The light in the office was always too white. Not the warm yellow of homes and cafés, nor the sleepy orange that meant the sun had begun its descent. It was that sterile, soulless kind of white that buzzed in your eyelids when you blinked too long. It flickered overhead as Park Ji-hoon, thirty-two, poured lukewarm instant coffee into a paper cup and accidentally burned his tongue anyway.
He winced, glanced around, then sat at his desk again.
.
Cube 14-B. Middle row. Third partition from the left. That was him.
His job title? "Corporate Data Consultant II." What did he actually do?
He stared at spreadsheets. Cleaned up other people's mistakes. Reworded other people's half-done reports. Spent eight hours a day condensing lies into nicer-sounding lies.
His eyes flicked to the clock in the corner of his monitor: 9:57 PM.
Most of the office had gone home by 7. Except for the other late rats—people who didn't have lovers waiting, who wouldn't be missed if they collapsed right there on the keyboard. People like Ji-hoon. And as always, when the clock neared 10 PM and the whole building sighed into silence, his fingers drifted… not to the work tabs, but the one labeled "Wuxia Archives."
It was a small forum. A niche one. Tucked into the back corners of the internet. But to Ji-hoon, it was everything.
Threads titled:
"50-Year Ginseng, Real or Cult Fiction?"
"Mapping the Historical Accuracy of Beggar Sect Doctrines"
"Who Would Win: The Heavenly Demon vs Ten Immortal Blossoms?"
He wasn't just a fan. He was obsessed.
His screen glowed with avatars of anonymous strangers, discussing chi cultivation systems from fictional dynasties, debating whether dual-core paths were viable, and roleplaying as inner disciples of fictional sects with ridiculous names like "Scarlet River Blade Lotus." And Ji-hoon? He knew all of it. Every tier. Every sect. Every alternate interpretation.
He wasn't just reading. He was studying.
And in the real world?
He was invisible.
---
It hadn't always been this way.
Back in high school, Ji-hoon had dreamed of drawing manhwa. He'd spent hours sketching scenes from his favorite wuxia tales, building elaborate worlds full of warriors and secret tomes. He submitted to contests. Got third once. But then his father lost his job. His mother started working night shifts. Reality knocked, and dreams folded.
Art became hobby. Hobby became distraction. Distraction became shame.
He didn't have time to chase fantasy. He had to survive. Be practical. Reliable. A model son in a crumbling house.
So he went to university. Got a safe degree. Took the first job offer. Never complained.
The years blurred into each other. His twenties vanished like smoke.
He dated once. Twice. It never stuck. One girl told him, "You're so quiet it's like you're not even here."
Maybe he wasn't. Not really.
---
On the night it all ended, Ji-hoon's apartment was the same as always: tight, grey, silent. A row of instant noodles. A pile of books that had never been opened. A bed that looked more like a futon used for naps between life shifts. His window showed only the side of another apartment—grey, damp, blinking with identical misery.
He opened a can of beer. He didn't even like the taste anymore.
Just wanted something to taste.
---
Around 12:41 AM, he stumbled onto a thread he hadn't seen before:
" What if you woke up as a cultivator?"
"No, seriously. Not reincarnated into some powerful prodigy. You wake up as an average no-name disciple. Outer sect. Bottom tier. What would you actually do?"
And he laughed. Not the full-belly kind. Just a quiet nose-huff.
Then he started typing.
For once, he didn't hold back. He went deep. Detailed. He wrote about starting as a menial disciple in a no-name sect. About gathering herbs to build trust. About pretending to be mediocre while secretly mastering obscure pill-refining techniques. About forging bonds, earning discipleship not by talent, but loyalty. About surviving.
He spent two hours on that post. It got eight upvotes.
Then he stood. Walked to the balcony. The city looked like a cage of lights. Beautiful, but hollow.
He didn't plan to jump. He wasn't suicidal. But something in his chest ached. A dull, low pain. Like something important had been left behind in another life he never got to live.
He whispered, not to anyone in particular:
"If I had one more shot... I'd get it right."
Then the world shuddered.
A wind—not cold, but ancient—rushed past his ears. The sky split open—not with lightning, but with silence.
Ji-hoon blinked once, and the city disappeared.
---
He awoke to pain.
Not the pain of depression. Or disappointment.
But real pain. Dirt in his teeth. His back raw. Something sharp digging into his ribs.
His vision was blurry. A forest. Misty. Cold. And in front of him—a thin man in tattered robes, waving a rusty broom and yelling:
"Hey! New disciple! You think you can sleep on the sect grounds without scrubbing those latrines first?!"
Ji-hoon sat up. His head throbbed.
A name floated in his mind "The Howling Tiger Sect."
And beneath that… something else.
> Stage 1: Bone Warming – Initiated.
His heart pounded.
Not in panic.
But in recognition.
He knew where he was.
He knew exactly where he was.
And for the first time in years…
Ji-hoon smiled.