Fucking noobs.
Ethan slammed his fist onto the desk, making his half-empty energy drink can rattle. "Fucking noobs! How do you wipe on the first boss? Are your hands made of fucking butter?!" His headset crackled with the distant sobs of his party's healer as the "DEFEAT" screen burned crimson on his monitor. Another three hours wasted. Another raid ruined by incompetence.
He slumped back into his worn gaming chair – the fancy "ergonomic throne" he'd splurged on last year. Leatherette peeling, one armrest duct-taped, but it was his. "God damn it," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. The pixelated remains of his max-level avatar, "Eclipse," mocked him from the screen. All that grinding, all that min-maxing… for this? Pathetic.
He reached for the energy drink, tilting it back for the last bitter dregs. As he leaned, the chair gave a familiar, ominous groan. "Yeah, yeah, bitch about it," Ethan grumbled at the furniture. "I'm heavy. Sue me." He shifted his weight, reaching for his mouse to queue up again. Maybe a PvP match. Something where he didn't have to rely on morons.
CRACK.
It wasn't loud. Just a sharp, final snap, like a dried twig. The entire right side of the chair's base gave way. Ethan lurched violently sideways. His hand flailed, knocking the empty can off the desk. "Shit–!" was all he got out before gravity took over. His temple connected with the sharp corner of his heavy-duty PC case.
THUNK.
Stars exploded behind his eyes, bright and painful. Then, nothing. No sound. No pain. Just… blackness. A weirdly peaceful void after the rage-fueled cacophony of his life.
Fuck, he thought, the word echoing in the emptiness. Died to a fucking gaming chair. How lame is that?
Consciousness returned like a bad hangover. His head throbbed – a dull, insistent ache centered right where he'd hit the PC case. But… different. Smells assaulted him first. Not stale pizza and energy drinks. Something… clean? Incense? Expensive wood? And beneath it, a faint medicinal tang.
He forced his eyes open. Blinked. Blinked again.
This wasn't his cramped, poster-plastered bedroom. This room was… enormous. High ceilings with intricate carvings. Walls draped in heavy, dark blue silk embroidered with silver threads that shimmered like starlight. The bed he lay on felt like a cloud, draped in impossibly smooth, cool sheets. Morning light streamed through tall, latticed windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
What the actual fuck?
He pushed himself up on surprisingly weak arms. Looked down. Hands. Not his hands. Paler. Smoother. No calluses from years of keyboard bashing. Long fingers. Fancy silk pajamas. Silk pajamas?
"Okay," he rasped, his voice unfamiliar – younger, softer, but raspy from disuse. "Either I hit my head way harder than I thought, or…" The transmigration novels he'd skimmed while waiting for raid queues flashed through his mind. "No. Fucking. Way."
A wave of dizziness hit him, accompanied by a sudden, violent rush of images and sensations that weren't his own. A stern-faced man in robes radiating power – Father. A beautiful woman with worried eyes and gentle hands – Mother. Endless, boring lessons on etiquette. The scornful glances of other youths. The crushing weight of expectation… and the even heavier weight of failure. The name surfaced like a bubble from deep water: Li Feng. Heir to the Vermilion Bird Clan. And a spectacularly useless one.
The memories settled, cold and uncomfortable, like ill-fitting clothes. This Li Feng hadn't cultivated. Not seriously. He'd coasted on his parents' immense power and wealth, content to be a decorative, disappointing ornament. Lazy. Pampered. Weak.
Weak. The word echoed in Ethan's mind, clashing violently with the fierce competitive drive that had defined his old life. Rage, hot and familiar, bubbled up. He hadn't clawed his way to the top ranks in every game he touched by being weak. He'd exploited mechanics, studied metas, grinded relentlessly. And this spoiled brat he was now… he'd thrown away everything Ethan would have killed for! Resources! Status! Power literally handed to him!
"Fucking idiot," Ethan growled, the sound harsh in the luxurious silence. He swung his legs off the bed, bare feet hitting cold, polished stone. He felt shaky, uncoordinated. Like his muscles had atrophied. Because they probably have, you useless rich kid, he mentally berated the original owner.
He staggered towards a large, ornate mirror framed in dark wood. The reflection staring back was… jarring. Late teens. Delicate features that hinted at handsome potential, currently marred by pallor and a faint bruise on his temple (probably from whatever stupidity killed the original Li Feng). Eyes that were supposed to be haughty or vacant now burned with a fierce, unfamiliar intensity – Ethan's intensity. Ryuga's intensity. Dark hair messy from sleep.
