Corpse Mountain, East of the Ji Dynasty — Tiger Blood Tribe
Liu Shiye's eyelids trembled like the wings of startled butterflies.
They fluttered, resisted, then finally stilled. When his eyes opened, they fixed on a ceiling he did not recognize—rough-hewn beams lashed together with dark twine, their surfaces blackened by old smoke and years of soot. Thin cracks spidered through the wood where dampness had crept in and never quite left. A drop of water swelled along one seam, hesitated, then fell.
He did not move. He listened.
Rain pressed down on the world outside, not with the thin, hollow tapping of water against glass, but with a heavy, breathing presence. It struck packed earth, slapped against wooden siding, hissed across loose stone. The sound was dense, layered—alive. Wind worried at the structure, testing it, slipping through gaps in the walls to brush his skin.
The air carried the scent of mud, rich and metallic, as though the mountain itself had been torn open. Beneath that lay something warmer and more animal.
Fur…Liu Shiye felt it before he saw it. His fingers twitched against the weight covering him. Pelts—several of them—thrown together without care. The hides were coarse where the hair thickened, stiff at the edges, but warm at their center, still holding the memory of the beasts they had once belonged to. They were not blankets. They were trophies. Tools for survival.
Fur was banned on earth in the year 2045. His brow furrowed. His breathing slowed. This was not his home.
Where?
The realization landed fully, and his pulse lurched in response. Liu Shiye sat upright in one sharp motion.
The world reeled.
For an instant, it felt as though the room itself had surged upward with him, tilting and swaying. His vision blurred, then snapped into painful clarity as he dragged air into his lungs. His gaze cut from wall to wall, cataloging details with a precision that surprised him.
Timber supports sunk directly into the earth. Clay packed into gaps by hand, fingerprints still visible in places. A low table carved from a single slab of dark wood, its surface scarred by blade marks and old burns. Hooks along the wall holding tools—stone-edged knives, bone needles, iron implements of unfamiliar shape yet obvious purpose.
Primitive.
The word surfaced without hesitation, fully formed.
Then another followed, colder and far more dangerous.
When am I?
He froze, every muscle locking as though stillness itself might protect him. The rain continued its relentless chant, but inside the structure, time seemed to hold its breath.
Memory did not return all at once. It did not crash over him or snap into focus. It seeped in slowly, like ink bleeding through water, clouding the present with the weight of another life.
But one truth crystallized immediately, sharp as a blade edge.
Liu Shiye knew who he was.
And more importantly—
He knew what he had done.
The last clear image before sleep surfaced unbidden: the pale glow of a monitor in a darkened room, curtains drawn, the rest of the world reduced to numbers and probabilities ticking across multiple screens. A private browser. Encrypted routing layered over encrypted routing. A forum buried so deep it masqueraded as fiction—or the ramblings of the unhinged.
A conversation.
Anonymous. Untraceable.
They had spoken of reincarnation, not as belief or comfort, but as mechanics. Karma stripped of superstition, reframed as a system of cause and consequence. Inputs and outputs. Variables that could, in theory, be manipulated.
They debated destiny—whether it was a fundamental truth, or merely the illusion created by environment, birth, and limitation.
Then the discussion shifted to dreams.
A single question appeared in the prompt box, unadorned and patient:
What world would you choose, if the choice were real?
Liu Shiye had not hesitated. He remembered the faint smile that had touched his lips as he typed.
Sword and magic.
Martial sects that defied heaven itself. Cultivators who refined flesh and spirit until they could shatter mountains with a strike. Mythic beasts that prowled ancient lands. Immortals whose lifespans mocked time.
Worlds where the soul carried weight—and the body could be forged into a vessel worthy of it.
Beautiful in their brutality. Honest in their cruelty. Places where ambition was not a sin but a driving force, where willpower could outlast fate, and strength was the only language the heavens respected.
Time had passed after that. Minutes, perhaps longer.
Then the final prompt appeared.
One word.
Why?
