Xiao Xuan sat cross-legged in his cramped, dimly lit apartment, surrounded by towering shelves of fantasy novels and handwritten manuscripts filled with mad scribbles, character bios, cultivation tier lists, and hypothetical realm mechanics. His laptop hummed softly beside a half-empty mug of tea. He stared at the screen but wasn't typing. Instead, his thoughts were circling the same question that had haunted him for months: what would true immortality look like in a world ruled by spiritual power?
He wasn't some naive fanboy. He'd written twelve volumes of a cultivation saga. He knew what it meant when someone lived forever — the loneliness, the mental toll, the stagnation of one's dao. His latest protagonist was different. Not just immortal by lifespan, but also physically and spiritually undying. Xiao Xuan had drafted scenarios to challenge that premise, kill-proof plotlines to force existential crises. Immortality, if not limited, could break a story.
Just as he was about to jot down a new idea, a sharp buzzing rang in his ears. His vision blurred. The air turned heavy like wet cement. Then — a white flash. Blinding. Searing. The pain came next. It felt like his brain was being pried open with a chisel. He tried to scream, but his voice never made it out.
Then silence. Stillness. Cold air.
He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar sky. Tall trees stretched overhead, swaying gently in the breeze. Birds chirped. The earthy scent of moss filled his nose. He was lying on forest ground, a thick canopy filtering sunlight down in golden beams. For a while, he lay there, heart thudding. Was this a hallucination? A dream?
He pinched himself. Pain. His body ached all over. He tried to stand and stumbled. His hands were calloused, fingers rougher than he remembered. No phone. No bag. No watch. No electronics at all.
There was no system prompt. No cheat screen. No voice in his head calling him "Chosen One." His inner author was screaming for genre tropes to kick in. But there was nothing. Just his own heartbeat and the whisper of wind.
"Transmigration? Is this a novel world?" he whispered. "No HUD. No status screen. Just me... and nature."
He looked around. In the distance, faint smoke curled up into the sky — a sign of civilization. With unsteady legs, he moved toward it, limbs groaning in protest. The trek was slow, and the terrain unfamiliar. But he followed the smoke trail like a lifeline.
Eventually, he reached a wooden fence surrounding a sleepy settlement nestled beside a stream: Willow Brook Village.
Before he could introduce himself, fatigue overwhelmed him. He collapsed.
When he next awoke, a rough straw mat prickled his back. A wrinkled face hovered over him — an elderly man, speaking words that Xiao Xuan should not have understood.
But he did. Perfectly.
He blinked. Was this some residual magic? No — everyone he encountered spoke the same language, and he understood every word. That worried him more than being in a new world. Why would the language match his own?
The villagers assumed he had amnesia due to a beast attack and gave him food and rest without question. They were kind. Uneducated, perhaps, but full of earthly wisdom. Over dinner, a young man mentioned someone reaching the "second step of Qi Refining." Another spoke of "meridian opening" and "spirit root awakening."
Cultivation. Real cultivation.
Xiao Xuan's heartbeat quickened. His mouth went dry. This was no dream. He was in a world of cultivators. His novels were no longer fiction. They were survival guides.
That night, under the straw ceiling, he lay wide awake, staring into a sky filled with unfamiliar constellations. No golden finger. No system. No divine guide. No help.
Only knowledge — and an opportunity.
He whispered into the night, "I need to learn more about this world before I can make any plans."
And with that, Xiao Xuan's new life began