Han-su let out a jagged, breathy laugh, his eyes fixed on the splinters of the expensive mahogany table.
(Haha... fuck you, System. I don't need a blue screen. I don't need a guide. I've got this.)
The bravado lasted exactly three seconds.
Suddenly, a white-hot spike of agony drove itself through his temples, far worse than the heart attack or the Monster Qi. He collapsed onto the floor, clutching his head and screaming in raw agony as a tidal wave of images, smells, and voices slammed into his brain. It felt like his skull was being cracked open to force-feed him a lifetime of information he never asked for.
Memories flooded in. He wasn't Han-su anymore at least, not to this world.
He was Long Wei, the youngest son of the Great Elder of the Azure Sect. The memories played like a fast-forwarded nightmare: years of being the disappointment, the "Azure Failure" who spent his allowance on wine and gambling while his older brothers moved mountains. He was labeled a lazy, talentless trouble-maker who had never successfully condensed a single drop of Spirit Qi in sixteen years.
The pain slowly receded, leaving him panting on the cold floor, drenched in sweat. He stared at his hands again, processing the data.
(Shit... that hurts. My head feels like it was put through a blender.)
He rolled onto his back, staring up at the silk-draped ceiling. A slow, crooked grin spread across his face as the realization of his new status set in.
(But wait. This means I have a bunch of cute servants. I have a father with more gold than a central bank. This guy was basically me but as a noble. Ahahaha! I can work with this.)
He stood up, brushing the dust off his fine robes. If the old Long Wei was a loser, it just made his sudden rise even better. He walked toward a tall, polished bronze mirror in the corner of the room to get a good look at his new face.
The boy in the mirror was handsome, unnervingly so. He had sharp, elegant features and long black hair, but there was a paleness to his skin that looked sickly.
(Sixteen years old. Prime time for a cultivation genius to rise. Except...)
He looked back at the broken table. The hunger he had felt earlier wasn't gone. It was a deep, gnawing emptiness in his stomach that no amount of food could fix. It was a hunger for more of that violet smoke.
(Long Wei couldn't cultivate Spirit Qi because his meridians were trash. But they aren't trash, they're just meant for something else.)
A sharp, rhythmic knocking sounded at the door, making him flinch.
"Young Master Wei? Are you alright? I heard a crash!"
A soft, feminine voice called out from the hallway. Han-su, now Long Wei, straightened his collar and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
(A servant? Perfect. Let's see if this noble life is as good as the novels say.)
"Come in!" he shouted, trying to sound like a spoiled brat who hadn't just committed a forbidden act of cultivation.
The door creaked open, and a young girl in a pale blue tunic stepped in. She stopped dead when she saw the shattered remains of the table. Her eyes went wide, and she dropped the tray of tea she was carrying.
"Young Master! Your hand! Did you... did you do this?"
Long Wei looked down. The sheer force of the Monster Qi blast hadn't just wrecked the table; the shockwave had shredded the front of his expensive silk trousers. He stared at the mess for a silent, horrified second.
(Ah... fuck. My dick's out.)
The silence in the room was heavy enough to choke a cultivator. Mei stood frozen, her face turning a shade of crimson that rivaled a sunset. She was a pretty girl, probably around seventeen, with a soft, round face and large, expressive eyes that were currently wide with shock. Her hair was a glossy, midnight black, styled in two neat buns held together by simple wooden pins, though a few stray strands had fallen loose and framed her blushing cheeks.
She wasn't looking at the broken wood anymore. She was staring straight at the catastrophic wardrobe malfunction.
(Finally, I'm packing, and the first person to see it is a servant I'm supposed to be "lord and master" over. Great start, Long Wei.)
"C-Close the door, Mei," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he grabbed a stray piece of silk from the bed to cover himself. It wasn't the voice of the stuttering jobless prick he used to be. It was flat and commanding.
"Y-Young Master! I... I shall go fetch the tailor! And a doctor! And—" She was backing away, her hands trembling as she tried to look anywhere but at his waist.
"I said close the door," Long Wei repeated. He stepped over the broken wood, the movement fluid and predatory.
(This body feels incredible. It's like I've been driving a broken tricycle my whole life and someone just handed me a supercar. A supercar with no brakes and a hungry engine.)
Mei's back hit the door. She reached behind her and clicked it shut, her breath coming in short, panicked huffs. She looked terrified, but there was a strange, frantic curiosity in her gaze that she couldn't quite hide.
(Right. The old Long Wei was a trouble-maker. She probably thinks I'm about to do something terrible. Honestly, the old me might have. But right now, I have a bigger problem than a ripped pair of pants.)
He stopped a few feet away from her. He could smell her fear, and to his horror, it smelled like iron and honey. It smelled like something he wanted to taste.
(Stop it. She's a person, not a snack. Get it together.)
"Fix the table later," he commanded, gesturing vaguely at the wreckage. "Fetch me a new robe. Something dark. And don't tell my father about the furniture. If he asks, tell him I was practicing a new technique."
"A technique, Young Master?" Mei squeaked, her eyes finally meeting his, though she still looked like she might faint.
"Just go," he barked.
Mei scrambled to her feet, gave a hasty, clumsy bow, and bolted out the door. Long Wei waited until the sound of her footsteps faded before he let out a long, shaky breath. He walked back to the mirror. His pupils were still slightly elongated, like a cat's, and a faint purple hue flickered deep within his iris before fading back to black.
(The Azure Sect huh.)
He clenched his fist, and for a split second, the air around his hand distorted with a jagged, oily pressure.