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In the modern world, Yan Rui was known as the "untouchable god."
At twenty-six, he had everything an actor could want — award-winning performances, global endorsements, a mysterious reputation the media couldn't penetrate. His face appeared on magazines and building screens, yet no one truly knew who he was.
He liked it that way.
To the public, he was cold, graceful, perfection on camera.
To himself… he was tired.
Tired of pretenses. Tired of always being someone else.
Tonight, he sat alone in the back of a black car, watching the city blur past his window — neon lights bleeding across the glass like melting dreams. His manager talked endlessly in the front seat, but Yan Rui didn't listen. His mind was still caught in the scene they'd just filmed.
He had played a man sacrificed to a mythical serpent lord — dressed in red, kneeling at a stone altar, whispering, "I offer my body and soul."
The director had praised him for his stillness. His tension.
> "Like you really believed it."
Yan Rui didn't answer.
As the traffic lights turned green, something flashed in front of the car — a strange shimmer, like smoke or static — and then—
CRASH.
Glass. Metal. Silence.
Darkness.
---
The world did not return as it should have.
When Yan Rui opened his eyes, the smell of gasoline and burning tires was gone.
Replaced by sandalwood, smoke, and something thick in the air — oldness.
He was kneeling.
The stone beneath him was cold and unforgiving. His wrists were bound in red silk. Heavy ceremonial robes clung to his frame, embroidered with golden serpents.
Around him, men in robes chanted in a deep, throaty language he didn't know.
He lifted his head — slow, dazed, heart pounding.
> This isn't a hospital. This isn't a dream.
Candles flickered around the edges of an enormous chamber, throwing shadows across dragon-carved columns and a high, domed ceiling painted with stars. It was a temple — but not one from any movie set.
It was real.
And he was at the center of it.
He tried to speak, but his throat burned dry. "Where…"
No one responded. The robed men continued their chant, surrounding the altar he knelt before — an ancient slab of stone, stained by something long dried.
Then the doors opened.
And everything went silent.
A man stepped through. Or something like a man.
Clothed in white and gold robes, with silver-white hair and golden, slitted eyes that gleamed in the candlelight. His presence made the air feel heavier, as if the room itself bowed to him.
He moved slowly, without a sound, barefoot on stone. He was tall, elegant, almost ethereal — until his gaze settled on Yan Rui.
Predatory.
Unblinking.
Mo Jue, the Serpent Lord.
Yan Rui's breath hitched.
> No. This can't be happening.
> This was just a script. A role. Fiction.
But the weight of the bindings on his wrists… the ache in his knees… the way Mo Jue's golden eyes pierced through his thoughts — none of it felt scripted.
> "You do not belong here," Mo Jue said, voice low and melodic, like a string plucked in a dark room.
Yan Rui swallowed.
> "You're not… real," he said softly. "I was just filming. I was… I'm an actor."
Mo Jue crouched before him, robes pooling around him like smoke. Up close, his features were inhumanly perfect — sharp cheekbones, impossibly smooth skin, the faintest shimmer of scales at his throat.
> "An actor," he repeated, almost amused. "So you are used to becoming someone else."
Yan Rui held his gaze, jaw tightening. "Then maybe this is your scene, not mine."
Mo Jue studied him a moment longer. Then reached out and touched his chin — gently, but with ownership.
> "No. This is real. And you are mine now."
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[End of Chapter 1]