"Li Feng," he spat the name at the reflection. "You had it all, you spoiled little shit. And you pissed it away." He leaned closer, glaring into his own new eyes. "Well, guess what? I'm not you. I don't do weak. This body? These resources? This fucking clan? They're mine now. And I'm going to use them." The thought of cultivation – real power, not just digital rankings – sent a thrill through him, cutting through the lingering headache. "I'm going to grind this world like it's the ultimate fucking raid."
A sharp knock echoed on the heavy door. Before Ethan/Li Feng could respond, it swung open. A servant in neat, grey robes bowed low, not meeting his eyes. "Young Master Li Feng," the man intoned, voice carefully neutral. "Your presence is requested in the Sunfire Pavilion for morning tea with Lady Su."
Lady Su. Another memory surged: Su Lian. His fiancée. A prodigy. A genius cultivator whose beauty was matched only by her icy disdain for the waste of space she was engaged to. The engagement, the memories confirmed, was pure politics. Her family needed the Vermilion Bird Clan's backing. His parents hoped proximity to her talent might spark something in their disappointing son. It hadn't. She tolerated him with the frosty politeness one reserves for a mildly unpleasant smell.
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across Li Feng's face. Oh, this is gonna be fun. A challenge. An arrogant rival built into his starting zone. He looked at the cowed servant. "Tell Lady Su," he said, his voice still raspy but laced with a new, cutting edge, "I'll be there when I'm damn well ready."
The servant's head jerked up slightly, shock flickering in his eyes before he quickly bowed again, lower this time. "Y-Yes, Young Master." He scurried out, closing the door softly.
Li Feng turned back to the mirror, the smirk hardening into something colder. He raised his hand, examining the soft, uncalloused palm. "First things first," he muttered. "Need to see my stats. Gotta know what I'm working with. How bad is this dump stat build?"
As if summoned by the gamer's desperate need for a UI, a sharp, electric crackle pulsed behind his eyes. Lines of jagged, shimmering blue light fractured his vision, coalescing into a familiar, yet utterly alien, interface. Glitchy symbols flickered before stabilizing into crisp, glowing text floating in the center of his perception:
**>>> CULTIVATION OPTIMIZATION PROTOCOL INITIATED <<<** **>>> SYSTEM INTEGRATION: 12.7%... WARNING: INSTABILITY DETECTED <<<** **>>> SCANNING HOST... <<<** **HOST: Li Feng** **STATUS: Peak Mortal (Qi Undetected)** **PHYSIQUE: Vermilion Scion (Dormant) - [ANALYSIS INCOMPLETE]** **AFFINITIES: Fire (Latent), ???** **CORE METRICS:** * **Vitality:** 5/10 (Malnourished, Sedentary) * **Strength:** 3/10 (Below Average Mortal) * **Agility:** 4/10 (Sluggish) * **Spirit Sense:** 8/10 (Unusually Resilient - Source: ???) * **Comprehension:** 9/10 (Enhanced Cognitive Processing - Source: ???) **ACTIVE QUEST: [URGENT]** **>> OBJECTIVE: Attend Morning Tea with Fiancée (Su Lian)** **>> REWARD:** Minor Reputation Adjustment, System Stability +0.5% **>> FAILURE:** Reputation Loss, Clan Disapproval, Potential System Glitch **WARNING: HOST PHYSICAL PARAMETERS CRITICALLY LOW. COMMENCE TRAINING REGIMEN IMMEDIATELY.**
Li Feng stared at the glowing text. Peak Mortal? Malnourished? Strength 3/10? The numbers were insulting. Pathetic. A fresh level 1 noob had better stats. But… Spirit Sense 8? Comprehension 9? Enhanced Cognitive Processing? That had to be him. Ethan. The gamer. The strategist. The rage-fueled grinder.
A harsh laugh escaped him, echoing slightly in the vast room. "Dormant physique? Malnourished? Fucking perfect." He clenched his weak fist, the knuckles white. The rage was still there, simmering, but now it had direction. Fuel. The System glitched faintly, a static buzz at the edge of his vision. "Alright, Protocol," he muttered, the name tasting strange. "You want me to train? Fine. You want me to play nice with the Ice Princess? Fine. But this?" He gestured vaguely at his frail body reflected in the mirror. "This weakness ends. Today."
He turned away from the mirror, the System interface flickering persistently in his sight. The path ahead was clear: survive the tea, survive this clan, and then… grind. Exploit every advantage. Mine every resource. Turn this dumpster fire of a starting point into something worthy of the name Eclipse. Worthy of him.
The smirk returned, fiercer this time. "Game on."