Yu Cheng awoke cocooned in a silken embrace, the remnants of a forgotten dream clinging to the edges of his awareness. Warmth seeped into his limbs, a sensation foreign and yet strangely familiar. The bed beneath him was far too soft, an opulent comfort that starkly contrasted with the rough cot of his previous existence. His senses stirred reluctantly, drawn into this new world of rich textures and muted light.
He opened his eyes. A golden haze bathed the chamber, sunlight filtering through intricately woven curtains. His gaze traveled across the room—every surface seemed to shimmer with wealth. Silks, crimson like fresh blood, draped across the bed, and the walls bore ornate carvings of mythical beasts and celestial figures, the gold and jade intricacies blurring into one another. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of incense, layered with the sharper tang of spilled wine.
A jolt of confusion rippled through him.
Yu Cheng moved to sit up, but his limbs resisted, sluggish and uncoordinated. His muscles ached, as if they hadn’t been used properly in years. Slowly, he raised his hands—slender, pale, adorned with jade and gold rings that caught the dim light. He flexed his fingers experimentally, the jade rings clinking together, their weight foreign against his skin.
These hands weren’t his.
Panic flared, tightening like ice around his heart. Where was he? Who was he?
The answer came with a sudden, overwhelming flood of memories—visions of excess and indulgence crashing over him in vivid, chaotic waves. He saw himself—or rather, the body he now inhabited, Tian Hao—laughing amid lavish banquets, surrounded by fawning admirers and swirling cups of wine. The scent of perfume, the sound of raucous laughter, the weight of a life lived in the lap of luxury.
The Skyward Lotus Sect—those words surfaced in his mind, accompanied by images of the sprawling sect grounds, majestic pavilions nestled among the peaks, and disciples clad in azure robes practicing their arts in courtyards. He saw the imposing main hall, carved from mountain stone and adorned with symbols of the lotus flower.
His memories shifted to his father, Tian Shou—an intimidating figure, clad in robes of deep blue embroidered with silver, his presence commanding and his eyes often narrowed in disapproval. Tian Shou, the Sect Master, whose ambitions for the Skyward Lotus Sect ran deep, had always seen Tian Hao as a potential successor—though one plagued with squandered potential.
The sect’s power was not just in wealth, but in the art of cultivation. His memories brought flashes of disciples seated cross-legged in meditation, absorbing the very essence of the heavens and earth into their cores. Cultivation wasn’t just about power—it was about transcending mortal limits.
In his past life, such ideas would have been laughable, confined to the fantasy novels he barely glanced at during breaks.
More scenes flashed through his mind—training sessions in which he, Tian Hao, stood reluctantly before a stern instructor, his stance lazy and his attention often wandering.
He remembered Elder Hua, her eyes narrowed with frustration, berating him for being eighteen and still only at the first stage of Body Refining. Her words were sharp and cutting, filled with the disappointment of someone who had invested time in a student who refused to grow, to even try. 'Do you think your father's name alone will carry you forever, Tian Hao? At this rate, even the outer sect disciples have surpassed you.'
Flashes of the judgmental stares of fellow disciples, those who had worked tirelessly to earn their place, watching with barely concealed disdain as Tian Hao treated his privileged status like it was simply meant to be.
Tian Hao had been eating his laurels1—his father might say—with an insatiable appetite. While others broke their backs for a sliver of respect, he had drifted through life on the strength of his lineage, squandering every opportunity that came with it. He remembered the hushed conversations, the whispers behind his back, those who spoke of him as a disgrace to the Tian Clan and a burden to his father.
In this world, power wasn’t measured by money or status symbols—it was measured by the strength of one’s Qi, the level of one’s cultivation, and the ability to defy death itself. Yu Cheng, now Tian Hao struggled to wrap his mind around it, but the memories pressing into him painted a clear picture.
He remembered the time Tian Shou had caught him sneaking out of a training session. 'What will you do when I’m no longer here to cover your mistakes, Tian Hao?' his father had said, his voice a combination of his exhaustion and anger. "This sect cannot afford a weak leader, especially not one who prioritizes pleasure over power."
In his father’s eyes, he had become mud that could never hold up a wall2 , no matter how many times someone tried to shape it. It wasn’t just disappointment, it was hopelessness.
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Tian Hao remembered the cold weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder, the only physical connection between them. 'You are my son,' Tian Shou had said, his voice like stone. 'But I won’t let you be my weakness.' The words had been as cutting as a blade, but even now, in this haze of new memories, a part of Tian Hao yearned for his father’s approval.
Despite this, there were moments—brief, fleeting glimpses—when he saw Tian Shou looking at him, not with anger, but with something like hope, as if waiting for his son to finally rise to the expectations placed upon him.
