Shen Yuhan's tired eyes traced the last line of the novel glowing faintly on his phone screen. It was well past midnight, yet he could not stop. For the past several days, he had devoured this cultivation story every free moment he had—between meals, before work, even during breaks.
And now, the journey had ended.
He let out a long sigh.
"So that's it… the end."
The novel's protagonist had soared through the heavens, cut down countless enemies, gained unrivaled fame, and embraced beauties along the way. A typical cultivation tale. But Shen Yuhan couldn't help but feel strangely hollow when the words The End appeared before him.
For some reason, his attention had always wandered away from the main hero. Instead, he noticed the side characters who flashed briefly across the pages and then vanished into obscurity.
One of them was Mo Lingxuan, a disciple of the small Azure Cloud Sect. A handsome young man with decent talent, but destined never to rise beyond mediocrity. Forgotten by the narrative, buried under the brilliance of the protagonist and other so-called geniuses.
"Kind of pitiful, actually…" Shen Yuhan murmured, closing his phone. "Still, a side character like him probably lived more peacefully than the protagonist. No grand wars, no crazy enemies chasing after him."
The thought comforted him as he leaned back on his bed. The glow from the city outside painted faint stripes across his ceiling. He felt exhaustion crash down like a wave, and his eyelids grew heavy.
Before he realized it, darkness swallowed his vision.
When light returned, it was blinding.
Shen Yuhan groaned softly. His body felt… wrong. His limbs heavy, his breath shallow, as if he had been sick for weeks. He tried to push himself upright, but his arms trembled violently and collapsed beneath him.
"What… what's going on?" His voice cracked.
Slowly, he forced his eyes open fully. The room around him was unfamiliar—an old wooden chamber, the faint smell of herbs clinging to the air. By the bedside stood a polished bronze mirror.
Driven by instinct, Shen Yuhan turned his head.
The face staring back at him was not his own.
Sword-like brows. Clear eyes. A handsome but pale countenance, weakened by illness.
"...Mo Lingxuan?" he whispered in disbelief.
The name rolled off his tongue naturally, for he knew this face—he had seen its brief description in the novel countless times. A side character. An irrelevant background figure.
His heart pounded furiously.
"No way. No way, this can't be real…"
He slapped his cheeks, hard enough to sting. The reflection copied his every move. His skin tingled with pain. Not a dream.
Shen Yuhan's mind spun.
I… crossed into the novel? And of all people, I became Mo Lingxuan?
He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Others might long to become the unrivaled protagonist, or at least one of the chosen geniuses. But him? He had landed in the shoes of a nobody. A character so minor that most readers wouldn't even remember his name after finishing the story.
He lay back down, clutching the blanket as his body shivered.
"This is insane. I didn't ask for this! I just wanted to read…"
Memories that weren't his own began to seep into his mind—Mo Lingxuan's past, his days in the Azure Cloud Sect, the scorn he endured from stronger disciples, the bitterness of being ordinary. They fused with Shen Yuhan's thoughts until he could hardly tell where one ended and the other began.
The realization struck hard. He truly was Mo Lingxuan now.
For a long while, he stared blankly at the ceiling, his mind blank. Then, slowly, determination settled in his eyes.
"…Fine. So what if I'm just a side character?"
He let out a small laugh, weak but steady.
"At least this side character didn't die tragically. If I remember correctly, Mo Lingxuan survives the whole novel, just living quietly in the background. That's good enough for me."
Peace. A simple life. No schemes, no blood feuds, no destiny pressing down on him.
Yes, he didn't need glory. He didn't need fame.
He just wanted to live.
Even if he had become Mo Lingxuan, he, Shen Yuhan, would carve out his own path of peace in this chaotic cultivation world.
Unbeknownst to him, the wheels of fate had already begun to turn.
The crisp morning air greeted Mo Lingxuan as he stepped out of the small wooden chamber for the first time in days.
