— TRANSMIGRATION NOTE —
You have entered a world that is not your own.
You are in a cultivation world. Qi exists. Power is usually absorbed through the environment. It can be stolen. That is the first thing you must understand.
Most cultivators are women here. Everybody can absorb qi, but second method-dual cultivation only benefits women; men do not break through from it the same way. Men are treated as a rare resource. The overwhelming majority of cultivators and mortals are women. Cultivation has stages from Rank 0 to Rank 9. There are various cultivation paths. By cultivating you will gain extraordinary abilities. The stronger you are, the more interested women will be. Men are dominated and used through dual cultivation: they can be bound, contained in a cultivator's domain, summoned when needed even though maybe they will let you walk freely. If you are found alone, you are taken. If you resist, you are broken. Act accordingly.
Starting Location: Tsukeno Clan
Good Luck :D
— Starting Stats —
Name: Morro
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Appearance: 185 cm; black hair; dark blue eyes (retained from Earth).
Cultivation Stage: Rank 0 Initial Stage
Cultivator Type: Basic Beginner Cultivation
Stage Progression: 0%
Path: None
Claimed: No
——
What?
Morro opened his eyes to a pale wash of light—not his ceiling, not his room. The ground under him was hard, slightly cold through his clothes, grit pressing into his palms when he shifted. He had fallen asleep in his own bed.
He pushed himself up. His body was his own: same height, same black hair when he ran a hand through it, same face when he touched his jaw. Nothing had changed except everything. The air smelled different—flower and wood and something like incense, sweet and faintly smoky, nothing like his apartment. A breeze moved over his skin and carried the same scent. The sky above was soft, tinged with pink and the faint drift of petals. Sakura. Cherry blossoms. They floated down in slow passes, catching the light; when one landed on his sleeve he stared at it. He had found himself in a random street—a narrow lane between two rows of buildings, shadows cool and deep where the eaves met. The structures were all wood and plaster: dark beams, white or earthen walls, deep overhanging eaves. Sliding panels of paper and wood lined the fronts; some stood open to show dim interiors, the flicker of a brazier or lamp inside. The roofs were tiled in grey or dark slate, and the street under his feet was packed earth and stone, worn smooth by countless footsteps. No wires. No glass. No cars. Only the murmur of voices, the rustle of cloth, the creak of a sign somewhere down the lane.
Every figure in sight was a woman. They wore traditional clothing—layered robes in deep blues, soft pinks, whites and greens, sashes at the waist, hair pinned or bound. Beautiful. They passed in and out of the light, talking, carrying baskets, the tap of geta on stone and the low hum of conversation. He scanned the street again. The same. Only women. No men anywhere in the open. Not one.
His chest tightened. He stepped back without thinking. His shoulder brushed the trunk of a tree—a tall thing, branches heavy with the same pale blossoms, planted at the corner where the lane met a broader way—and he felt the bark rough against his back as he pressed into the shadow. The trunk and the low wall beside it hid him from the main flow. Nobody looked over. Nobody called out. The smell of blossoms was stronger here, almost cloying. Right now he was hidden. Nobody saw him yet.
He stayed there, back to the bark, and tried to make it make sense.
Thirst and hunger pressed at him. A basket of apples lay nearby, left unattended. To take more might draw notice. He took three and withdrew back to the cover of the tree without lingering. The first bite was sweet, slightly warm from the sun; he ate quickly, aware of every small sound he made.
When he had finished them, the thought crossed his mind that this might all be some kind of joke. None of it made sense. He told himself he could outrun them if it came to that. The sun was warm on his shoulders as he left his cover and stepped out onto the road. Women passed in a steady stream—talking, working—their footsteps and voices blending into a low, constant hum. He kept his head down.
Someone's eyes locked on him. He felt it like a touch—the weight of a stare. He was exotic here. Unique. Wrong clothes. A man.
They began to tap one another's arms, turning heads. The murmur of the street shifted; more faces turned his way. He hadn't expected to be noticed so quickly. He was.
Surprise crossed their faces, but beneath it was something else—interest, hunger—and the air seemed to thicken around him, the lane suddenly too narrow, too full of eyes.
Morro was scared. He had never felt so completely the center of attention—every gaze a hook, every turned head a threat. He decided to run. He broke into a sprint and chose a direction at random. His breath burned in his chest. The street blurred at the edges.
More and more people noticed him. Someone shouted at him to stop. He didn't. Others took up the cry; voices rose behind him, and someone tried to cut him off, but he sidestepped and kept going. The slap of his feet on stone. The heat of the sun.
Suddenly someone appeared in front of him—a woman with shiny black hair, petite in build but with a bearing that spoke of rank. A clan higher-up. Her name was Xing Su. She used some technique. Morro's balance left him; his legs shook, he swayed. The world tilted. She was already holding him—a firm grip on his arm, something floral and sharp in the air, her presence blocking the sun. Then, slowly, his consciousness slipped away.
"He is beautiful," she said, still supporting him so his head would not hit the ground.
Other women came to look at him—as if they hadn't seen a man in days or weeks. They gathered around Xing Su, clan members in layered robes and pinned hair. The murmur of their voices closed in; the scent of perfume and sweat and blossoms mixed in the heat.
One with sharp eyes and a thin mouth laughed. "I could take him to the baths and see how long he lasts."
A broader woman, arms crossed, grinned. "Or we could draw lots. Winner gets him for a week."
"A week? You're too generous. I'd keep him in my quarters until he begged to stay." This from a younger one, pale-faced, with ink on her fingers.
Another—tall, with grey streaking her temples—shook her head, smiling. "Mind your tongues. The clan will decide. But I wouldn't say no to a private audience first."
Around them the lane had gone quiet, or perhaps it was only that he could no longer hear it—the heat, the press of bodies, the weight of their eyes. Then nothing.