Not the void from before—not the blank nothingness of death—but something far more real, and far more wrong.
It smelled like old wood and clean linen. The scent of dust hiding beneath polish. The air was too still, too quiet, like everything around him was holding its breath.
John opened his eyes.
At least, he thought he did.
For a long moment, the darkness didn't move, didn't lift. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed, if he was dreaming or waking. He reached for his body and found… something different.
His hands were thinner. Longer. Smooth, without the usual scars and callouses. His chest rose and fell, his heart beat steadily—but the rhythm was unfamiliar. Off. Like wearing someone else's heartbeat.
Panic tried to claw its way up his throat, but it didn't quite reach. It got stuck in that thick wall of numb disbelief. He sat up slowly. The sheets beneath him were silk—cool, high quality. Not the scratchy cotton of his old world. The room around him gradually began to reveal itself. Faint outlines. A tall dresser. A mirror across from the bed. Heavy drapes covering the only window.
And silence.
He tried to speak. Nothing came out at first. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt thick and strange, like it didn't quite belong in his mouth. He coughed, and even the sound of it startled him.
"Where…?" His voice cracked. Different. Sharper. Younger, maybe.
Then it hit him.
Not a thought. Not a memory. A wave.
A flood of sensations, images, feelings—not his. Not John's.
A hallway lined with golden sconces. A marble floor, cold beneath his bare feet. A woman's voice, scolding, sharp as broken glass:
"Andras Le! You bring shame to the family name!"
His breath caught in his throat.
Another flash: blood on his knuckles. Screaming—his own, maybe. A mirror shattered. A face he didn't recognize staring back at him with hollow eyes and a cruel smirk.
Then: laughter. Bitter. Alone.
And the voice again:
"You are a Le. Act like one."
John clutched his head.
Pain lanced through his skull, bright and searing, as if his brain were being torn in two. He fell sideways off the bed and landed on the cold wooden floor with a grunt, curling into himself like a dying animal.
Voices whispered through his skull. Andras… Andras Le… Young master Le…
The name repeated itself like a curse, drilling deeper into his identity.
He didn't know these people. He didn't know this name. But the memories—oh God, the memories—felt real.
He staggered to his feet, breathing heavily. He caught his reflection in the mirror and froze.
It was not him.
Not the hollow-eyed, unshaven man who had dozed off on a park bench.
This face was refined. Pale. Beautiful, in a severe, aristocratic way. Black hair like ink down to his shoulders. Sharp cheekbones. Cold, unreadable eyes. There was something cruel about the symmetry.
He raised his hand. The reflection did the same. He touched the glass, half-expecting the image to ripple.
"Who the hell are you?" he whispered.
But he already knew the answer. It whispered back, deep inside his bones.
You are Andras Le.
No.
No, no, no.
John took a shaky step back from the mirror, heart hammering—not in fear, not yet—but in a kind of exhausted disbelief. He could feel panic trying again to claw its way up, more persistent this time. He pushed it down, hard.
This was a dream. Had to be. Maybe he'd finally lost it—maybe all those sleepless nights on concrete benches and the half-eaten burgers had caught up with him and this was the final break. A psychotic break, they called it. It would make sense.
Except he could feel too much. The cool air brushing over his skin, the slight ache in his temples, the fine itch of silk against his legs. Dreams didn't feel this real. And nothing in his life—not anything—had ever smelled this much like money.
He staggered to the dresser and opened it at random. Silk. Satin. Button-up shirts pressed so flat they looked like they'd never been touched. A golden pocket watch. A slim blade in a leather sheath.
"What the hell is this?" he murmured.
He didn't even know who he was talking to anymore.
With shaking fingers, he opened another drawer. No wallet. No phone. No charger. Just cufflinks shaped like daggers and an old signet ring too heavy for casual wear. He slipped it on, almost absently, and it fit perfectly. Like it belonged there.
The voices came back, just for a moment.
"You are a Le. Act like one."
He turned, too fast, and stumbled over the edge of the rug. Caught himself on the bedpost. A laugh escaped him—dry, humorless, bordering on a sob.
"I just wanted to sleep," he said aloud, to the room, to God, to anyone listening. "Just one damn nap."
He forced himself toward the window, pushed back the heavy drapes.
What he saw outside made his stomach drop.
Not the city skyline he knew. No noise of traffic or flashing lights. Instead: rolling hills under a slate-gray sky. A garden that stretched forever. High stone walls in the distance. And guards—actual guards—patrolling along them in perfect silence, dressed in some kind of midnight-blue uniform with silver trim.
"Okay," John whispered. "This is… not my nap spot."
He let the curtain fall.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a psychotic break. This was something else entirely. And if he wasn't going crazy, then the only remaining option was…
"What the hell is this?"
There was something suffocating about how quiet it all was. No hum of electronics, no distant chatter of people or traffic or birds. Just the sound of his own breath, and the faint creak of the wooden floor beneath his unfamiliar feet.
He sat heavily on the bed, cradling his face in his hands. His fingers were longer. Smooth. Not his.
He knew it. Felt it in his bones.
But there was no denying it either: the body was his now. This was his skin. His blood. His voice, unfamiliar and cold, had come from his throat. That refined, cruel face in the mirror was the only one he had.
Andras Le.The name curled in his mind like smoke. Bitter. Burned at the edges.
And the memories—those weren't fading. If anything, they were growing louder, clearer.
A memory hit—uninvited, unfiltered.
He was six. Small, fragile, already kneeling. A man towered over him, face hidden behind a red ceremonial mask. The scent of incense and blood thick in the air. A deep voice:
"You will begin with marrow cleansing. If you scream, you will start again."
Then pain.
Liquid fire in his veins. Something unnatural being forced into him. A ritual. A rite. Not medicine—something else. Something spiritual. Deeper than nerves and flesh.
He remembered collapsing. Throwing up black bile. And no one came to comfort him.
Only the voice.
"You are not the first to suffer cultivation is a art of suffering. Be grateful. Weak ones are not given this chance."
Andras—the real Andras—had endured.
John, now wearing his name, shivered on the edge of the bed, clutching his elbows. That memory felt too real. The pain lingered in phantom echoes. His teeth clenched.
He hadn't just been raised in pain.
He had been shaped by it.
He falls back on his bed and holds his own head as his mind feels like it was going to blow up...
And the memory returned with a vengeance.
He was fifteen.
Kneeling once again. This time before a waterfall, roaring down a cliff like a divine punishment. His clothes were soaked. His hands blistered from gripping the same rusted spear for six hours without rest. His lips were cracked. Bleeding.
Behind him, a figure stood in silence. A teacher. A judge.
"You will absorb the flow," the man said. "You will feel it. Until it becomes part of you."
Andras trembled, but nodded.
Then he inhaled.
And for the first time—Qi flowed into him.
It had been faint. Fragile. Slippery like smoke.
And his teacher had frowned.
"Tch. A low spiritual root. Unremarkable talent. We will make up the difference with pain."
He hadn't been a genius. Not even above average. Just adequate.
But just as the pain was getting too strong I see a blue screen one I remember and it had text writing on it which actually brought me some peace this time...
SYSTEM Awaken pain stabilizing...