The monitor's glow was a harsh blue, the only sun my cramped apartment had seen in days. It was 3:00 AM, the witching hour for the lonely and the obsessed. Outside, rain lashed against the windowpane in a rhythmic drumroll that did absolutely nothing to lull my over-caffeinated brain to sleep.
My phone was a tethering weight in my hand, the screen smudged with fingerprints, illuminating the final paragraphs of the latest chapter of Alchemist Sovereign.
I had been binging this literary junk food for a week straight. It was trash, generic, trope-riddled, cookie-cutter trash but it was addictive trash. It followed the Golden Rule of webnovels: a downtrodden nobody finds a cheat code and face-slaps the heavens.
The protagonist, Jin Hao, was as bland as boiled water. He was a fellow Earthling, transported to a world of cultivation, starting as the requisite "trash" of his family. But then came the ring housing the soul of an ancient alchemist. From there, it was a meteoric rise fueled by pettiness. Jin Hao was jealous, greedy, and hypocritical, yet the narrative bent over backward to paint his ruthlessness as righteous justice.
I felt nothing for him. If anything, I felt a dull annoyance every time he opened his mouth. No, my sympathy was reserved for the man Jin Hao was destined to destroy.
Arya Chen.
My namesake.
In the book, Arya was the antithesis of Jin Hao. He was the eldest son of the Chen Family Patriarch, the number one genius of Clearwater City. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, a Heaven Grade physique, and a Heaven Grade bloodline. He was powerful, devastatingly handsome, and contrary to the "Young Master" stereotype, he wasn't inherently evil. He was just... tragic.
His entire downfall hinged on a manipulated misunderstanding. A childhood memory of a girl saving him from a beast attack had been twisted. He poured his gratitude and affection into Su Lian, a manipulative siren who played the innocent flower while bleeding him dry of resources. He never knew that the true savior had been her older sister, Meira Su.
Because of this misplaced loyalty, Arya became the obstacle. He stood between Jin Hao and Su Lian, the "jade-like beauty" the protagonist had claimed as his property upon first sight.
The ending was written in stone. Jin Hao would crush Arya's Golden Core in a climactic duel, slaughter the Chen family as "collateral damage," and claim Su Lian. Arya Chen was designed to be a stepping stone, a high-level mob whose death would validate the hero's ascension.
"What a waste," I muttered, the words raspy in the silent room. My thumb hovered over the 'Next Chapter' button, but didn't press it.
I felt a strange kinship with the fictional villain. To have the world at your feet, to possess a good heart, and to lose it all because you were written to be the foil for a jealous upstart... it was a cruel joke.
Suddenly, the text on the screen swam. The stark black letters bled into the white background, forming an incoherent grey mess. A wave of vertigo hit me like the floor had just dropped out of the building. My grip failed. The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the cheap laminate flooring with a sound that seemed miles away.
The world tilted on its axis. The blue light of my monitor stretched, elongating into a spiraling tunnel. The sound of the rain faded into a high pitched ring.
Then, darkness. Absolute and consuming.
The first thing that returned was not sight, but scent.
It was rich, earthy, and undeniably expensive. Sandalwood. It filled my lungs, replacing the stale air of my apartment with something ancient and calming.
The second sensation was touch. I wasn't lying on my lumpy mattress. I was floating on a cloud. Beneath me was a surface softer than anything I had ever touched, and draped over me was a blanket that felt like liquid water against my skin.
It was warm. Not the stifling heat of a radiator, but a gentle warmth.
I fluttered my eyes open.
I stared up at a canopy of azure silk, embroidered with silver clouds that seemed to shimmer in the ambient light. Sunlight poured in from my left, sliced into geometric patterns by the intricate lattice of a window. The light was diffused through fine paper, casting a golden glow across the room.
I pushed myself up. The silk covering pooled around my waist like spilled ink.
The room was a study in elegance. It was spacious, dwarfing my entire apartment back on Earth. The walls were panelled in polished wood that gleamed with a reddish luster. In the center of the room sat a low table made of dark mahogany, hosting a delicate ceramic tea set that looked fragile enough to shatter from a harsh breath. On the far wall, a scroll hung in a place of honor. It depicted a vermillion phoenix in mid-flight, the brushstrokes so vivid and forceful that the bird looked ready to incinerate the paper and take to the skies.
Panic flared in my chest, a cold spike of adrenaline. I swallowed it down, forcing a shaky breath through my nose. Panic is useless, I told myself.
I looked down at my body.
I was dressed in sleeping robes of pristine white silk. I brought my hands up to my face, turning them over slowly.
They were my hands, and yet, they weren't.
My old hands were scarred from clumsy cooking accidents, the fingers slightly calloused from years of typing. These hands were works of art. The fingers were long and slender, the skin flawless and pale, possessing a deadly elegance. They were the hands of a musician, or a killer.
I threw the blanket aside and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet touched the cool wood of the floor.
I stood up.
The sensation was disorienting. I was tall, significantly taller than I had been a moment ago. My center of gravity had shifted. But more than the height, it was the feeling of substance. My previous body had been sluggish with a sedentary lifestyle. This body felt light, yet incredibly grounded.
A low hum vibrated beneath my skin, a current of energy flowing through meridians like a second circulatory system. It was a dormant power humming in every muscle, every bone.
I took a step. Then another. There was no creaking of joints, no heaviness. I moved with a predator's grace.
I walked toward the corner of the room, where a tall stand held a polished bronze mirror. The metal was burnished to a high shine, offering a reflection almost as clear as glass.
I stopped before it and looked at the stranger who was now me.
The reflection stared back with eyes as dark as obsidian, holding a depth that seemed to swallow the light. The face was striking, aristocratic features carved from marble, a straight nose, and a jawline sharp enough to cut. Jet-black hair cascaded down my shoulders, shimmering with a faint crimson hue where the sunlight hit it.
He was about twenty-one years old. He was built for power, with a latent intensity that radiated from his very posture.
I knew this face. I had read the descriptions a thousand times. I had imagined the sneer, the smile and the tragedy etched into these features.
"Arya Chen," I whispered.
The voice that came out was unfamiliar. But the name tasted correct on my tongue.