Where am I...?
That thought echoed in my mind—a quiet ripple of confusion born from waking into unfamiliarity.
I was lying on a foreign bed, its polished wooden frame bare of any fabric.
The room around me was modest—four wooden walls enclosing a simple closet, a cracked mirror, and this lonely bed. All of it was bathed in a thin veil of azure light spilling through the glass window above me.
I rose slowly and walked to the mirror, my reflection sharpening with each hesitant step.
I gazed at myself—or rather, at my new self.
Barely five feet tall.
Hair, deep black, jutting upward in gravity-defying spikes.
Eyes—unfamiliar. Expression—alien.
As for my clothes, they were nothing more than a deep-green martial arts uniform. The upper middle was deliberately open, showing my chest in all its... many glories. The short sleeves framed my toned biceps with an almost comedic seriousness.
This isn't me... obviously...
Is this... did I... transmigrate?!
Or maybe... this is just a lucid dream... Who knows—maybe I finally went mad overnight... hehe...
Before I could spiral deeper into theories, an excruciating headache slammed me to the floor—sharp, chaotic, and utterly indescribable (for the lazy author's convenience).
Foreign memories flooded in—children sparring in courtyards, laughter echoing off wooden walls, a life that wasn't mine looping through my mind like a broken film reel.
Ugh...! The classic start to every transmigration webnovel...!
My memories... and "his"... they're merging...!
Before I could finish that thought, the world went black.
---
"Shen Mi! Are you alive in there?!"
A voice—a familiar, annoyingly mature one—dragged me back to consciousness.
I blinked awake on the wooden floor, the sound vibrating through the door.
"C-Coming!" I croaked instinctively.
Scrambling up, I twisted the doorknob open.
Standing there was a man taller than me, wearing a blue-green martial arts uniform. His neck-length black hair was tied into a low, spiky ponytail.
Master Uno...! The name resurfaced instantly.
Master Uno—the current head of this dojo.
"Good morning... senior," I said.
The "senior" slipped out instinctively, a reflex born from too many nights reading xianxia novels. Martial arts uniforms, respectful greetings... it was all too on the nose.
"Senior? Since when did you get so formal?" Master Uno raised a brow, confusion mixing with amusement—mostly amusement.
"Well, you are the master, aren't you? So respect ought to be expressed," I said—my stomach churning from cringe—and immediately regretted it.
"Hmph! You're acting strange... but I suppose you're right. I am the master! And I do deserve respect!"
His pride was almost tangible.
From Shen Mi's memories, I recalled—Master Uno was barely past twenty, yet his maturity was about as developed as a teenager discovering their body during puberty. After becoming head of the dojo, his pride had skyrocketed beyond mortal comprehension.
This body's original owner and I share the same name... strange...
"Anyway, you overslept. Everyone's already through with their morning routines—get going!"
"Yes, Senior! Master! Whatever!" I replied, muttering the last word under my breath.
I darted out of the room, into a wide wooden corridor. Two little kids passed by—wearing the same uniform, just smaller.
Rika and Fang-Fang. Two stubborn, yet adorable devils.
"Heh heh! Good morning, brother!"
"Good morning, heh heh, brother!"
What are these two up to now...
From my counterpart's memories, I knew these little monsters were the dojo's self-proclaimed "Gods of Pranks." Every day, they found new and creative ways to torment their peers—all for their sadistic amusement.
And, naturally, I—or my counterpart—was their favorite target.
"Good morning," I replied flatly.
Simple and efficient. That's how I've always thought of my personality—say what's needed, move on.
After about twenty long seconds of walking, I arrived at the empty courtyard. The morning air was thick with a pungent odour—tiny droplets still glistened on the floorboards.
Sweat... must've been the morning drills.
Before I could start stretching—or overthinking the whole transmigration situation—a teasing female voice cut through the quiet.
"Well, well, well... since when were you a you a 'nighthawk?' Get it?"