There are times when the world feels too crowded to understand, yet too quiet to leave. A time when every step sounds like an echo, and every decision feels like a stone thrown into a dark lake the ripples may be invisible now, but you know that one day, they will reach the shore.
I don't know when everything began to change. There was no exact date. No official marker. The change came like dew: silent, gradual, only noticed once the morning was already wet.
The people around me kept moving as usual. They laughed at the right moments, grew angry at the appropriate things, and called it life. I smiled along, of course. Humans learn quickly about propriety. But beneath it all, something lingered a question never quite dared to be spoken out loud: is this all there is?
Every night, before sleep, I hear my own thoughts speaking. Not shouting. Not crying. Just asking, in a weary tone, whether I am moving forward or merely circling the same place in a different face.
Memories arrive uninvited. Of choices that once felt right. Of people who left not out of hatred, but because time decided otherwise. Of a version of myself who was once so certain, so brave and at some point, learned how to doubt.
Yet strangely, in the midst of all those fractures, there is a small pulse that refuses to die. Hope, perhaps. Or stubbornness. Something that refuses to surrender, even as the reasons to stay grow thinner.
I have learned one thing from all this: people do not always fall because they are weak. Sometimes we fall because we have stood alone for too long, carrying the world as if it were a personal responsibility.
And this story yes, this story is not about an ending. It is about a pause. About someone who stops for a moment, looks back, then takes a deep breath before moving forward again. Because even when the world is not always kind, life still demands to be lived.
Slowly.
With wounds.
With hope.
I never thought that night would be my last night as a human—or at least, my last night understanding what it meant to be human.
I was cycling home, the small light on the handlebars blinking as if it was hesitant to accompany me any longer. My head felt light, too light. Not the lightness of happiness, but the lightness of exhaustion, of never-ending school assignments, of a world that too often demands but rarely explains.
The night wind bit at my cheeks. The road was deserted. That bend up ahead was always sharp, and the ravine beside it was always too deep to dwell on for long. Usually, I was focused. Usually, I was cautious.
Not that night.
I was daydreaming. I don't know why. Maybe because my brain wanted to run away. At that turn, I saw him—a young man in strange clothing, his face serene, too handsome for the world I knew. He stood there as if waiting for me. Staring at me as if he knew my name.
I smiled foolishly.
And in that same second, my bicycle wheel slipped.
There was no dramatic scream. No time to hold on. Just the sensation of falling—long, cold, and silent. The wind turned into a shriek in my ears, then water slammed into my body with a force that allowed no negotiation.
Within the strong river current, my mind had a moment of brutal honesty.
Am I going to die?
Then darkness.
I woke up… but not really woke up.
I became conscious.
It was different.
I wasn't breathing. At least, not like before. My body was light, small, slick. The world around me shimmered softly, filled with light dancing on the water's surface. When I tried to move, my body glided without legs.
I panicked. I tried to scream, but only a small vibration in the water came out. And that's when I realized it. With a cruel and absurd clarity.
I was… a fish.
A fancy ornamental fish.
My scales glittered, my body's color was strange even to me. I was in a large stone pond, the water clear but chillingly cold. Around the pond stood pillars carved with dragons and swords. A majestic structure towered above—a palace, without a doubt.
The palace of a prince.
His name soon reached my ears—or whatever organ a fish uses for hearing. The servants whispered, the guards bowed with an almost religious fear. This prince was known not for his wisdom, but for his cruelty. The world called him a Wuxia genius, the heir to ancient martial arts techniques that could shatter a person's meridians with a single touch.
And me?
I was his pet.
Every day I saw his reflection on the water's surface. Tall. Stately. His cold aura made the pond feel even more frozen. Sometimes he stood for a long time, staring at his fish without expression. As if assessing which ones lived because they were worthy, and which ones lived because they hadn't yet had time to die.
I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to cry.
But I could only swim in circles, surviving in the most humiliating way possible.
On silent nights, when the moon hung pale above the palace, I thought. If this was a punishment, it was too creative. If this was an opportunity, it was too cruel. The Wuxia world was no place for the weak, especially not for a fish that didn't even have fists to clench.