Sunlight spilled across the Azure Cloud Sect's training grounds, painting the world in shades of gold and green. The distant peaks pierced the skies, wrapped in mist like celestial guardians. Birds sang from the surrounding forest, their songs blending with the faint clang of swords and the murmur of disciples practicing their breathing techniques.
It should have been a beautiful, tranquil morning.
But the moment Lingxuan stepped into view, silence rippled through the courtyard.
Dozens of gazes turned toward him. Conversations died mid-sentence. Wooden swords halted mid-swing. A group of outer sect disciples froze like startled deer, their faces pale, eyes wide with unease.
Lingxuan blinked.
"…What?"
The reaction was immediate and strangely uniform. Some disciples looked away quickly, pretending to focus on their training. Others whispered nervously among themselves, their voices low but not low enough for his sharp ears to miss.
"Why is he out already?"
"Didn't he get punished?"
"Careful, don't draw his attention!"
Lingxuan frowned, puzzled. He glanced down at himself—plain disciple robes, nothing unusual. His posture wasn't threatening. He wasn't carrying a weapon. Why then…?
It hit him all at once.
A memory surfaced, pulled from the fragments of the novel he had read. Mo Lingxuan—the original Mo Lingxuan—was not some humble, kind-hearted side character.
He was a troublemaker.
The Azure Cloud Sect was small and relatively weak compared to the great sects, but even here, power determined status. Lingxuan had once been praised as a talented disciple when he first joined. But as others surpassed him, bitterness crept in. He turned to bullying weaker disciples, throwing his weight around, and stirring up trouble.
He wasn't a villain per se. Just a minor nuisance, a foil to highlight the protagonist's righteous growth. In the story, readers hardly paid him any mind—except to sneer at his antics.
And now, Shen Yuhan was walking in his shoes.
"No wonder they look like they've seen a ghost…" he muttered under his breath.
A pair of disciples carrying buckets of water hurried past him, bowing their heads low. Their footsteps quickened as if they feared lingering too close. Another group practicing sword forms stumbled over their movements, their faces tight with nervousness whenever his gaze flickered near them.
Lingxuan felt his lips twitch.
This was ridiculous.
Back in the modern world, Shen Yuhan had been an ordinary man. No one looked at him with fear or respect—at most, people ignored him as another face in the crowd. And yet, here, a single glance from him sent cultivators scattering like frightened rabbits.
The absurdity made him want to laugh.
But instead, he sighed deeply.
"So this is the reputation you left behind, Mo Lingxuan…"
He remembered clearly: in the novel, the protagonist never killed Mo Lingxuan. He was too insignificant. After the bullying arc, Lingxuan had been punished by the sect and gradually faded into obscurity. That was why Shen Yuhan had thought him pitiful but somewhat fortunate—a side character who survived.
Now, standing here, he realized it was not so simple.
Living under a cloud of fear and resentment… how peaceful could that be?
He rubbed his temples.
Great. So much for blending in quietly.
Still, retreating back into his room wasn't an option. He couldn't hide forever. If he wanted to cultivate in peace, he needed to reshape this reputation. Otherwise, every step he took in the sect would be haunted by suspicion and hostility.
Taking a steadying breath, he walked further into the courtyard. The disciples immediately parted to make way, their avoidance as obvious as it was uncomfortable.
Lingxuan stopped near the edge of the practice field, watching a group of younger disciples stumble through a basic sword form. Their swings were clumsy, their footing unstable, but their determination was evident.
Something stirred in him.
Back in his old life, Shen Yuhan had envied characters in novels who could cultivate, who could fly across the skies and split mountains with their swords. Now, he was here—yet the first thing he inherited was a broken reputation.
It didn't matter. He clenched his fists.
"I'll fix this. Slowly, but surely."
As if on cue, one of the younger disciples lost balance and fell forward, nearly crashing into him. The boy froze mid-fall, his eyes wide with terror, expecting punishment or a cruel word.
Lingxuan instinctively reached out, steadying him by the arm.
"Careful," he said softly. "You'll hurt yourself if you rush the stance."
The boy gawked at him as if struck by lightning. Around them, whispers erupted.
