The final, devastating blow was not struck in a battlefield, but in a heated comment section. Aarav Mehta's fingers flew across his keyboard, a blur of righteous indignation and flawless grammar.
"…and furthermore," he typed, a smirk of triumph on his face, "your logical fallacies are so vast they could qualify as a seventh ocean. Please, for the sake of the collective IQ of the internet, log off and go touch some grass."
He hit 'post' with the flourish of a concert pianist finishing a sonata. Victory. Sweet, delicious victory. To celebrate, he shoved a large, freshly fried samosa into his mouth.
It was a perfect bite. Flaky pastry, spiced potato filling, a hint of coriander chutney. It was also the bite that killed him.
A rogue piece of potato lodged itself in his windpipe with the precision of a divine assassin. He choked. His eyes watered. His triumphant smirk vanished, replaced by a desperate, gasping gurgle. He slapped his own chest, his vision darkening.
His last thought wasn't of fear, or regret, or his family. It was one of pure, unadulterated annoyance.
"Are you kidding me? After that epic win? This is so… undignified…"
....
Aarav's consciousness returned with the sensation of cool mist on his face and an aroma that put previous world pollution to shame—a clean, earthy scent tinged with something electric, like ozone after rain. He coughed, expecting to dislodge the samosa, but his airways were clear.
He blinked open his eyes. He wasn't in his messy bedroom. He wasn't in a hospital.
He was lying on his back beside a pond that glowed with a soft, ethereal blue light. Giant, iridescent lotus flowers floated on its surface, and the trees surrounding the clearing had leaves that shimmered with silver veins. The air itself felt… thick. Alive.
"What in the absolute—" he began, sitting up.
"Well, well. Look what the spirit beast dragged in."
The sneering voice cut him off. Aarav turned to find himself surrounded by five young men dressed in elaborate, silken robes straight out of a historical drama. They looked at him with expressions of utter contempt, their noses wrinkled as if they'd smelled something foul.
The one who had spoken, a guy with a sharp, punchable face and hair tied in a too-perfect topknot, took a step forward. He was clearly the ringleader.
"A mortal?" Punchable Face said, his voice dripping with disdain. "How did this piece of trash even get into the Flowing Silver Sect's outer grounds? And why is he… bathing in our spiritual energy?"
Spiritual energy? Sect? Aarav's mind, still rebootting from the whole samosa-incident, struggled to catch up. This had to be a dream. A very weird, very detailed dream.
"Listen, dude," Aarav said, getting to his feet and brushing dirt off his jeans. "I don't know what LARPing convention you escaped from, but I just had a near-death experience with a snack. So, if you could just point me towards the nearest metro station…"
Punchable Face's eyes narrowed. "You dare speak to me, Young Master Feng, in that tone? You steal the sect's Qi and now you insult me? It seems you have a death wish, mortal."
Before Aarav could retort with a scathing comment about Feng's fashion sense—seriously, who wore that much silk unironically?—a familiar, flickering blue screen materialized in front of his eyes. It glitched and stuttered like a buffering YouTube video.
[Reincarnation Protocol: ERROR. Host 'Aarav Mehta' soul matrix incompatible with standard cultivation package...]
"Cultivation package?" Aarav muttered, bewildered.
The screen flickered again, text scrambling and reforming.
[Compensatory measures initiated...]
[Bestowing: Divine Kavach of Eternal Youth. Status: PERMANENT]
A strange, weightless sensation washed over him, like he'd been wrapped in an invisible, second skin. It settled over him and then vanished, leaving no physical feeling behind.
[Bestowing: Divine Bow of Unparalleled Outcomes. Arrows: Locked. Requirement: Major Cultivation Breakthroughs.]
There was a faint pop of air, and a simple, unadorned wooden bow appeared, slung across his back by a plain leather strap. It felt… ordinary. Like something you'd buy from a cheap souvenir shop.
The system screen glitched one last time, letters stretching and distorting.
[Good Luck. You'll need it.]
And then it vanished.
Aarav stood there, stunned. He patted his chest where the Kavach was supposed to be. Nothing. He reached over his shoulder and touched the bow. It was just… wood. He tried to feel for this 'Qi' the annoying guy was talking about, concentrating hard. He felt nothing. No inner energy, no magic power. Zilch. Nada.
He burst out laughing. It was a slightly hysterical sound.
"Seriously? That's it?" he said to the empty air where the screen had been. "I die, get isekai'd into Wuxia-land, and my cheat is a glorified sweater and a prop from a cheap movie? This is your apology? What am I supposed to do, annoy them to death?"
Young Master Feng, who had been watching Aarav talk to himself and wave his hands around with growing impatience, finally snapped. "Enough of your mad ravings! Since you seem eager to die, I'll grant your wish!"
Feng's hand shot out, palm glowing with a faint white light. It was aimed directly at Aarav's chest, moving with speed that should have been impossible. Aarav's eyes widened. This wasn't a dream. This guy was actually trying to kill him!
He braced for impact, for the shattering of bones, for pain.
SMACK.
The sound was not of breaking ribs, but of flesh meeting something impossibly solid.
Feng's palm stopped a mere inch from Aarav's t-shirt. A faint, hexagonal golden pattern shimmered across Aarav's chest for a fraction of a second before disappearing. A sharp, painful vibration shot up Feng's arm, and he yelped, shaking his hand as if he'd just punched a solid titanium wall.
Aarav, who had squeezed his eyes shut, cautiously opened one. He looked down at his intact chest, then at Feng's reddened, shaking hand.
A slow, wide grin spread across Aarav's face. The pieces clicked into place. Immutable. Permanent.
He looked at the stunned Young Master Feng, his previous fear evaporating like mist.
"Wow," Aarav said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "That really… tickled. You sure you're not just tired? You might be low on electrolytes. Maybe you skipped your wheatgrass shot this morning."