As memories of his father’s stern gaze resurfaced, Yu Cheng now Tian Hao’s shoulders tightened, his grip on the robe turning his knuckles white. Yet, as the scent of incense and wine filled his nostrils, he let out a sigh and allowed himself to sink back onto the silken cushions.
Then there were the banquets—the elaborate gatherings that Tian Hao seemed to excel in. He could see himself reclining lazily on silk cushions, surrounded by sycophants who laughed at his jokes and filled his cup without question. He remembered their faces—some familiar, others nameless, all eager to remain in the young master's favor. He saw flashes of opulent dining halls, with lanterns glowing softly, the air thick with incense, wine flowing freely as music played. These were the moments where Tian Hao had embraced his role fully, drowning in pleasure to escape the weight of his father's ambitions and the sect's expectations.
There was also a memory of a confrontation—Tian Shou's voice ringing through his mind, harsh and cold. "When will you understand what it means to bear the name Tian? Our lineage is not one of indulgence, but of strength and responsibility." The disappointment in his father's eyes had cut deeper than Tian Hao had let on. The words, sharp as a blade, echoed within him even now, mixed with a sense of guilt and smidgeon of defiance.
Similarly, memories of Tian Hao displacing this anger and disappointment onto those that had slighted him. Having servants fired for spilling some wine or using the wrong bath oils, threatening to have drinking establishments put out of business for refusing his unreasonable requests. Even leveraging his father to demote an inner disciple to the outer sect when Tian Hao heard him badmouthing him on a day he had a particularly bad hangover.
The flood of memories ebbed, leaving Tian Hao standing amidst the remnants of his past self's excesses. The weight of Tian Shou's expectations, the disdain of his fellow disciples, and the fleeting moments of genuine connection all swirled together, a complex tapestry of a life that was both his and not his. He was Tian Hao now.
Tian Hao.
The name pulsed through his mind, like the tolling of a distant bell. He was Tian Hao. Not the poor, humble, nameless man he’d once been, but the sole heir to the prestigious Tian Clan. A man known for squandering wealth as easily as others might breathe. A notorious silkpants—a young master who chased pleasure with the same recklessness others reserved for life and death.
He remembered the disastrous duel where he drunkenly faced a rival from another clan, embarrassing not just himself but the entire Tian Clan. Or the time he squandered precious sect resources on a frivolous festival that left many shaking their heads in disgust.
Tian Hao, the wastrel. Tian Hao, the disappointment.
He sat up, the silken sheets sliding from his bare chest as the full scope of his new reality settled over him. The chamber around him was not just a monument to wealth—it was a shrine to the decadence Tian Hao had reveled in. Empty wine cups lay strewn across the floor, their contents staining the polished wood. Robes, discarded in haste, lay crumpled like fallen petals. Everything bore the mark of unrestrained indulgence.
His head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing in rhythm with the memory of too much wine, the cloying scent of incense still clinging to his senses, and the roaring laughter of sycophants urging him deeper into the excesses of the night. He pressed a hand to his forehead, willing the room to stop spinning. Somewhere, deep in his consciousness, words echoed.
'Your challenge, Tian Hao, will be to take the expectations of this new life and forge your own path—a path filled with joy, indulgence, and enlightenment.'
A bitter smile curled his lips. Enlightenment.
He had once dealt with impatient customers and minimum-wage monotony; now he was expected to balance the delicate energies of the universe in the palm of his hand.
Tian Hao 2.0 forced himself to stand, his legs shaky beneath him as he stumbled toward a large mirror mounted on the wall. The figure reflected there was striking—a young man with high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and dark, intelligent eyes that even the haze of last night’s revelry couldn’t dull. His disheveled hair framed his face in wild, unruly strands, and his luxurious blue robe, embroidered with silver thread, hung crookedly from his broad shoulders, stained with the remnants of spilled wine.
He looked every inch the spoiled young master he'd now become.
His mind wandered back to his last moments in the park, that flash of cosmic brilliance, the inexplicable voice that had promised him a new journey. The transition had been anything but smooth, and yet the world he found himself in now seemed to promise more than just survival—it promised indulgence, freedom, and a chance at something more vibrant than the mundane life he'd left behind.
"Well," he muttered, running a hand through the tangles of his hair, "this isn’t so bad."
The thought immediately soured. A sudden tightness seized his chest, as if the weight of the room itself had settled on him. He reached up, pressing a hand to his sternum, fingers curling into the fabric of his robe. His breath hitched, his mind scrambling to hold on to the faint traces of his past—his old name, his old life—but they slipped away, leaving him with only the hollow echoes of who he used to be. He couldn’t even remember his own name. It was as if the man he once was had been fragmented, parts of his past life reduced to a vague blur.
1: chī lǎo běn ; 吃老本
2: làn ní fú bù shàng qiáng; 烂泥扶不上墙
