out of the water, wrung out my hair, and stood up, feeling the wet strands stick to my face. I knew I was stalling—I hadn’t wanted to think more about my current situation, but the blood on the floor wasn’t going to clean itself.
A small breeze ran across my skin, sending a shiver from my head down to my toes, and I instinctively started moving toward the door. My eyes drifted back to the spot where I’d woken up, still stained with blood. Not a great look, really. I decided that cleaning it up was probably the best option—didn’t want to raise any unnecessary suspicion if someone happened to wander in and spot the mess.
I fumbled through the layers of robes I was wearing and found a long strip of cloth acting as a belt. I yanked it off and soaked it in the blood, trying not to think too hard about what I was doing. After a few trips to the pond to rinse it out, I noticed a strange calm creeping in. There was something almost therapeutic about the routine, and, surprisingly, I started to enjoy the process.
Five or six trips later, only faint traces of blood remained. At least I had that going for me.
The quiet gave me time to think—and panic a little. I was still thinking in English, which felt off. It seemed unlikely, but it wasn’t entirely impossible that people here spoke English. Huh, that would be an interesting thing to investigate.
I glanced at the wooden door. No handles, of course. Why would there be? It probably opened inward, but then again, who knows?
After my last trip, I shuffled over to the sofas and collapsed onto one, letting my back rest against the cushions. It was the first time in what felt like hours that I actually let myself breathe, though I still had no idea what was going on.
The whole ambience of the place felt like a mishmash of Western and Chinese styles—flowing robes, long hair, bamboo, and... yeah, if I had to guess, this was definitely some kind of Xianxia world. Or maybe not a fantasy world but the glowing eyes suggested Not for the first time, I found myself wondering if I’d somehow stumbled into one of those fantasy realms. But instead of daydreaming about ancient martial arts powers, I decided I should think about the more pressing question: what the hell happened to the guy who owned this body?
I ran a hand through my still-damp hair, pulling it back behind my ears. It was way longer than I was used to. Silkier, too.
Right. Priorities.
First question: what happened to the previous owner? Was he pushed? Did he jump? Or was it some freak accident?
I glanced back at the balcony. Waist-high railing. Not exactly an accident waiting to happen unless the guy was performing acrobatics up there—which, judging by the distinct lack of bruises or cuts on his hands, seemed unlikely. That left two options: murder or suicide. Neither was great for my peace of mind.
If someone pushed him, they did a thorough job. The lack of blood smears suggested he hadn’t crawled away from the impact. Instant death. No heroic last words. No desperate struggle for survival. Just splat.
If he jumped… well, that was a whole other existential can of worms. Why? What drove him to it? Was it something I’m about to find out the hard way?
The longer I stood there, the more unsettling the thought became. I glanced down at my robes, adjusting the loose belt I’d used to clean up the blood earlier. The fabric was light, soft, and undeniably fancy—nothing like the bargain-bin hoodies and jeans I usually wore. Even the cut felt foreign. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just… unfamiliar. Like wearing someone else’s clothes. Which, technically, I was.
“Okay,” I muttered to myself. “Next question: what’s this body capable of?”
I flexed my fingers, testing my grip strength. No shaking, no visible injuries. The joints in my knees and elbows still throbbed from the earlier fall, but it wasn’t unbearable. Standing wasn’t an issue anymore, albit the joints hurt. I even did a cautious stretch, testing my range of motion.
Everything seemed… normal. Too normal. For someone who supposedly died from a fall, I felt way too intact. Shouldn’t there be some lingering pain? Bruised ribs? A concussion? Something? But aside from the aches in knees and elbows, I was fine. Suspiciously fine.
Then there was the language problem. I hadn’t encountered anyone yet, but it was a nagging concern. What if people here didn’t speak English? Should I play the amnesia card? Pretend I hit my head? Or maybe just stay quiet and let them think I’m some stoic monk type?
The bigger question was one I didn’t want to dwell on, but it kept creeping back in: could anyone tell that I wasn’t the original soul in this body?
I shivered at the thought. Was there some mystical way to detect a soul transfer? If someone took one look at me and declared, “You’re not him,” what then? Would I be executed on the spot for possession? Or exorcised by some grand elder with a mystical fan?
I chuckled darkly. “No use worrying about things I can’t control. Focus on what you can control.”
Which brought me to survival. I scanned the garden again, noting the tall walls and bamboo groves. Climbing out? Not an option. Even if I wasn’t currently nursing sore knees, parkour was not in my skill set.