A simple question. A dangerous one.
Liu Shiye had answered anyway.
Because in such worlds, existence had clarity. The soul mattered more than flesh—yet flesh could be honed into a weapon fit to serve the soul's ambition. Power was cruel, yes—but it was honest. It did not pretend to be fair.
The screen had gone black immediately after.
No farewell. No confirmation. No system message.
Just darkness.
He remembered shrugging, dismissing it as an entertaining exchange with a stranger who took roleplay too seriously. He returned to his gambling tables, watched numbers rise and fall, and finished the night as he always did.
Then he slept.
And now—
Liu Shiye drew in a slow breath, the smell of wet earth and fur filling his lungs. His hands tightened against the pelts as awareness of his body settled in. It felt different. Heavier in some ways. Leaner in others. Coiled.
Outside, thunder rolled across Corpse Mountain, distant but immense.
Somewhere beyond these walls lay the Tiger Blood Tribe. Beyond them, the Ji Dynasty. Beyond that—A world that answered his choice.
But is that truly a blessing to celebrate?
Liu Shiye inhaled deeply again, testing the world around him.
The scent of rain filled his lungs first—cool, clean, and heavy with life. Beneath it lingered the rich smell of wet soil, freshly disturbed by the storm. Animal hide followed, musky and raw, layered with the faint, ever-present trace of distant woodsmoke drifting through the settlement.
He held his breath for a moment before releasing it slowly.
Too coherent for a dream.
Too detailed for any simulation his previous world could produce. Every sensation possessed weight—temperature, texture, density. The cold dampness in the air kissed his skin with uncomfortable realism.
And even if such technology existed…
Why him?
The question lingered as Liu Shiye swung his legs off the bedding and rose to his feet.
His balance faltered for the briefest half-breath.
This body was his—yet not.
The proportions were familiar enough to move without thought, but the distribution of strength felt altered. Lighter in some places, heavier in others. His muscles were lean but tightly wound, coiled with a wiry resilience he did not remember earning. When he flexed his fingers, tendons shifted beneath the skin like drawn bowstrings.
Liu Shiye steadied himself, one hand on the worn wooden post for balance. His thoughts raced, weaving through memories that didn't quite match this body, a body that seemed so foreign despite its familiarity. The smooth skin beneath his fingertips felt different, too. He glanced down and froze.
His chestnut brown skin gleamed in the light that filtered through the open door. His breath caught as he stared at his forearm, then at his hands. He tilted his head and squinted, as if his eyes could trick the truth away.
"What in the world…" he muttered under his breath, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair—darker now, too—thick and textured in a way he hadn't expected. It didn't make sense.
He'd read enough novels to know how these things went. Transmigrators weren't supposed to get things like this. In the stories, they arrived as mirror images of themselves—same face, same features. Same everything. Maybe a few minor adjustments for dramatic effect, but nothing so… jarring.
Why was he darker?
This question gnawed at him with the insistence of a mosquito buzzing too close. He stared into a cracked, hand-held mirror, noting the differences. His reflection looked strong, certainly. But it wasn't him, not entirely. His features were sharper, darker—his skin a rich chestnut brown, with a hint of golden warmth beneath the surface.
The reflection didn't match the white guy he'd been. That was supposed to be part of the rule! Why wasn't he a carbon copy?
His mind reeled through every transmigration story he'd ever read. Was this a glitch? A side effect of entering this world? Or maybe he'd somehow ended up in a cross-cultural novel? His brows furrowed.
He could almost hear the echoes of fellow transmigrators' complaints in his head: "Why do I always end up with tragic backstories?!" "Why am I always mysteriously a prince or a general?"
But none of those whiny monologues had ever mentioned being stuck in a body that looked like he'd been out in the sun for too long—and loved it.
He put the mirror down and checked his arms again, rubbing a finger along the smooth, taut skin. "Maybe it's one of those… um… side effects of reincarnation?"
