For Li Wei, life was a precisely calibrated dance of alarms, deadlines, and digital notifications. His mornings began not with the rising sun, but with the insistent chirp of his smartphone at 6:30 AM, a sound that cut through the last vestiges of a dream he could never quite recall. He'd swat at the snooze button once, sometimes twice, before forcing himself out of bed. The first order of business was always coffee – strong, black, and brewed automatically, a small victory against the lingering fog of sleep.
While the coffee machine hummed, Li Wei would navigate his compact apartment, a space meticulously designed for efficiency rather than warmth. He'd select his clothes for the day – usually a practical button-down shirt and trousers, chosen for comfort during his long hours at the office. Breakfast was a quick affair: toast with avocado or a bowl of cereal, consumed while he scrolled through news headlines on his tablet, a ritual that simultaneously informed and overwhelmed him. The world, it seemed, was perpetually teetering on the brink of something, yet his own small corner remained stubbornly mundane.
His commute was an exercise in patience. Packed into a train carriage, he was one among hundreds of faces, each lost in their own devices or thoughts. He'd stare out the window, watching the urban sprawl transform from residential blocks to towering glass and steel. He worked as a data analyst for a mid-sized tech company, a job that paid the bills and offered a decent life, but rarely ignited any passion. His days were filled with spreadsheets, algorithms, and the ceaseless hum of computers. Meetings stretched on, punctuated by jargon and corporate buzzwords. He was good at his job, precise and analytical, but a part of him often wondered if this was all there was.
Evenings offered a fleeting sense of freedom. Sometimes, it was dinner with friends at a trendy new restaurant, discussing work, current events, or the latest online trends. Other nights, it was solo time: an hour at the gym to de-stress, followed by a meal he'd either cook himself or order in. He might lose himself in a video game, binge a popular streaming series, or read a science fiction novel, escaping into worlds far more exciting than his own. Weekends were a mix of chores, perhaps a visit to his parents, or a short trip out of the city if the weather permitted and he felt adventurous.
Li Wei had a decent life. He wasn't rich, but he was comfortable. He had friends, a stable job, and the conveniences of modern society at his fingertips. Yet, beneath the veneer of this predictable existence, there was a quiet, unarticulated longing. A sense that life was meant to be more than just data points and deadlines. He often felt like a cog in a vast machine, moving through motions dictated by external forces. He wasn't unhappy, not exactly, but he wasn't truly fulfilled either. His normal life, while perfectly adequate, lacked a certain spark, an unknown element that he couldn't quite name. It was a life lived largely in the present, with little thought for what lay beyond the familiar horizon, or what ancient, unseen energies might truly govern the world.
It was a Tuesday, just like any other. Li Wei was hunched over his keyboard, battling a particularly stubborn spreadsheet formula. The office was buzzing with the usual low hum of air conditioning and hushed phone calls. He was halfway through his sad desk lunch – a pre-made sandwich – when the first tremor hit. Not an earthquake kind of tremor, more like a deep, resonant hum that vibrated in your teeth. Everyone paused, glancing around, a collective "What was that?" hanging in the air.
Then, the humming grew. It wasn't just a sound; it was a feeling, like the very air was stretching thin, about to snap. People started getting up, peeking out the windows. Li Wei joined them, pushing through the small crowd. What he saw made his jaw drop.
The sky, usually a dull, urban grey, was now… shimmering. Like a giant, invisible heat haze, but it was getting bigger, swirling and twisting. Then, it happened. A crack, impossibly vast, tore across the firmament. It wasn't thunder; it was the sound of reality tearing. The crack widened, glowing with an otherworldly light – a mix of deep purple, electric blue, and fiery orange that pulsed with terrifying energy.
Panic erupted. Sirens wailed, but they were quickly drowned out by a cacophony of screams and the sickening crunch of collapsing buildings. The light from the sky phenomenon intensified, blinding and scorching. Li Wei felt a searing heat wash over him, saw the fear etched on the faces of his colleagues, heard the last, desperate cries of a world suddenly turned upside down. He stumbled back, tripped over a fallen chair, and hit his head hard. Darkness enveloped him, not a gentle fade, but an abrupt, violent void.
The last thing he registered was an overwhelming sense of change, a feeling of his very essence being pulled apart and rewoven by an unseen, cosmic force. His normal life, the spreadsheets, the coffee, the quiet longing – all of it was extinguished in an instant. Li Wei was gone. But what remained, or what was about to begin, was something entirely new. The world, too, was forever transformed, now bathed in the lingering, terrifying glow of the sky's fracture, a sign that the age of cultivation had truly begun.