Yet strangely, I began to feel something within my new body. A warm current, like a breath that circulated with the water's flow. Qi. I had read about it in cheap novels. Life energy. Meridian channels. Cultivation.
Don't be ridiculous, I told myself.
But my body didn't listen.
Every time the prince practiced by the pond—swinging his sword, shattering stones, shaking the air—the water around me vibrated. And that qi… it seeped in. Entered my scales. Settled. Grew.
I began to ask myself, in the same tone as when I first fell into the river:
Will I be like this forever?
Or… is this the beginning of something much more dangerous?
I didn't know if I would ever return to being human. This world didn't promise anything for free. But one thing was becoming clear: to survive in this harsh and unforgiving Wuxia world, I had to learn to live, even if my life now had gills.
And perhaps…
even a fish can walk on land,
if it's stubborn enough to challenge fate.
I learned one important thing since becoming a fish: in this world, survival isn't about being strong or weak. It's about being unseen.
The pond where I lived was no ordinary pond. It was located in the heart of Qingluan Palace, the water-season palace of the Eastern Tianxia Empire—a region surrounded by sharp mountains and rivers whose currents were never truly tame. People said that if the water in Qingluan stopped flowing, the empire would fall.
I learned all this from the chatter of servants who thought fish couldn't understand human language. They were wrong. I listened. I remembered. And I learned to be silent.
This palace belonged to the Third Prince.
His name was Zhao Yan.
Son of Emperor Zhao Wenlong, a ruler who unified seven regions through blood and equally cruel treaties. Zhao Yan was not the main heir, but everyone knew he was the most dangerous. A genius cultivator. Cold. Humorless. With no predictable mercy.
And every afternoon, he stood by this pond.
I don't know why. Perhaps this pond was the only place where he didn't have to pretend to be human. The water reflected his face as it was—a young man with eyes too calm for someone who had killed so many.
I began to practice without a teacher.
Not physical training, obviously not. But training to sense the flow of qi. Every vibration of Zhao Yan's sword, every stamp of his foot on the stone ground, every technique he unleashed… all of it created a ripple. That qi flowed into the water. Into me. I imitated that flow. Collected it. Stored it in the center of my body—wherever that was now.
Painful? Yes.
Dangerous? Absolutely.
Other choice? None.
In the Wuxia world, even a fish must cultivate or be eaten. I saw death every week. Other fish died nameless. Meaningless. Overfed, or deliberately left to die when the prince was in a bad mood.
I vowed not to be like that.
One night, the moon was split by a cloud, and Zhao Yan came later than usual. His robes were stained with blood. His hand trembled slightly—something that shouldn't happen to a cultivator like him.
He knelt by the edge of the pond. Staring at me. Not looking at the pond. Looking at me.
"Strange," he said softly. "This fish… is not dead yet."
I stopped moving. He extended a finger to the water's surface. His cold qi touched my scales. The world seemed to stop breathing. "Your qi is stable," he continued. His tone changed—not awe, not anger. More like… interest. "Too stable for an ornamental fish."
I wanted to answer.
I wanted to say: because I'm not a fish.
Of course, I only flicked my tail.
Zhao Yan smiled a little—a smile that never reached his eyes. "Starting today, you will not be called 'fish'."
He thought for a moment.
Then said, "Your name is Yúyin."
The shadow of a fish in the water.
A name too poetic for something so easily killed. Since that night, I was no longer merely a decoration.
Servants were ordered to replace the pond water with spiritual herbs. Guards were forbidden from approaching carelessly. Zhao Yan began practicing more often near me—as if he knew, or pretended not to know, that I was absorbing every remnant of his power.
I started hearing legends.
About the Spirit Fish that Leaps the Dragon Gate. About aquatic creatures that cultivated for hundreds of years and were reborn as humans—or something worse.
I don't know if I will ever become human again.
But I know one thing:
if I manage to get out of this pond, the Tianxia world will regret having confined me as a fish.
And Zhao Yan…
he will either become my protector,
or the first person I must confront.
I swim slowly beneath the surface.
Silent.
Growing.
Waiting.
In the Wuxia world, those who survive are not the strongest, but the most patient waiting for their moment to explode.