In the serene village of Zhenbei—tucked between the whispering jade mountains and the murmuring Silver Cloud River—there lived a man who had, by every standard, absolutely no intention of doing anything important with his life.
His name was Gao Mingyu, but the villagers simply called him Fat Master Ming. Not because he held any official position—Heaven forbid he be given responsibility—but because it sounded respectful enough to match his girth. Mingyu was round. Not just chubby, not pleasantly plump—round. As in, roll-him-down-the-hill-during-a-landslide round. His belly often entered rooms before he did, and if his hair didn't gleam black with streaks of proud grey like a tea-soaked cloud, people would mistake him for a lounging melon.
He had an odd mix of features: thick glasses perched on his wide nose, a sleepy smirk forever on his lips, and the mysterious air of someone who could do something amazing—if he weren't so incredibly lazy.
Mingyu's life followed a strict routine. He woke up (when the sun was already high), stretched like a sluggish panda, scratched his hairy belly, yawned deeply enough to summon spirits from the underworld, and then stumbled toward breakfast. Usually, this was something greasy and smothered in garlic. After eating, he'd nap under the plum tree. After the nap, he'd complain about how tiring the nap was and return to his bamboo mat for a "real rest."
Occasionally, he'd mutter things in his sleep like, "This pillow lacks spiritual cushioning," or "Too much sunlight—tell the sun to set." These complaints were rarely acknowledged.
This was a man so committed to relaxation that once, when a snake slithered into his pants while he dozed in the grass, he negotiated with it to leave peacefully, because "biting me would be too much effort for both of us."
But here's where it gets weird: Despite his lifestyle, Mingyu was athletic.
No one knew this. No one could know this. The day he turned ten, he made a pact with himself: "I shall cultivate secret strength only to prevent people from asking me to do things." It worked. He could leap from rooftop to rooftop, his belly somehow bouncing in slow motion like a divine peach. His arms could lift a cart if needed—but only if absolutely necessary, and preferably if no one was watching.
That's why, when bandits once raided Zhenbei, it was "a mysterious flying rock" that knocked out the leader. In truth, it had been a watermelon hurled with divine accuracy by Fat Master Ming, who then promptly returned to his nap, snoring like a thunder god with a stuffed nose.
When the villagers found the bandits unconscious, scattered like dumplings dropped by the Heavens, Mingyu was asleep in the shade, a watermelon rind nearby and no expression on his face besides the gentle twitch of a dreaming man.
And oh, he loved women. Or more precisely, he loved looking at slim, graceful women the way one appreciates fine art: from a safe distance, with a bowl of noodles in hand.
He never made a move. Not because he was shy. No, Gao Mingyu wasn't shy. He just believed courting required too much effort. Bathing, dressing up, talking coherently—it was exhausting just thinking about it. "Love is a young man's battle," he often mumbled while watching the village's sword maidens train in the distance, fanning himself and sighing like a lovesick buffalo.
Once, when a flirtatious merchant girl winked at him and asked if he was free, he replied, "Only spiritually. My schedule is fully booked with naps."
He was, in every sense, a professional loafer.
But life, especially in the Eastern Realms, is like a dumpling: it hides unexpected fillings.
On one particularly lazy afternoon, the sky above Zhenbei darkened—not with clouds, but with cranes. Hundreds of them. White as snow, they circled the village, crying in a strange, ancient pattern. Their wings shimmered like silk in the sunlight, casting large shadows over the rice paddies.
The villagers, alarmed, gathered at the shrine. Except Mingyu, of course. He was halfway into a dream involving steamed buns and a flying cat.
The elders whispered. The children stared. A dog barked once and then ran inside to hide under someone's table.
That's when she arrived.
A woman in flowing lavender robes descended from the largest crane, her feet barely touching the ground as she stepped into the shrine square. Her face was sharp as a blade's edge, eyes like polished jade. Her presence was so commanding that the gossip aunties stopped chewing betel nut mid-sentence.
She didn't walk. She glided.
She spoke in a voice that was as clear as morning bells, "I seek the Hidden Pillar—the one who defeated the Night Serpent of Westlake twelve years ago."
The villagers blinked.
Then turned in unison to stare at the nearest patch of snoring beneath the plum tree.
There lay Gao Mingyu, mouth open, drooling slightly, muttering, "No... not pickled radish... give me the sesame one…"
The lavender-robed woman frowned. "...That's him?"
Old Farmer Jian squinted. "Well... he hasn't done much lately, but we did have that odd rock incident when bandits came. Maybe he's the... er... Hidden Pillar?"
Someone coughed. Someone else fainted politely.
The woman strode forward. "He bears the seal."
"Seal?" they asked.
She knelt beside the sleeping man and gently rolled up the sleeve of his stained robe. Etched into his arm was an ancient, glowing mark—the shape of a sleeping dragon wrapped around a moon.
A collective gasp echoed around the shrine.
Mingyu stirred, smacked his lips, blinked. "Huh...? Is it lunch time again?"
The woman didn't miss a beat. She bowed deeply. "Gao Mingyu of the Slumbering Tiger School. I, Li Xuan of the Cloudborne Sect, request your help to stop the coming catastrophe."
He scratched his chest. "...How big a catastrophe?"
"World-ending."
He blinked, adjusted his glasses, and said, "Mm. Too early for that."
And with that, he rolled over and resumed snoring.
The entire village screamed. Someone shouted, "He's our only hope?" Another yelled, "We're doomed!"
Li Xuan looked confused. The plum tree dropped a single blossom onto his face.
A rooster crowed somewhere—several hours late.
For Gao Mingyu, it was just another day.
But fate had decided it was time to wake the Snoring Tiger.