Ethan hated two things in this world.

Mornings. And protagonists.

Not in that order.

He was currently stuck on the 8:42 express train, squeezed between a man who smelled like instant noodles and a woman who had been loudly defending her phone charger from an invisible thief for the last fifteen minutes.

One earbud was in. The other had fallen behind his seat two stops ago, and Ethan had decided, as a matter of principle, that he would rather die than crouch down and fish for it.

He was twenty-one. It was a Monday. He had a university lecture at nine.

Life was, generally speaking, fine.

He was also in the middle of re-reading, for the fourth time, the worst Chapter of the worst xianxia novel he had ever had the misfortune of finding on his phone.

’Lin Wuji clenched his fists. His body trembled with rage as the Young Master of the Sky Cloud Sect laughed at him. One day, he would wash away this humiliation with blood—’

Ethan scrolled down.

’But today, he could only endure.’

"No, he couldn’t," Ethan muttered out loud. The instant-noodle man glanced at him like he was a madman. Ethan didn’t care. "Buddy. You’re Qi Refining stage seven. The Young Master is stage nine. That’s two stages. Just hit him. Just hit him, it is not that hard."

He scrolled again.

’Lin Wuji lowered his head and walked away, tears of blood staining his cheeks.’

"Tears of blood."

Ethan leaned his head against the window, closed his eyes, and mouthed the words ’tears of blood’ to himself like a man who had just been personally insulted by a book.

’This is why these protagonists always die. It’s not because the antagonist is strong. It’s because they’re too busy crying artisanal tears to use their damn hands.’

He kept scrolling. The Chapter ended with Lin Wuji vowing revenge, which — shocker — he would not be collecting for another fifty Chapters.

Ethan sighed.

’If I ever end up in one of those novels, I swear to God I’m punching someone in the face from the very first page, right there before any tragic inner monologue, any dramatic coughing of blood, or any of that pathetic nonsense can even start. Just—’

The train jolted.

It wasn’t the usual jolt, not the friendly kind that meant the train was slowing for the station. This one hit hard enough that even the instant-noodle guy forgot about his noodles.

Somewhere up ahead, metal screamed.

SKRRRRRRT—

Ethan’s phone slipped out of his hand.

’Oh, you have got to be—’

He didn’t get to finish the thought.

The world tilted sideways. The instant-noodle man became airborne. The charger woman screamed something about her charger. The ceiling became the floor, the floor became the ceiling, and for one stupid, crystalline second, Ethan — twenty-one, underslept, on his way to an economics lecture he hadn’t done the reading for — had just enough time to think:

’You have GOT to be kidding m—’

And then everything went dark.

——————————————————————

The first thing he noticed was that he was not dead.

The second thing he noticed was that this was a very strong claim, and he should maybe double-check.

He tried to open his eyes.

It sort of worked.

Everything was blurry and red. A ceiling hung above him, wood dark enough to look expensive, with a thin ribbon of smoke swaying gently beneath it.

’Incense?’

He sniffed.

It was incense. And — this was the weird part — it actually smelled good. Not the eye-stinging kind his grandmother used to burn. This was something softer. Cedar perhaps. Something floral underneath.

’Okay. So. Am I in a hospital? I survived that thing?’ Ethan turned his head.

It did not feel like his head.

That was a weird thing to notice. He did either way. His neck moved too easily. Like it belonged to someone lighter than him. His hair was long, he could feel it brushing his collarbone, which was a problem because last he checked his hair had been a buzz cut because he was twenty-one and lazy, and also wanted to surprise his girlfriend with a nice cut.

’Okay. Hospital theory, dead. Next theory.’

He tried to sit up.

His arms gave out instantly, and he flopped back onto the bed like a wet towel. A deep ache stirred in his chest, like an old bruise that had been there for two years and had only just come back to him.

’Right. So I can’t move. Cool. Cool cool cool.’

He stared at the ceiling.

A memory — not his — floated up like a bubble. A boy. A courtyard. Someone screaming. A pain sinking into the boy’s chest like a hand closing around his spine.

Another bubble. An older man, kind-eyed, tired-looking, saying, "Xuan’er, stay strong."

Another. Servants whispering. Crippled. Dead weight. Shouldn’t even be feeding him.

Another.

Another.

Ethan closed his eyes.

’Oh no. Oh no no no no no. No. Absolutely not.’

He knew this setup. He had been complaining about this setup few minutes ago.

The bed. The incense. The long hair. The weak body. The flashback montage of a kid getting emotionally destroyed by his own family.

’I’m in a xianxia. I’m in a xianxia world. This is a xianxia world. I’m going to sue. I’m going to sue someone. I don’t know who. God, probably. I’m going to sue God.’

He opened his eyes again.

The incense kept drifting.

Somewhere far away, a bell rang with the deep toll of a monastery bell. Outside the door, a girl was speaking softly to someone, her voice edged with nerves. She said a name.

"Young Master Xuan..."

Ethan’s — Lin Xuan’s — body twitched at the sound.

’Young Master. Cool. Cool. So I’m a Young Master. So I’m already a Young Master in Chapter one. Which means—’

He stopped.

He thought about it.

’Oh, I’m the one who gets humiliated.’

’I’m the crippled one. Aren’t I?’

The servants’ whispers echoed in his — in the body’s — memory. Crippled. Crippled. Crippled.

’Yeah, okay. Cool. Cool cool cool.’

He lay there for a second. Just breathing and taking everything in.

Then, because he was twenty-one and because he had spent the last six years of his life complaining at novels on a phone, he did the only thing that felt natural.

He started laughing.

It came out as a wheeze, because apparently his lungs were also crippled, thanks for that, but it was still a laugh, faint and worn out. The kind of laugh you do when the universe sits down next to you on the bus and asks if you’d like to hear a joke.

’Alright. Alright, fine. I get it. Karma. Punishment. Whatever. I said I’d punch someone on page one. Universe heard me. Universe said: let’s give him a body that can’t lift a spoon. Ha ha. Very funny. Ten out of ten. Leave a review.’

He inhaled. The incense filled his lungs. It didn’t smell bad at all. Honestly? It was kind of nice.

That was what bothered him.

’Why does a crippled kid in a poor family’s forgotten backroom have expensive incense burning—’

DING.

Something in his head made a sound.

It wasn’t a thought nor a memory. It was a sound. A clean, bright electronic ding, like the one his phone used to make when a message came in, and Ethan, who had died two minutes ago on a train, felt every hair on his body stand up.

A panel of pale blue text unfolded in front of his eyes.

Ethan stared at it.

The panel seemed to hesitate, as if it had just realized it was being looked at, and the pale blue light across its surface flickered into a faint pink.

A second later, the words appeared in softly glowing letters against the dim red light of the room. There were only six.

[New host detected. Welcome, Lin Xuan.]