He rolled his eyes at his own absurdity. There was no book to explain why he had the body of a tan stranger, and even less explanation as to why this was such a big deal. But for some reason, it stuck out to him like an oversized hat. He was a stranger in his own skin, in a way that didn't quite feel like a tragic twist.
"I mean," he mumbled aloud, "at least I'm not blue. Or green. Or… just a floating head, like some of the characters in those absurd isekai stories."
Liu Shiye snorted to himself. That was an image he couldn't get out of his head, and it made him chuckle despite the strangeness of his predicament. A floating head, no arms. What would you even do with that? Maybe he could even turn it into a sort of 'weird origin story' to explain how extra special he was.
A laugh escaped his lips—a short, surprised thing—as he realized how ridiculous he was being. He had a body that worked, and a mind to make it his own. And if that meant he'd gone from a regular pale guy to a strong, mysteriously tanned one, then so be it.
"Not the worst change I could've gotten," Liu Shiye said, grinning at the reflection, "I feel like RDJ in Tropic Thunder."
"I don't read the script, the reads me!" Spoke with curated intensity at the wall.
He looked back out the window, the dark storm clouds now clearing, leaving the world slightly brighter than before. "Guess I'll have to learn to live with it."
Shrugging, he turned away and marched off into the unknown world ahead, the quiet laughter still lingering in his chest. Maybe this was a sign: Maybe the world had something in mind for him. Whatever it was, he'd take it all in stride—dark skin or not.
Rain greeted him like a curtain being pulled aside.
It fell in thick silver strands, blurring the edges of the world beyond.
A settlement stretched outward from his doorway—low wooden structures built from rough timber, their sloped roofs channeling streams of runoff into the streets below. Water cascaded from eaves in steady sheets. The ground underfoot was packed dirt turned nearly black by saturation, soft enough to hold footprints yet firm from long use.
Despite the downpour, the settlement was alive.
Figures moved through the rain without urgency or discomfort, wrapped in layered furs and roughspun cloth dyed in earthen tones. Some carried tools. Others hauled bundles of wood or carcasses slung over their shoulders. Children darted between buildings barefoot, laughing as though the storm were nothing more than a game.
Their speech reached his ears—harsh syllables, clipped tones, a dialect that should have been foreign. Yet he understood every word perfectly. Several tribespeople noticed him standing in the doorway.
Their expressions they wore were complicated. They then twisted, warmed habitually. They smiled. They waved.
"Morning, Young Liu!"
"You're up early today!"
"You recovered well!"
Liu Shiye's brow creased slightly.
Recovered? The word echoed, unfamiliar in context. Before he could question it aloud, something shifted inside his mind—Not a thought. A stirring. A memory that did not belong to his past life… yet carried the weight of truth all the same.
It rose slowly, like mist lifting from water. A name surfaced first—gentle, inevitable.
"Liu Shiye," he said quietly to himself.
His breath caught in his throat. This time, the world did not spin. It settled. The sensation was unmistakable—like a lock clicking into place after being misaligned. The dissonance between mind and body quieted. The air, the rain, the settlement… all of it felt suddenly grounded.
Real.
He was not standing outside this life, observing it. He was inside it. Rooted.
Liu Shiye's gaze drifted over the settlement again, but now the details carried familiarity. He recognized pathways worn by daily travel. Knew which structure stored meat, which housed elders, which belonged to hunters of rank.
Understanding flowed without effort.
He was not visiting this world. He belonged to it. And somewhere deep within the marrow of this unfamiliar body…
Something else stirred.
It did not matter who Liu Shiye had once been. That life—its glowing screens, its endless noise, its hollow ambitions wrapped in artificial urgency—already felt distant. The memories remained intact, sharp when summoned, but emotionally dulled, like a dream dissolving under the light of morning.
For now, his place was here.
An ancient world. A barbarous tribe carved into unforgiving wilderness by tooth, bone, and iron will. And if he stripped away pretense—if he answered himself with the same honesty he once gave that faceless prompt—
Was this not the very world he had asked for?