What about danger? If someone had tried to kill the previous host, would they come back to finish the job? I didn’t see any obvious signs of danger—no lurking shadows, no ominous footsteps—but that didn’t mean I was safe. For all I knew, there was some sect war going on, and I’d just inherited the losing side’s body.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair again. It was becoming a nervous habit.
“Alright. Inventory check,” I muttered, patting down my robes. No hidden weapons. No money. Just layers of silk and a piece of cloth I’d already used to mop up blood.
I sat back down on the cushioned swing under the balcony, leaning against the plush pillows. For a moment, I let myself relax, taking in the serene garden view. The gentle sound of water trickling from the pond. The soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. The distant chirping of birds.
It was… peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
“Okay,” I muttered. “Either I’ve been dumped into the world’s most dangerous soap opera, or I’m living someone else’s tragic backstory.”
The dark humor wasn’t helping as much as I hoped.
Leaning back, I draped an arm over my eyes, blocking out the sun. “One more thing,” I whispered to myself. “What’s my name?”
There was no answer. No sudden flash of memories. No instinctual knowledge.
Just silence.
I sighed. “Figures.”
For now, I’d just have to keep moving forward. Play along. Figure out the rules of this world before it chewed me up and spat me out.
And maybe—just maybe—I’d figure out who I was supposed to be before someone else did.
Hmmm. I feel like I’m forgetting something.
I glanced around the garden, making sure no one was lurking nearby, then leaned in and whispered, “Status.”
Nothing happened.
Okay, maybe I needed to think it instead. I pictured a glowing screen with stats and skills, mentally yelled “Status!”
Still nothing.
Well, worth a shot. Would’ve been nice to have a cheat sheet for my current condition. Maybe even a cool skill like “Not Dying After Falling Off a Balcony.” No such luck.
With a sigh, I turned my attention back to the large double doors and the windows flanking them. The windows looked promising—if this was some kind of grand estate, surely they’d offer a glimpse of the interior. I approached the nearest one, pressing my face awkwardly against the glass.
The room inside was... oddly empty.
A low table sat in the center, surrounded by ornate sofas that screamed wealth and tradition. The kind of furniture you’d expect in a fancy old mansion—luxurious but not exactly practical. No TV, no light fixtures. Not even a hint of modern technology. Maybe they had recessed lighting? Or magical lights?
The floor, though—that was impressive. Polished marble, smooth and reflective. I’m no interior designer, but I could appreciate the craftsmanship. It added to the feeling that I’d stepped into some upper-class household.
My curiosity piqued, I took a deep breath and headed toward the door.
That’s when my heart suddenly stuttered.
Thump-thump-thump—skip—thump-thump.
A sharp, stabbing pain bloomed in my chest, forcing me to clutch at it and sink to the ground.
“Shit,” I gasped, trying to calm my breathing. The ache in my knees and elbows flared up, like my joints were on fire. I rolled over, gritting my teeth as the pain slowly dulled, leaving me shaking and breathless.
“Okay… so I’m not as fine as I thought.”
What the hell? I’d stretched earlier without issue. Why was my heart acting up now?
Taking long, deep breaths, I tested myself again, tapping my chest cautiously. The irregular rhythm had settled, and the ache in my joints dulled once more. Tentatively, I stood up, wobbling a bit as I shifted my weight. The dull ache was persistent, but manageable.
“Is my body actually fucked?” I muttered, half expecting an answer from the universe.
Of course, nothing.
I moved toward the door again, this time at a snail’s pace, fully expecting my chest to rebel. But no pain returned.
Reaching the door, I noticed the intricate floral carvings etched into the wood. They were delicate and beautiful, almost mesmerizing in their detail. I traced one with my finger before pressing lightly against the door itself.
It swung open effortlessly.
No creaking hinges. No resistance. Just smooth, silent motion.
“What the…” I blinked. “If it opens that easily, why isn’t it flapping in the breeze like a broken bird?”
A soft breeze rustled past me, proving my point. By all rights, that door should’ve been moving. But no, it stopped neatly once fully open, as if held in place by invisible hands.
Weird.
Pushing aside my rising unease, I stepped inside.
The moment I crossed the threshold, I half-expected the lights to flick on automatically. They didn’t.
No motion sensors. No switches.
The room was dim and quiet, shadows stretching across the floor in long, eerie lines. I glanced around, noting the layout. Two doors on each side of the room, with stairs leading upward at the far ends of the corridors.
At the back of the hall, a sliding door stood out—a stark contrast to the more traditional design of the rest of the space. It probably led to an outdoor courtyard or garden.
I closed the door behind me, wincing as the quiet click echoed through the empty hall. No sense leaving it open to invite trouble.
Moving toward the center of the room, I rubbed my aching elbows, my mind racing with possibilities.
What now?