The first thing Li Wei registered was the dull ache at the back of his head. Then, the smell – not the familiar scent of his apartment, but a dusty, slightly metallic tang, mixed with something else, something... old. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt heavy, glued shut. Had he passed out? The last thing he remembered was the sky ripping open, that blinding, searing light.
"How did I die?", was the first coherent thought that trickled through the haze. He was sure he was dead. That light, the crushing sound, the pure, unadulterated wrongness of it all. This must be the afterlife. It was surprisingly quiet, though. And dusty.
He tried to push himself up, and that's when things got truly bizarre. His arm, when he finally coaxed it to move, felt… slender. Too light. And his hand, reaching up to touch his face, was small, delicate. Definitely not his hand. He panicked internally, trying to swat at whatever was on his face, only to find soft, smooth skin. No stubble. No rough texture.
His eyes finally fluttered open, blinking against the weak, diffused light filtering through a grimy, boarded-up window. He was in a small, cramped room. Not his apartment. This place looked abandoned, derelict – peeling wallpaper, a broken-down cot, shattered glass on the floor. It smelled of decay and neglect.
Then, he felt it. A pressure on his chest, a soft, unfamiliar weight. His breath hitched. With a dawning sense of horror, he slowly looked down.
He stared. And stared.
A small, thin chest. Two distinct, unmistakable mounds pushing against the faded fabric of what looked like an oversized, dirty shirt. Not flat. Not broad. This wasn't his chest.
A choked sound, half-gasp, half-whimper, escaped his lips. The sound itself was alien – high-pitched, reedy, utterly devoid of his familiar baritone. He brought his hands up, fingers trembling, and hesitantly touched his chest. The soft give of flesh, the defined shape, sent a shudder of revulsion through him. It was real. Too real.
His mind reeled, trying to reconcile the impossible. This wasn't just a different body; it was a female body. A young one, by the feel of it. He scrambled, heart hammering, trying to push himself into a sitting position, his limbs feeling awkward and uncoordinated. His new hair, long and tangled, fell forward, brushing against his cheek – another unfamiliar sensation.
He dragged himself over to a splintered piece of wood leaning against the wall, its surface slightly reflective. The face staring back was that of a girl, probably around fifteen. Wide, scared eyes, a small nose, delicate lips. It was a face he'd never seen before, yet it was undeniably him, or rather, her, now. The same fear that had consumed him in his last moments was reflected in those eyes, but now it was compounded by a profound, sickening confusion.
"Why this form?", he whispered, the strange, light voice cracking. A wave of intense discomfort washed over her. Not just shock, but a visceral feeling of wrongness. It was like wearing clothes that were three sizes too small, but the clothes were her own skin. Every touch, every movement, felt alien, a betrayal of everything he knew himself to be. She instinctively tried to cross her legs in a more masculine way, only to find the motion feel awkward, unnatural for this new frame.
The world had ended, he knew that. But it hadn't just destroyed the city; it had destroyed him. And in his place, this… this girl. The dust motes danced in the sliver of light, oblivious to the profound, silent scream building inside Li Wei, trapped in the body of Xiao Fang. He was dead. And yet, somehow, undeniably, he was here. And he was a girl.
Xiao Fang sat hunched against the grimy wall, knees drawn up, though it felt weirdly different to hold them like this. Her new, slender fingers traced the dust on her faded trousers. The physical shock of waking up in this body was slowly giving way to a more insidious, psychological torment.
Memories. They weren't just flashes; they were a constant, unwelcome stream, playing like a broken projector in her mind.
She could feel it, even now. The familiar weight of her old limbs, the solid thud of her size 10 feet hitting the pavement on a morning run. She remembered the subtle rasp of a day's growth of stubble against her pillow in the mornings, the way her old t-shirts hung just so on her broader shoulders. Her hands, oh god, her real hands. The calluses on her palms from years of gripping a mouse, the slightly crooked finger from that old basketball injury, the familiar texture of her own skin – rougher, thicker, unmistakably masculine.
It wasn't just a memory; it was a ghost limb, a phantom sensation that made every movement of this new, delicate body feel fundamentally wrong. It was like trying to walk on stilts when you were used to solid ground, or trying to write with your non-dominant hand. A constant, low-level thrum of profound discomfort.
Then came the really bad memories. The ones from that day.