Chapter Text
If there was one thing Yu Zhao knew about being a human being, it was that it sucked. Why couldn’t he be born as an animal? A cat for he cared. Cats didn’t have midterms, they didn’t have to pay rent, and nobody expected them to understand quantum mechanics at 3 o’clock in the morning.
Instead, he was stuck in a body that was currently running on instant noodles and a coffee that had long gone cold.
Yu Zhao slumped lower in his desk chair–which was currently doing a horrible job of supporting his already ruined spine–and let out a long, shuddering sigh that shook his whole frame. The blue light from his laptop monitor reflected off his tired, dry eyes behind his glasses, illuminating a desktop crammed with overlapping windows.
On the left side of his screen sat a half-finished research paper with a blinking cursor that seemed to mock his attempts at existing. On the right side sat the real culprit behind his academic downfall: a notoriously dense, heavily annotated wiki page for Tian Guan Ci Fu.
I am ridiculously cooked, Yu Zhao thought, raising both hands to rub his eyes until tiny white stars danced across his dark vision. If I don’t submit this draft by eight in the morning, Lǎoshī is going to execute me in front of everyone. …But on the other hand… the lore.
He leaned in closer to the glowing screen, his chin resting in the palm of his hand as he scrolled through the massive detailed entry on the Heavenly Capital's administrative structures. His internal monologue, as usual, was running at a hundred miles an hour.
Honestly, the Heavenly Realm in this book is like what I've heard America is like; only with floating palaces, golden pillars, and fancy robes, he mused, his mind naturally translating the grand xianxia world into modern college student terms. Ling Wen is literally an under-paid, severely sleep-deprived HR manager carrying the entire heavenly management on her exhausted back. She’s probably surviving on divine spiritual tea the same way I’m surviving on cold coffee. Respect.
He scrolled down a bit farther, passing a digital illustration of the Imperial Court.
And Jun Wu? Absolute CEO vibe. He’s the shady corporate boss who acts like a divine sent mentor, gives everyone polite performance reviews, and secretly cooks up the worst, most toxic workplace environment in history. And poor Xie Lian is just in the middle of it all. Tragic. If I were there, I’d save him from all that trauma.
Yu Zhao snorted quietly to himself, a weary smile tugging at his lips as he reached out blindly across the wooden desk for his mug. His fingers brushed against cold ceramic. He picked it up, tilted his head back, and took a swing of the cold liquid. He immediately grimaced, his nose scrunching in disgust. “Rank,” he whispered aloud into the silent apartment, his voice raspy from hours of disuse. “Absolute rank. It tastes like sad, bitter water. Why do I do this to myself..?”
He set the mug down on a worn coaster, his gaze drifting away from the apartment laptop screen toward the small glass window of his rented studio apartment.
Outside, the city was dead quiet. Save for the subtle tap-tap-tap of rain hitting the glass. It was late, and completely black outside. The distant hum of highway traffic had faded into nothingness hours ago, leaving only the soft glow of a streetlamp casting long shadows across his floorboards.
Inside, a cozy and quiet sphere hung in the warm air of the room. It was the kind of late-night solitude Yu Zhao loved–the undisturbed sweet spot between midnight and dawn where the rest of the world stopped demanding things from him. No email notifications, no group project texts, no loud roommates. Just him, his thoughts, his favorite webnovels, and obscure mythology rabbit holes.
He stretched his arms above his head, interlocking his fingers and arching his back until his spine popped like fireworks.
“Ah, heavenly,” he muttered, letting his arms drop back into his lap.
Alright. Ten more minutes of wiki browsing, then I actually type the conclusion paragraph.
He clicked open another tab, pulling up a discussion forum thread analyzing the martial gods’ messy political rivalries. He read through the fan theories with a fond smile on his lips, shaking his head at the screen.
People in this comment section really think Feng Xin and Mu Qing need a diplomatic mediator to resolve 800 years of tension, he thought, a chuckle bubbling in his chest. Bro, they don’t need diplomacy. They obviously need a ten-hour nap, a decent meal, and an anger management class. It’s not that deep. They’re just two crazy roomies who never learned how to communicate.
Fast forward five hours, and Yu Zhao was regretting every decision that led him to this moment.
He had somehow, by the absolute grace of some sleep-deprived deity that was watching over college students, finished the paper, submitted it at 7:59 AM, and stumbled into his 8:30 AM QM exam looking like a zombie that had been dragged through a bush backward.
Now, at three in the afternoon, the exam was finally over. His brain was completely fried. His knees felt like jelly, his head was throbbing behind his eyes, and his stomach was grumbling in hunger.
To make matters worse, the gentle, cozy rain from last night had become an icy downpour.
Fantastic. Absolutely amazing. Yu Zhao grumbled, pulling his wet hoodie strings tighter around his head as he trudged down the slick sidewalk. His sneakers were soaked through, speaking with every miserable step. I love nature. Nature is great.
He reached the crosswalk near his apartment complex. The signal turned white, indicating it was safe to cross. All Yu Zhao could think about was crawling into his bed, pulling three blankets over his head, and sleeping for 24-hours uninterrupted.
No alarm tomorrow, he promised himself, stepping off the curb onto the wet asphalt. I’m going to sleep until my soul leaves my body.
He was halfway across the street when a deafening roar shattered the sound of the falling rain.
BZZZZZZT! HONK! HONK!
Yu Zhao blinked, his exhaustion-slowed brain taking an agonizing two seconds to process the sound. He turned his head to the left.
Blinding yellow headlights sliced through the rain. A massive, blue delivery truck was barreling down the road at an obviously illegal speed, tires skidding uselessly on the slicked up asphalt as the driver slammed on the brakes.
Oh, Yu Zhao thought, his eyes widening behind his rain-speckled glasses. I need to move.
There was no time to jump. There was no time to run. In his final, split-second realization of modern existence, Yu Zhao didn’t even have time to feel terrified. He just felt an overwhelming, deeply personal sense of annoyance.
Bro, are you serious?! I JUST finished my exam!
BOOM.
A flash of blinding white light consumed his vision. The roar of the engine, the splash of rain, and the painful crunch of metal vanished instantly, swallowed up by a vast, infinite silence.