Long Xuan crumpled the last page of his manuscript into a ball and slammed it onto the corner of his desk, where half a basket of similarly wrinkled papers had already piled up. On his computer screen, the publisher's message still glared at him:
"Mr. Long, your writing skills are truly impeccable—the best manuscript we've seen all year. But… readers nowadays care only about looks. If you're willing to show your face for promotion, we'll sign the contract immediately. If not, well…"
He didn't read the rest. His fingers traced coldly over his own photo on the screen—his face round, jawline so soft it was barely visible, a noticeable double chin making him look puffy and shapeless, completely devoid of definition or energy. His skin was a disaster—layer upon layer of acne scars, sallow and dull, with an oily nose tip, rough as sandpaper. From afar, he looked years older than he was, as if he'd been up for countless sleepless nights. His eyebrows grew wild with no shape, his eyes slightly unfocused, looking half-asleep. Heavy black-rimmed glasses pressed down on his nose, making him look even duller and lifeless. His hair was limp, plastered to his scalp, messy with no sign of grooming—rather than softening his already wide face, it emphasized its width, making him look even stockier.
Despite his modest fame as a writer—his stories delicate and heart-stirring enough to bring countless readers to tears in the dead of night—no one knew that the person capable of such tender words dared not even step outside for a cup of coffee without a mask, or meet a stranger's gaze without mustering all his courage.
Talent was his armor—but his looks, an inescapable shackle.
He unlocked his phone and opened the chat labeled "Liya." He typed and deleted words repeatedly in the input box before finally clearing it entirely. Liya worked at the bookstore downstairs, smiling with two shallow dimples. Every time he went to buy books, she would gently ask what kind he wanted. He had been secretly in love with her for a whole year but hadn't dared utter even a simple "hello"—afraid his face would scare her, afraid someone so ugly even having feelings for her would feel like an offense.
The night outside grew darker, the room lit only by the dim yellow glow of a desk lamp, casting light on his forlorn face. Long Xuan buried his head in his hands, hair tangled in his fists, his voice filled with frustration and resentment:
"Why? Why is it like this? My books are a hundred times better than those who make money off their looks—why are they celebrated while I must hide in the shadows? Liya is so wonderful—why don't I even deserve to like her?"
Suddenly, his gaze landed on an old, yellowed book on the desk. Its cover was worn, with the faded words "Long Family Genealogy" stamped on it. It had been left by his grandfather before passing away, something he had never cared for. After all, someone who despised his own appearance would hardly be curious about ancestors with the same "inferior genes."
Long Xuan grabbed the genealogy and slammed it onto the desk. Pages fanned out with a rustle, revealing blurry portraits of his ancestors—somewhat resembling him. Not ugly, but certainly far from handsome. Pointing at the images, he practically shouted, venting all his grievances at the long-dead:
"It's all your fault! You awful genes! Passed down from one generation to the next, and look what I ended up with! Every miserable thing in my life—yep, that's on you! If only you'd picked decent-looking partners, would I really be stuck living like this?!"
He jabbed a finger at the portraits, voice rising: "Seriously, what were you thinking?! Passing down this disaster of a face? Do you even know how much suffering you caused?!"
No sooner had he finished speaking than a strange wind swept through the room—not a normal breeze, but a twisting gust with a pulling force, flipping the pages violently. The sharp scraping of paper against paper made his ears ache. Before he could even react, he felt a strong suction emanating from the genealogy. He tried to grab the edge of the desk, but his hands slipped. Slowly, almost irresistibly, his body was dragged toward the glowing book.
The world blurred, the wind roaring in his ears. The last thing he saw was the portraits of his ancestors in the book, whose lips seemed to curl into knowing, mysterious smiles.
When he opened his eyes again, Long Xuan found himself standing in an ancient, elegant courtyard. His clothes had changed into coarse linen robes, and he still clutched the genealogy tightly. An old voice echoed beside him, commanding yet calm:
"Descendant of the Long family, since you despise the inferior genes of your ancestors, I grant you the chance to reverse it—traverse through generations, find suitable partners for your forebears, change their choices in love, and cultivate superior genes. When your task is complete, your appearance will transform, and your life will prosper."
Long Xuan stared in shock for a long while before understanding what had happened. He looked down at his rough hands, then at the genealogy in his grip. First came astonishment, then a spark of determination unlike anything he had ever felt.
Reverse the ancestors' love choices, change his own genes, become handsome, gain recognition, and… finally have the courage to stand before Liya and confess his feelings.
This time, he would never lose. Long Xuan clenched the genealogy tightly, his first stop, the beginning of everything.