The very first sensation that slammed into me was pain.
Not the noble kind of pain that heroes endure while tempering their bodies under heavenly lightning—robes fluttering, long hair dancing majestically, with the heavens themselves acknowledging their existence.
No.
This was the ugly, mundane, I've-been-used-as-a-punching-bag-by-a-drunk-blacksmith-for-three-days-straight kind of pain. My ribs felt like an old xylophone that someone had played with bricks, my back screamed as if a herd of oxen had decided to moonwalk on it, and my head… ah, my poor head was holding a drumming competition sponsored by ten thousand monkeys.
With great reluctance, I pried open my eyes.
"…What the hell?"
Instead of the peeling ceiling paint of my cheap rental apartment, I saw carved wooden beams overhead, decorated with faded paintings of cranes that looked more like malnourished chickens. A cobweb dangled precariously above me, swaying as if waiting for its chance to descend directly onto my face. The air reeked faintly of herbs, but was that… chicken soup? Or was it rat stew pretending to be chicken soup?
Right. Step one: I'm dead. Probably. Step two: this is clearly a cultivation world. Don't ask me how I know—trust me, I've binged enough webnovels at 3 AM with instant noodles to recognize the signs. Wooden beams? Check. Suspicious herbal smell? Check. Frail, battered body lying on a bed like a useless young master destined to be slapped? Triple check.
I groaned and tried to sit up. Bad idea. A sharp spear of pain shot through my spine like an angry debt collector.
"Argh—!"
"Young master, you're awake?!"
The exclamation came from my right. A clattering sound followed as a girl rushed over, nearly spilling the tray in her hands. She wore plain green servant robes, her hair tied back into a simple bun, and her face was… well, not the devastating, peerless beauty type who descends from the heavens, but the sturdy, sharp-eyed kind who could scold you into regretting your entire bloodline.
Her brows furrowed as she set the tray down, looking at me like she expected me to collapse and die again at any second.
"Young master, you mustn't move! The physician said your meridians are half-shattered, your dantian is cracked, and your bones are… well, let's just say if bones were porcelain, yours have been dropped, glued, and dropped again."
I blinked at her. "...Huh?"
Inside, my thoughts spiraled. Half-shattered meridians? Cracked dantian? Wait, wait, wait—don't tell me I transmigrated into one of those cannon-fodder young masters who exist only to get beaten by the protagonist in chapter two!
She slammed the tray onto the table with a clang so loud it made my skull rattle.
"Finally! You're awake! I thought you were going to die and leave me scrubbing blood off the floor again! Young master, do you even know how much trouble you cause every single time you step out of this house?"
Her tone dripped with exaggerated exasperation, like a mother scolding her good-for-nothing son.
"…Trouble?" I croaked, my voice hoarse, my throat dry.
"Trouble?" She echoed with such disbelief it sounded like thunder. Planting her fists on her hips, she leaned over me like an executioner about to swing the blade. "Do you have the memory of a goldfish? You went to your fiancée's house yesterday, didn't you? Don't you remember?"
"…I… what?"
"Yes!" Her head bobbed furiously, like a pigeon that had been waiting all its life to peck at my misery. "You—of all people—actually thought it was a good idea to flirt with her. In her own courtyard! In front of her family!"
I froze. "…And then?"
Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. "And then? And then?! Her brother beat you half to death, dragged you out by your collar, and tossed you onto the street like a sack of rotten potatoes!"
She jabbed a finger at my forehead. "Don't you remember?"
I blinked. Then blinked again.
Hold on. What kind of trash body did I transmigrate into? A fool? A clown? A professional punching bag?!
"…So you're saying," I said slowly, tasting each word, "that I went to my fiancée's house, tried to flirt, and got beaten up by her brother?"
"Yes!"
"…But isn't that… normal?" I asked hesitantly. "I mean… isn't she my fiancée?"
"You—!" The maid slammed her palm against the table so hard the teacups rattled.
"When did you ever have a good relationship with her that you dare to act like a doting husband?! Don't you know how embarrassing it was? Half the street saw it! People were pointing at you, laughing, shouting, 'Look, there goes the useless young master of the Wei family! Shameless enough to pester his fiancée even after she publicly rejected him last month!'"
Her voice rose in pitch with each word until I thought my eardrums might explode.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Finally, I croaked, "…Rejected me?"
She stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten that too." She leaned close, her eyes sharp like blades. "Last month, Young Miss Lin Xue of the Lin family stood before her entire clan and broke the engagement. In front of everyone. She called you a waste who couldn't cultivate to save his life. Said she'd rather marry a pig than you!"
My jaw dropped. "…A pig? Seriously?"
She nodded solemnly. "Her exact words."
For a long moment, silence reigned. I stared at the ceiling. She stared at me. Somewhere outside, a rooster crowed mockingly.
And all I could think was—
Good heavens. What kind of dogshit plot have I been thrown into?
I sank back onto the pillow, my brain spinning.
So let me get this straight.
I, a modern-day salaryman who just yesterday was complaining about my boss stealing my lunch from the office fridge, have transmigrated into the body of a waste young master.
Not just any waste young master either. No, no. I had to land in the body of this particular clown—the one who got rejected by his fiancée in public, beaten up for harassing said fiancée, and is now lying here half-dead like a vegetable tossed out of a market stall.
Seriously?