I hate my life. What kind of life is this where I can't even sleep properly?
A boy sat on a chair, staring at the book on the table in front of him. Dark circles hung under his eyes. It looked like he hadn't slept for days. It wasn't that he hated studying. The world was like this, and he knew it. He had seen people in worse conditions than him.
He turned his head and looked out of the window on his right. Under the streetlight, several homeless people were lying on the ground. One of them was awake, asking for food from people who walked past without looking.
At least I was born better than them. It's just studying. If I can't even do this, what kind of person am I? All I have to do is sit and read. Am I really that useless?
In my whole life, all I did was study. My parents were not rich, but they gave me everything they could. Whenever I wanted something, they still found a way to buy it. So I have to repay them. It might not even be one percent of what they have done for me, but I have to try.
He knew he had no talent. No matter how much he studied, it always took him twice the time of an average person.
If I can't understand it once, I'll read it ten times. Even if I don't understand everything, I will still learn more than before.
He tightened his grip on the pen and continued writing.
After a while, the words on the page started to blur. He blinked and rubbed his eyes.
Why can't I see properly?
His head felt heavy. The letters wouldn't stay still.
I should sleep for a few minutes… then continue.
The pen slipped from his fingers. His body leaned forward slightly, still sitting on the chair. To him, it felt like normal exhaustion.
He thought he was falling asleep.
The room stayed silent. The book remained open. The clock kept ticking.
His eyes opened suddenly.
The first thing he felt was pain.
His back was sore, his arms felt weak, and his whole body felt lighter than it should. The air smelled damp, mixed with sweat and something rotten.
This isn't my room.
He tried to sit up, but his muscles trembled as if he hadn't eaten for days. The wooden ceiling above him was rough and cracked. This was not the place where he had been studying.
For a moment, he thought he was dreaming.
Then the memories came.
Not his own.
Broken images flashed through his mind—carrying water buckets up stone steps, being shouted at by someone in grey robes, sleeping on a straw mat, a name being called again and again.
Li Wei.
His breathing became uneven.
"This… isn't right…"
He looked down at his hands. They were thinner, rougher, with small cuts and calluses he didn't recognize.
Panic rose in his chest.
Did I get kidnapped?
He tried to stand, but his legs gave way and he fell back onto the straw bed.
Voices came from outside.
"Outer disciples! Get up! Morning labor starts now!"
Footsteps passed quickly. Someone kicked the door nearby and shouted at another person to move faster.
He froze.
Outer disciple?
He forced himself to stay quiet and listened.
He swallowed hard.
"I… didn't fall asleep."
The last thing he remembered was sitting at his desk, studying.
A cold feeling spread through him.
"I died…?"
The word felt unreal.
Another wave of foreign memories surfaced—being bullied, having food stolen, failing a sect assessment, being called trash because of poor talent.
Li Wei. That was this body's name.
He pressed his hand against his chest. His heartbeat was slow but steady.
"I'm… alive."
But not in his world.
And not in his body.
He stayed on the straw bed, not moving.
His mind was still trying to catch up. A moment ago he had been sitting at his desk, worrying about exams. Now he was in a weak body, in a place he didn't recognize, with memories that didn't belong to him.
He didn't understand anything about this world.
Before he could think further, the door was pushed open.
A man in a grey robe stood there, holding a wooden stick.
"Why are you still lying down? Do you want to be expelled?"
He didn't respond.
The man frowned and walked in. "Li Wei, are you deaf now?"
A sudden fear ran through him. That name again. Li Wei.
"I… I'm getting up," he said, his voice hoarse.
His body moved slowly. He almost lost balance when he stood. The man didn't wait. He grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the door.
"Morning labor started already. Move."
He wanted to ask where he was, what this place was, what an outer disciple meant—but the words wouldn't come out. Everything felt too dangerous.
Outside, the light was different from what he was used to. There were stone paths, wooden buildings, and people in the same grey robes walking quickly with buckets and tools.
No one looked relaxed.
Everyone looked tired.
He was pushed into a line of thin young men carrying empty wooden buckets.
"Water duty. Fill them and bring them back. Don't spill," the man said and walked away.
He stood there, holding the bucket, his hands shaking.
This isn't a school.
This isn't my world.
The foreign memories in his head told him one thing clearly—this place was a sect, and outer disciples were at the bottom.
If they failed, they were thrown out.
And being thrown out meant death in the mountains.
His fear didn't disappear, but something familiar remained.
Work.
A task.
A clear instruction.
He looked at the bucket in his hands.
"I… just have to carry water," he muttered.
For the first time since waking up, he forced his legs to move and followed the others up the stone path.