Chapter 1
Yan Tangtang sat in a daze, her expression a mix of gloom and bewilderment, inside a small shack that looked as if it would collapse from even the slightest gust of wind.
Through the doorless frame and the shutterless windows made of rotting wood, she gazed vacantly at the pitch-black sky.
She had been transmigration.
Under normal circumstances, she should have been in her college dormitory, surrounded by her roommates. Why, then, was she stranded alone in the dead of night within this wretched place—a hovel so ruined it barely deserved to be called a house?
She had spent hours fumbling through the shadows of this decaying shack, her voice growing hoarse and her throat raw from crying out "Is anyone there?" time and time again.
The result was a deafening silence; no one was there.
Or perhaps, if there were any inhabitants, they were only the unseen spirits lurking in the dark. At that chilling thought, a cold shiver raced down Yan Tangtang's spine, and she instinctively rubbed her arms to ward off the frost of fear.
If she could pose a single question to the heavens right now, it would be this:
"Even if I had to transmigrate, couldn't you have at least granted me a flicker of light, if not broad daylight?"
Everything had been shrouded in darkness since the moment she awoke.
After stumbling blindly through the house and finally reaching her breaking point from the constant collisions with unseen objects, she retreated to the room where she had first regained consciousness. Fortunately, though the window lacked a shutter and the moon was hidden, a faint dusting of starlight filtered through the frame—a meager blessing in the gloom.
As an ordinary girl from the 21st century, Yan Tangtang had been paralyzed by fear for quite some time.
However, upon deeper reflection, she realized she was no different from a stray soul that had inadvertently plunged into this world through transmigration.
This thought brought a strange sense of relief. Having confirmed that the house was indeed deserted, she pushed aside her dread and began to address the most pressing questions.
She had transmigrated. But to where? And into whose body?
As she sifted through her most recent memories, the most plausible possibility emerged: the novel she had just finished reading—The Biography of a Fujoshi in the Cultivation World.
It was the only logical conclusion. After all, the moment she had closed the final chapter of that novel, the darkness had descended upon her in the mere blink of an eye.
So, I really transmigrated into that story, didn't I?
That was the first possibility.
The second was even more telling: the novel featured a minor character—mere cannon fodder—who shared her exact name.
Oh, for heaven's sake... how many stories are there where the protagonist transmigrates into a character with the same name? If you were to divide all transmigration tropes into three parts, wouldn't these account for at least two?
And then there was the final chilling realization. Ever since she had first glanced at the novel's synopsis, she had harbored a vague, unsettling premonition that she might end up here.
Should she call this an intuition, or perhaps a sign from the heavens—a divine hint granted by some benevolent deity?
Yan Tangtang was a nineteen-year-old girl with an unwavering obsession with the concept of transmigration. She harbored a deep-seated conviction that, one day, it would inevitably happen to her. Whenever she encountered a story she enjoyed, she never hesitated to harshly criticize the characters she disliked. She would stir up trouble in the comment sections, relentlessly fanning the flames of controversy.
Her reasoning was simple: she had devoured countless stories where those who mocked certain characters ended up being thrust into those very roles themselves.
She would often declare with a bold flourish:
"If I ever get the chance to transmigrate, I will live my life with absolute purpose! I'll be vibrant, spirited, and transform myself so completely that my old life becomes nothing more than a distant, forgotten memory!"
Indeed, such a grand declaration only betrayed the fact that her current life was anything but happy.
When Yan Tangtang was seven years old, her mother passed away. Scarcely a year had passed before her father remarried. As a young child, she found the situation impossible to accept. Her mother was barely gone—how could her father "gift" her a stepmother so soon?
Her father was a man of few words, possessing a temperament as cold as ice. As Yan Tangtang grew older, she couldn't help but dwell on the irony: Even with such a frigid and silent nature, he managed to find a new wife within a single year. Oh, Father! Your daughter clearly didn't inherit your talents in that department.
Now nineteen and still single, Yan Tangtang would "cry without tears" every time she thought of it.
Unfortunately, the only thing she truly inherited from her father was his habit of being soft-spoken and reserved.
Of course, things weren't always this way when her mother was still alive.
As for her stepmother, Yan Tangtang's life wasn't exactly a Cinderella story. Her stepmother simply treated her as if she were thin air.
Indeed, she didn't mistreat or bully her, but there was no kindness to be found either. Affection? Not even a paper-thin layer of superficial warmth was ever offered. By the time Yan Tangtang reached adulthood, the number of words her stepmother had ever spoken to her could be counted on one's fingers.
Thus, Yan Tangtang's world was populated by an icy, silent father, a stepmother who looked right through her, a half-sister nine years her junior, and a half-brother twelve years younger.