"Did he… help?"
"Mo Lingxuan didn't scold him?"
"Impossible. He must be planning something."
Lingxuan ignored the chatter. He patted the boy's shoulder lightly and stepped back.
"Try again. Slowly this time."
The boy nodded numbly, still too shocked to speak.
Lingxuan exhaled, glancing up at the distant sky. White clouds drifted lazily, unconcerned with mortal struggles.
"This time," he murmured, almost to himself, "I won't be a bully. I won't be some forgotten side character."
A spark burned in his eyes, faint but unyielding.
"If I must live in this world, I'll live as I choose. And I'll become strong enough to protect the peace I want."
Around him, the disciples still whispered, still doubted. But Lingxuan no longer cared. For the first time since crossing over, he felt a sense of direction.
The shadow of Mo Lingxuan's name still loomed over him, but Shen Yuhan's will had already begun to carve a new path.
And somewhere, far beyond his knowledge, fate took notice.
The story that was once written was already beginning to change.
The murmurs did not stop, even as Lingxuan turned away from the training grounds.
Disciples stared openly, confusion etched across their faces. This was not the Mo Lingxuan they knew—the arrogant troublemaker who sneered at weakness, who demanded respect through intimidation. Instead, he had spoken calmly, even helped a junior without a hint of scorn.
"Did he hit his head?" someone whispered.
"Maybe the punishment broke his spirit…"
"No, no, it feels different. He… he almost seemed normal."
Lingxuan heard every word, but he paid them no mind. Let them talk. Their opinions didn't matter. Not anymore.
He walked slowly, his legs still unsteady, toward the small bathhouse behind the disciples' quarters. The wooden floor creaked under his weight as he stepped inside. Steam clung to the air, carrying the faint scent of herbs infused in the water.
Stripping off his robe, Lingxuan lowered himself into the bath. Warmth wrapped around his frail body, easing the tension from his muscles. He let out a long sigh, leaning his head against the edge.
For the first time since crossing over, he had a chance to look closely at himself.
The water's surface reflected a pale figure—broad shoulders that should have carried strength, but instead sagged with weakness. His chest was flat, his ribs faintly visible beneath his skin. There was no trace of cultivation energy flowing through his meridians, no foundation built.
It was a body that had been neglected.
"Unbelievable…" Shen Yuhan muttered, running a hand through Lingxuan's long black hair. "You lived in a cultivation world and didn't even cultivate properly? Just lazing around, bullying others, wasting your potential?"
The thought made him exhale sharply in frustration.
He splashed water onto his face, watching the ripples distort his reflection. The sharp brows and handsome features looked every bit the part of a genius cultivator, yet the truth was hollow. Beneath the appearance was weakness, wasted talent, and a reputation in ruins.
"Why… why did I have to become you?"
His voice was low, almost drowned by the quiet drip of water. He closed his eyes, taking in the silence.
In the modern world, Shen Yuhan had been ordinary but steady. He had no great achievements, no destiny written in the stars, but he had always endured. Now, fate had thrown him into the skin of Mo Lingxuan—a name tainted by arrogance, a body weakened by idleness.
It was absurd. It was unfair.
And yet… it was reality.
He inhaled slowly, letting the steam fill his lungs, then exhaled in a long, weary sigh.
"…Fine. I didn't ask for this, but I'm here now. Complaining won't change anything."
His eyes opened again, the frustration softening into a quiet determination.
"This body is weak? Then I'll strengthen it. This name is despised? Then I'll change what it means."
He leaned back, letting the warmth soak into his tired bones. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to rest—not as Mo Lingxuan the bully, not as Shen Yuhan the reader, but as someone in between. Someone trying to find peace in a world that had already judged him.
Outside, disciples still gossiped, still wondered at his sudden change. But Lingxuan ignored it all.
For now, he simply soaked in the bath, gathering his resolve.
The path of cultivation had yet to begin, but the decision was already made.
This time, he would not squander the chance.
This time, he would live differently.