Chapter Text
Wang Zhoucheng let out a long, tired yawn as the director called out, “That’s a wrap for today!” He glanced at the set, the lights flickering out as the crew packed up. Another long day of filming for As the Ink Spills, the latest drama he’d signed on for. As usual, he was playing a minor villain. And honestly? He didn’t mind one bit.
Being the main character came with too much pressure. Everyone was watching, analyzing every little gesture, every word. The weight of the role could crush anyone, and Wang Zhoucheng was no exception. As a minor villain, though, he got to slip into the shadows, test his acting chops, and have a little fun. No one expected him to be perfect—he didn’t have to carry the whole story. He just had to be bad. And that was easy.
The show was a transmigration drama, one of those stories where someone from the modern world ends up in ancient times and messes with history. The male lead was a poor, lonely, bitter transmigrator who found himself in Ancient China, his plans to change the course of history promptly spiraling out of control. Of course, the moment he arrived, he managed to get tangled up with the female lead—Wang Zhoucheng’s character’s love interest. Or maybe his crush? Whatever it was, the result was the same: Wang Zhuocheng’s character became a toxic villain, someone no one could root for. Not that the female lead cared—she wasn’t interested in him, at least not at first.
Wang Zhuocheng had always found the role of the villain to be… cathartic. It was emotionally draining, sure, but he understood his character’s pain. He actually felt for them. Every time he stepped into those dark shoes, he found himself advocating for therapy, even if the character was entirely fictional.
But that wasn’t on his mind now. Right now, all he could think of was the soft embrace of his pillow waiting for him at home.
“I’m heading out first,” he called to his co-stars, his voice warm and quiet as he waved them off. He didn’t wait for a response; his thoughts were already on the comfort of his apartment and the sweet, blissful relief of sleep.
What’s the worst that could happen?
He stepped outside, the cool evening air greeting him as he inhaled deeply. The streetlights flickered softly in the distance. Then, without warning, a gust of wind slammed into him like a freight train. Before he could even react, he was lifted off his feet and hurled into a nearby tree.
What the hell?
That was his last coherent thought before everything went black.
When Wang Zhoucheng finally regained consciousness, the first thing he noticed was the pressure on his chest. Not the weight of something pressing down on him, but a heaviness from within—dull, suffocating, like a sense of impending dread. Something wasn’t right. This didn’t feel like the soft comfort of his bed.
A voice cut through the haze of his disorientation.
“Uncle, wake up!”
He groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Let me sleep,” he muttered, barely able to keep his voice steady. “Why’s this bed so hard? So uncomfortable…”
“Uncle!” The voice came again, louder, more insistent.
Wang Zhuocheng blinked, squinting against the harsh sunlight that poured over him. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. And then, his heart skipped a beat.
Everyone around him was dressed like they belonged in one of those old Wuxia dramas. The robes. The swords. The absurdly dramatic stances.
“What the fuck?” Wang ZhouCheng muttered, completely bewildered. “Is this a prank? The Untamed was like six years ago…”
“Uncle, you’re acting weird.” Jin Ling stood nearby, wearing an expression that was part annoyance, part concern, his face scrunched in distaste.
Wang Zhoucheng sat up with a groan, rubbing his temples.The ground beneath him was hard and uneven—not at all like a mattress. Wait, he wasn’t in his bed?
“This is an elaborate prank. Good job, everyone!” His voice was laced with uncertainty, but he couldn’t suppress a laugh. When had he gotten outside, and why would he have fallen asleep on the ground, even though it felt clean?
“Uncle, this isn’t a prank,” came Jin Ling’s serious reply.
Wang Zhuocheng looked down at himself. Purple robes. Silk. Embroidered patterns that looked suspiciously expensive. His eyes widened in panic as he realized what was going on.
“No, no, no.” He pulled at the robe, feeling its heavy fabric cling uncomfortably to his skin. “Get this off me! It’s uncomfortable! Where are my jeans and T-shirt? I can’t wear this! I suffered enough wearing this crap when I filmed The Untamed!”
His voice rose with each word, a mix of frustration and disbelief.
The other juniors exchanged confused glances. Mo XuanYu, perched atop a donkey named Apple, raised an eyebrow. “Jiang Cheng, you’re nothing like the stories.”
Wang Zhoucheng froze, his chest tightening. The voice—he couldn’t deny who it was. Mo XuanYu. Wei Wuxian. Oh great, they decided to recreate this scene, but he didn’t remember filming such a scene. His mind swam for a moment, but he quickly recovered.
“Whatever,” Wang Zhoucheng scoffed, brushing his hair out of his eyes, feeling the unfamiliar weight. “Get me a sword so I can chop this thing off.”
“Uncle!”
“Jiang Cheng!”
“Sect Leader Jiang!” A chorus of voices echoed around him.
And then, a strange, mechanical voice cut through the madness.
System activating. Host, stop this. You are a transmigrator.
Wang Zhuocheng froze, his body going stiff. “Who’s talking to me?” he demanded, his voice rising in panic.
“Uncle, are you okay?” Jin Ling’s worried voice was muffled, as if from a great distance.
“I am the system, host,” the voice responded coldly.
Wang Zhoucheng’s head swam. “Stop talking to me. I’m going crazy!”
“You are not, host. You are a transmigrator.”
“This isn’t a drama. This is real life. That doesn’t happen! It’s impossible.”
“No, it is real. It does happen, host. And you are your character.”
“My character? Jiang Cheng?” Wang Zhoucheng’s chest tightened with dread. “No, this is a prank. There’s no way this is real.”
“No, host, it is not.” The system’s voice was firm.
“It is a prank,” Wang Zhoucheng argued, his voice becoming more frantic. “I’m leaving. I’m going home!”
“You can’t, host. You have a mission to fulfill.”
“I’m leaving,” Wang Zhoucheng repeated. “How do I get out of here?”
“You can’t, host.”
“I will find a way out of here.”
Nearby, Lan Jingyi whispered to Jin Ling, “Princess, why is your uncle acting like this? He’s… jumping into invisible walls and pouting like a spoiled child.”
“Don’t call me that, idiot,” Jin Ling snapped, his eyes wide with disbelief. “I don’t know. Uncle, what’s wrong with you?”
Wang Zhoucheng was in full meltdown mode. He paced around like a bratty, spoiled child, his hands flailing as if trying to push away the invisible walls he kept slamming into. His frustration mounting with every failed attempt to escape whatever twisted reality he found himself in.
“This is bullshit! I’m not playing along! I’m done!” he shouted, stomping his foot in childish defiance.
He leaped forward again, only to crash into another invisible barrier. “Get me out of here! I’m not Jiang Cheng! I’m Wang Zhoucheng! Let me go!”
By now, the younger disciples were watching with wide eyes as Wang Zhoucheng threw himself into one invisible wall after another, his feet kicking and his face contorted with frustration.
“Uncle, stop!” Jin Ling groaned.
Lan Wangji stood silent, his expression unreadable. His gaze fixed on Wang Zhoucheng, but his thoughts were a world apart—contemplative and distant, his disapproval simmering underneath his stoic calm.
Beside him, Lan Xichen looked on with a quiet mix of concern and curiosity. “Should we intervene?” he asked, his voice soft.
“No,” Lan Wangji replied with a quiet calm, his eyes never leaving Wang Zhoucheng.
The system groaned in the background. This is going to be a long day. I can’t control him…