Consider for a moment—how should one even describe such a life?
Her father was perpetually away at work. Even upon his return, he never went out of his way to speak with her. Even if she sat right beside him, he would simply carry on with his tasks. He didn't drive her away, but he didn't acknowledge her existence either.
Her stepmother, too, had no desire for conversation. She never offered a smile, yet she never showed a scowl. Her silent message was clear: Eat what is in the house, then go and mind your own business.
And what of her younger sister and brother? The age gap was vast, and they shared different mothers. Furthermore, having grown up in the stifling shadow of her father and stepmother, Yan Tangtang's silence had become an ingrained habit. Even on those rare occasions when she felt the urge to coax or play with the children, the words would die in her throat, as if an invisible hand were strangling the very sound out of her.
It was glaringly obvious that without her, the family was quite warm and lively. Even during family meals, she had to sit there like someone who was deaf and mute.
From her spot at the far edge of the table, she would watch her stepmother teasing her own children, or her father responding to his wife's inquiries about his workday. They would discuss neighborhood gossip or the affairs of relatives—but none of it ever involved Yan Tangtang.
In her younger years, craving the attention of the adults, she would often try to chime into their conversations. Sadly, her father's taciturn nature remained unchanged; he lacked the patience to indulge in a child's rambling chatter. Her stepmother was worse—the moment Yan Tangtang spoke, she would either fall into an abrupt silence or swiftly change the subject, effectively freezing her out once again.
There were times when Yan Tangtang felt her stepmother was profoundly cruel. She never laid a hand on her, yet she inflicted deep, invisible wounds upon her soul.
To be honest, the young Yan Tangtang had suffered immensely, trapped in a pain she could share with no one.
Furthermore, ever since her biological mother passed away, her father had ceased all contact with her maternal grandparents. Visits to her paternal grandparents were equally rare. Once the stepmother arrived, Yan Tangtang was always left behind as the "house-sitter" whenever the rest of the family went to visit the stepmother's relatives.
Fine!
That was the adult Yan Tangtang's perspective. It's perfectly fine.
Though she was undeniably alive, she lived like a ghost within her own family.
Human behavior is incredibly infectious. As she grew, Yan Tangtang became increasingly withdrawn. She stopped seeking out her father and avoided crossing paths with her stepmother. She ate what they provided and took what they gave.
By the time the wounds in her heart had finally scarred over, she was already an adult. Family no longer held any meaning for her. To them, she was a ghost; to her, they were mere air. If she were to leave this family forever, she knew she wouldn't feel a single thing.
Living at home had become utterly meaningless, so she chose to stay in a dormitory while attending university. Yet, due to her deeply ingrained silence, her only "friends" were her roommates—with whom she exchanged mere whispers a few times a day. It was a truly pitiable existence.
While her stepmother provided just enough to cover her tuition and meals, it was strictly the bare minimum. There was nothing left for clothes or personal necessities. Consequently, she took on part-time jobs, adding a few more faces to her world: her boss, her fellow part-timers, and a handful of regular customers she recognized.
Of course, none of them truly mattered. These connections were paper-thin, mere surface-level interactions. There wasn't a single soul in this life who tethered her to this world or made her yearn to stay. Even these superficial relationships were far too sparse.
To Yan Tangtang, her life felt as tasteless and invisible as air.
The only solace she found was in the novels she had become obsessed with during her early teens—a passion that eventually led her to the vast world of web novels.
Though she loathed speaking in the real world, she loved leaving comments and sharing her thoughts online. Gradually, her entire focus was swallowed whole by these fictional realms.
As she devoured more and more transmigration stories, her heart would throb with a dull ache. She began to daydream, her fantasies growing into a near-obsessive madness. Eventually, she became utterly convinced that her own transmigration was not a matter of if, but when.
She was prepared. If she ever got the chance to cross over, she was ready to overhaul her entire life, including her very temperament and personality.
Yet, despite her desperate longing, Yan Tangtang had not lost her mind. She remained rational; she didn't seek out death, nor did she engage in reckless, illogical acts. She simply waited—patiently—for her moment to come.
All of this was but a lingering reflection of a past life—the life she had left behind. For the Yan Tangtang of the present had finally crossed the threshold of transmigration.
At last, her deepest yearnings were fulfilled. The Heavens were compassionate, and the gods had a keen eye after all. They had plucked her from that tasteless, hollow existence and granted her a new beginning.
But was Yan Tangtang happy now?
Truthfully, she wasn't certain.
The reason was her growing suspicion—a suspicion that was rapidly hardening into a cold certainty—that she had transmigrated into the novel titled The Biography of a Fujoshi in the Cultivation World.
And tragically, that was the one world she had dreaded entering more than any other.