Deep within the secluded Fang Clan village—nestled in a mist-veiled valley and cradled by the towering embrace of ancient pines—the dim glow of lanterns cast flickering shadows across lacquered wooden walls.
Inside one silent chamber, a boy who appeared to be in his early twenties stood before an ancient silver mirror, admiring his reflection. The mirror's intricate frame bore the unmistakable elegance of classical Chinese craftsmanship.
His sharp green eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he ran a hand through his long, jet-black hair, which flowed down to his lower back. His face—flawless, ethereal, almost divine—might've been mistaken for that of a celestial being.
But the truth was far more unsettling.
It was a mask—crafted from his own skin, cultivated through an obscure Fang Clan technique to maintain his youthful appearance. A refined deception in flesh.
He grinned to himself.
"That dream pattern shit actually worked! It wasn't just some random internet pasta after all~"
The boy—no, the soul within—was named Oliver. He did not belong to this world.
Excitement flickered in his gaze as he finished absorbing the twenty years of memories that belonged to Fang Lee, the prodigious future heir of the Fang Clan. A genius among cultivators and the possessor of a Heavenly Physique: the Hundred Ends and Rebirth Body.
This divine constitution granted Fang Lee an unmatched growth rate in both physical prowess and qi cultivation. But that wasn't all—it also granted him a terrifying edge: the ability to reverse injuries and even resurrect himself up to three days after death.
A smirk curled across his lips.
"First Cousin Mei~ The Fang Clan's heavenly treasures, self-human face mask refinement, bone-punching techniques, the Ten Sacred Swords, and the Immortal Sovereigns…"
"I really am living a wuxia wet dream, aren't I?"
His voice carried a giddy mix of disbelief and elation. He turned slightly, admiring the sharp lines of his new face—handsome, powerful, and carrying a depth no one could suspect.
A young cultivator destined for greatness.
And power, of course, was only half the fun.
Who should I bang first~?
The thought came instantly as he turned away from the mirror, already contemplating how best to indulge in this vivid, life-like dream. After all, he had been on a dry streak for two whole years. Even if this world wasn't real, he was more than willing to enjoy everything it had to offer.
Knock, knock.
"Hm?"
Fang Lee halted mid-step, his sharp ears picking up the soft yet oddly familiar knock at his door.
"Young master, it's time for your medicine bath—"
The voice belonged to a woman dressed in a flowing blue hanfu, its fabric hugging her curves in just the right places. However, she barely had time to finish her sentence before—
Swish.
The door slid open, revealing Fang Lee's piercing green eyes and an expression of quiet intrigue.
For the briefest moment, the world shifted.
His vision blurred—and then—
He saw himself, waist-deep in a wide medicine cauldron, its basin formed from roiling clouds of green, red, and blue smoke. Steam rose in twisting patterns, carrying the faint scent of ginseng and lotus. Ethereal runes pulsed across the mist like living tattoos. Above him, a single glowing thought etched itself into the sky of this illusion:
{Task: Take Your Medicine Bath}
Then it vanished—gone like a dream upon waking.
Fang Lee blinked, grounding himself back in reality. He barely spared the lingering vision a second thought. Instead, a slow grin tugged at his lips as he recalled what his friends had once told him about the Dream Pattern—a strange mix of symbols and colors circulating among the otaku community. The rumor claimed that by focusing on the pattern before sleeping, one could trigger lucid dreams on an entirely different level.
Which led to Oliver's current predicament—a closet otaku with far too much free time, especially after losing access to the internet and any semblance of a social life for the past two years. All because his stepfather had uncovered his collection of deepfakes—crafted with unsettling precision—of his own stepsister. The revelation had been nothing short of catastrophic, resulting in his immediate expulsion from the family home.
If not for his mother's relentless pleading, he wouldn't even have a roof over his head, let alone the luxury of dreaming. In the end, she had managed to change her husband's mind—but not without conditions. Oliver was allowed back, but under strict restrictions. No internet, and no electronics.
Trapped in a dull, tech-starved existence, he had been left with nothing but his own imagination—until he stumbled upon the Dream Pattern.
Oh yeah… Ren and Akari did mention that the pattern would subconsciously generate tasks to make the dream more immersive… but right now, I don't need any extra excitement to liven things up~
A wicked grin spread across his lips as he stepped toward the woman before him, already plotting how best to experience this dream to the fullest.
Time to make the most of it~
Fang Lee's lips curled into a knowing smirk as he stepped toward the young maid before him, his sharp green eyes locking onto her timid gaze.
"Meng~ Just in time. I was in need of your assistance," he murmured, his voice smooth and teasing as his hands found her shoulders.
The girl stiffened beneath his touch, her dark lashes fluttering as uncertainty flickered across her expression.
He chuckled.
"Don't be like that, Meng~ I know you'll enjoy this."
His fingers traced a slow path down her arms, barely grazing her skin as he reached for her hands. Before she could react, he gently pulled her into his chamber, sliding the door shut behind them with a soft click.
Meng swallowed hard, her breath shallow as she tried to process what was happening.
"Young master..." she started, hesitating as she met his piercing gaze.
The air between them grew thick with unspoken tension.
Fang Lee didn't respond right away. Instead, he let his aura unfurl—subtle but potent, a mere whisper of his Qi Condensation Realm cultivation. It wasn't meant to intimidate her, but she felt it nonetheless, a warmth that curled around her like an invisible embrace.
She trembled—not out of fear, but something else entirely.
"Meng," he said, tilting her chin up with a single finger. "Do you really want to stop me?"
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her fingers curled slightly against his robe, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
Fang Lee exhaled, softer this time, his thumb brushing across her cheek.
"I would never hurt you~ you know that, right?"
Meng's heartbeat drummed in her ears. The rational part of her told her this was improper, that she should protest—but another part of her, the part that had always felt drawn to the young master, made her hesitate.
The moment stretched between them.
Slowly, almost tentatively, his fingers moved to the sash at her waist. He paused, watching her carefully for any sign of refusal.
Meng swallowed again, her cheeks flushed. And then, with a breathless whisper, she shifted—just enough to let him continue.
A victorious glint flashed in his eyes.
"Good girl," he murmured, leaning in as her restraint melted away.