The smell of 2026 was always the same: exhaust fumes, overpriced espresso, and the cold, metallic scent of ambition.
I had everything. At twenty-eight, my bank account had enough zeros to make a banker weep. I had the penthouse, the cars, and the reputation of a "Shark" who never missed a kill. But as I walked down that rain-slicked sidewalk in downtown, the weight in my chest felt heavier than my wallet.
Being an orphan teaches you two things: how to survive, and how to lie to yourself. I told myself I didn't need a family. I told myself that "love" was just a chemical reaction used to sell greeting cards.
Then, I saw her.
She couldn't have been more than four. She was wearing a bright yellow raincoat, splashing in a puddle near the curb, oblivious to the world. Her mother was three steps behind, reaching into a purse for a ringing phone.
It happened in a heartbeat.
The screech of tires against wet asphalt—a sound like a dying animal. A heavy logistics truck, its trailer fishtailing wildly, lost grip. It wasn't just sliding; it was a five-ton mountain of steel barreling toward that yellow raincoat.
I didn't think. For a man who built a career on calculated risks, I acted on pure, unadulterated instinct.
I lunged. My designer shoes slipped on the pavement, but I reached her. I felt the small, fragile weight of the girl as I shoved her toward the sidewalk. I saw the mother's eyes widen in a silent scream.
Then, the world turned into a roar of white noise.
There was no pain at first. Just a massive, crushing pressure, followed by a sensation of being weightless. My last thought wasn't about my company or my money. It was: So this is how it ends. Alone, on a dirty street, for a stranger.
I closed my eyes. The cold of the rain faded. Everything went dark.
Wait.
Death was supposed to be quiet, wasn't it?
So why did it sound like someone was muffled-shouting in the next room? Why did my head feel like it was being squeezed through a straw?
Panic flared—a sharp, jagged terror. I tried to scream, to ask if the girl was okay, but all that came out of my throat was a thin, high-pitched wail.
Wail?
I opened my eyes, and the world was a blur of gold, crimson, and blinding light. Everything was too big. The ceiling was a cavernous expanse of carved jade and silk banners. Strange, aromatic incense—something like sandalwood but deeper, more "ancient"—clung to the air.
Where am I? Did the hospital move me to a palace? Is this a dream?
I tried to move my arms, but they were heavy, clumsy things. I caught a glimpse of a hand. It wasn't the scarred, calloused hand of a businessman. It was small. Wrinkled. Pink.
No. Way.
The internal scream was silenced when the world shifted. I was being lifted. My heart hammered against my ribs—a tiny, frantic drum. I was a man of logic, and logic said I was dead. But the air was too real. The panic was too sharp.
"My son..."
The voice was like silk and honey.
I looked up. The woman holding me was beautiful beyond anything I'd seen in the modern world. Her hair was like a river of ink, pinned back with phoenix-shaped jade hairpins. Her eyes were tired, brimming with tears, but they held a glow that felt... divine.
She reached out, her fingers trembling, and gently stroked my cheek. Her skin was warm. Not the sterile warmth of a heater, but a living, breathing heat.
"My little Lu Xian," she whispered, pulling me closer to her chest.
In that moment, the "Shark" died. The orphan who had spent twenty-eight years building a fortress around his heart felt the walls crumble. I had spent my whole life wondering what a mother's touch felt like. I'd imagined it, envied it from afar, and eventually hated it.
But this... this was the missing piece.
I got Transmigrated!! I yelled internally, the realization finally hitting me like the truck had. I'm not in a hospital. This is a different world. A different life.
The warmth of her embrace acted like a sedative. The panic ebbed away, replaced by a fierce, possessive need to hold onto this moment.
Suddenly, the heavy doors at the end of the room burst open.
"Is it a Prince?"
The voice was a thunderclap. It vibrated in the very air, carrying a weight that made my tiny lungs tighten.
A man strode in. He wore robes of Imperial Gold, embroidered with five-clawed dragons that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. His face was a mask of stern authority, his eyes sharp enough to cut glass. This wasn't just a man; he was a powerhouse.
"Your Majesty," the maids and attendants hissed, dropping to their knees in a synchronized wave.
This was the Emperor of the Lu Empire. My... father.
He walked toward the bed, his boots clicking on the jade floor. He looked down at me, and for a second, the stern mask slipped. A flicker of something—pride? relief?—passed through his eyes.
"The Seventh Prince," the Emperor declared, his voice booming. "Born under the Star of the Jade Phoenix. He shall be named Lu Xian."
He looked at my mother, then back at me. I stared up at him, my modern mind already racing. I was in a world of cultivation, a prince in a mid-sized empire, the third strongest on the continent. I had a mother who loved me and a father who ruled millions.
But as I looked at the Emperor—at the cold gold of his robes and the way the servants trembled in his presence—a thought occurred to me. In the stories, princes fought. They betrayed. They died for a throne made of cold metal.
I looked back at my mother, who was smiling through her exhaustion.
I just wanted a family, I thought, letting out a small, bubbly sigh. I didn't sign up for a Game of Thrones. Power? I've had that. Wealth? Been there, done that.
The Emperor reached out to touch my forehead, his fingertip glowing with a faint, golden light—probing my "talent" or "roots," no doubt.
I closed my eyes and leaned into my mother's warmth.
You can keep your throne, old man. Even a dog won't become an Emperor if it means giving up this peace.