If you'd told me that dying would be the most peaceful part of my week, I would've laughed.
It was supposed to be an ordinary Friday night: tea gone cold, my laptop glowing with another Douluo Dalu reread, and me – Rin, professional procrastinator and amateur critic of every overpowered protagonist in fiction.
"Plot armor," I muttered between sips, "is just the author's way of saying 'I love you, but not enough to kill you.'"
The universe must've been listening, because ten minutes later I was crossing the street, thinking about Tang San's ridiculous dual martial souls — and then there was light, brakes, shouting, impact.
Silence.
For a moment, I thought that was it. The end of the story.
But death, apparently, wasn't a full stop — just a page break.
———
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't on asphalt.
Above me was a cracked wooden ceiling, warped by time and rain. The air smelled faintly of damp grass and smoke. My body felt wrong — too light, too small. My hands were tiny. My voice, when it came out, was soft and high-pitched.
"Wha–what the hell…"
Before I could process that, a voice called from outside the thin door.
"Children, gather! It's time for your Spirit Awakening Ceremony!"
My blood ran cold.
No. No way.
That line. That ritual. Those exact words.
I scrambled upright and stumbled outside, nearly tripping over my own feet. A group of small children stood in a dusty courtyard, buzzing with excitement. At the center, a middle-aged man in blue robes waited with a faintly glowing crystal sphere hovering over his hand.
He looked exactly like every Spirit Master instructor I'd ever read about.
I almost laughed — or screamed.
There's no way.
This can't actually be… Douluo Dalu.
But the air itself hummed with energy — faint but alive, like static against my skin. The grass swayed to a rhythm I couldn't hear, and somewhere deep inside, something resonated in answer.
It's real, whispered a voice in my head.
You're here.
———
The ceremony began.
One by one, the children stepped forward to touch the man's hand. Faint shapes shimmered above their palms — a vine, a tiny sword, even a squeaking mouse. The teacher's tone was warm but businesslike as he called out their results.
Then it was my turn.
"Come, child," he said kindly. "Don't be afraid."
I swallowed. "Right. Totally not afraid," I muttered, earning a puzzled look from the boy behind me.
The man's hand pressed to my back — warm, pulsing with power. A rush of energy tore through me like a tidal wave of static and ice. My vision fractured into color, air bending around me.
Then, something appeared above my palm.
A book.
Bound in dark leather etched with glowing gold lines, its cover shimmered faintly as if breathing. The pages fluttered without wind.
The teacher blinked. "…A martial soul of… a book?"
I stared. "A book?"
Of all the things to get — not a hammer, not a sword, not even grass — I get a book?!
Before I could complain further, the pages flipped open by themselves. Glowing script bled across the paper:
[Living Record initialized.]
[Welcome, Lin Xieren.]
[Shall we write your legend?]
My stomach dropped.
It knows my name.
"W-what's your spirit power level?" the teacher stammered, thrusting the crystal sphere toward me.
The sphere lit up instantly — faintly at first, then brighter, brighter still, until white light filled the yard.
Gasps. Whispers.
The instructor's eyes widened. "Innate… full spirit power?"
The children gawked.
I didn't even hear them. My focus was on the faint whisper echoing from the open pages, curling through my mind like ink smoke.
Every story can be rewritten, Xieren. Even this one.
And for the first time since dying, I felt something sharper than fear — exhilaration.
If this was Douluo Dalu, then the story I knew was only the first draft.
Now, I held the pen.