Takeshi Yamada died like an idiot.
Not in a blaze of glory. Not defending humanity from demons. He died because a calico cat decided to sprint across a busy Tokyo intersection at exactly 8:47 AM on a Tuesday, and because Takeshi's brain had precisely zero self-preservation instincts when it came to small, helpless creatures.
The truck driver never stood a chance of stopping. Neither did Takeshi.
The impact felt like getting hit by a building traveling at sixty kilometers per hour, which was accurate because that's exactly what happened. Pain exploded across his entire body in a single white-hot burst, and then—nothing. Darkness swallowed him whole, and Takeshi Yamada, twenty-six-year-old office worker with mediocre prospects and a studio apartment he could barely afford, ceased to exist.
Which made waking up extremely confusing.
The first thing he registered was softness. Silk sheets, sliding cool against skin that felt wrong in his groggy brain. Sunlight filtered through something heavy—curtains maybe—casting the room in a warm golden glow .
Takeshi cracked his eyes open and immediately regretted consciousness.
Velvet curtains, embroidered with gold thread so intricate it probably cost more than his entire year's rent, framed windows that showed a view that definitely wasn't Tokyo. Rolling hills stretched under a perpetual twilight haze, dotted with pagoda-style buildings that clung to sheer cliffs in defiance of physics. Terraced fields glowed faintly with some kind of bioluminescence, and in the distance, a massive spire pierced clouds that shimmered with colourful light
His brain processed this information with the emotional depth of a spreadsheet. Reincarnation. Classic isekai scenario. A fantasy world. Check. Overpowered protagonist setup. Pending confirmation.
He sat up, and the movement came too easy. No stiffness. No ache in his lower back from the terrible office chair he'd been meaning to replace for three years. His body responded with grace he'd never possessed in his entire life, muscles moving smooth under skin that registered as younger, healthier, completely foreign.
A mirror hung on the opposite wall, an ornate frame carved with flowing designs that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. The face staring back wasn't his. A sharp jawline, dark brown hair that fell messy but somehow artfully so, gray eyes shadowed with exhaustion but lacking the dead look he'd cultivated over years of soul-crushing meetings. Early twenties maybe, handsome in a way that would've made his former self deeply jealous.
Ryker Ashford, the name surfaced from somewhere deep in his consciousness, layered over his own identity like a half-remembered dream. Memories that weren't his flickered through his mind—a stern father with a salt-and-pepper beard, training in a courtyard surrounded by floating mana crystals, the bitter taste of failure when his cultivation refused to advance past the first bottleneck.
Crippled meridians. Trash-tier potential.
Takeshi—Ryker—whoever he was now—took a slow breath, counting to four on the inhale and six on the exhale, trying to center himself. This was fine. Completely manageable. Standard isekai protagonist setup: weak body, strong soul, unlimited potential if he trained hard enough. No system interface had materialized yet, but maybe it triggered on specific conditions. He just needed to assess the situation, find a cultivation manual, and start the grind.
The door opened without a knock, and a woman stepped inside carrying a silver tray laden with steaming bowls. She was probably in her mid-twenties, super attractive, wearing simple white robes which were tight at just the right places.
"Young Master Ryker," she said, a voice soft with genuine relief coloring the formal address. "You're finally awake. The fever broke last night, and Master Ashford was so worried." She set the tray down on the bedside table, porcelain clinking gentle. "I brought medicine and soup. You need to eat."
Ryker nodded, reaching for the water pitcher because his throat felt like sandpaper. His fingers brushed hers when she helped steady the cup, a innocent contact that shouldn't have meant anything.
And then a voice slithered through his skull like oil on silk.
"Mmm. Now that's what I call a proper morning view. Observe the curves poorly hidden beneath those modest robes—wasted potential, absolutely criminal. And the way her hips sway when she walks? Textbook yin essence. Ripe for harvest."
Ryker choked on water. Coughing wracked his chest as liquid went down the wrong pipe, and the attendant reached forward with concern written across her face, but he waved her off with one hand while his brain screamed in confusion.
'Am iHallucinating?'
"Oh, you can't ignore me, vessel. We're bonded at the soul level—literally inseparable. Might as well get comfortable with your new best friend." The voice carried an ancient quality beneath the lecherous tone, like a certain old turtle from a movie he had pirated about a panda leaning kung fu. "And seriously, compliment her neck. See how the tendons catch the light? Poetry. Tell her she embodies the moon's grace, watch those meridians shiver—"
"Get out," Ryker croaked, not sure if he was talking to the attendant or the voice. Both, maybe.
The woman blinked, hurt flashing across her features before composure smoothed them blank. "Of course, Young Master. Call if you need anything." She bowed and retreated, the door clicking shut behind her with finality.
The voice in his head sighed like a disappointed teacher. "Wasted opportunity. We could've been circulating her qi by lunch."
"Who the hell are you?" Ryker hissed at the empty room, scanning for intruders, artifacts, possession symptoms. The runes carved into the stone walls pulsed their normal faint blue. Windows remained sealed.
Amusement rippled through the mental link, vibration like laughter echoing in a hollow space. "Proper introductions, then. Look inward, fledgling. Your dantian houses more than stagnant qi."
Instinct guided him despite better judgment. His consciousness dove inward, following the pathways he barely understood, a ball was located below the navel, a reservoir meant to hold his qi. It was Ryker's core, resembling a stagnant pond choked with weeds, exactly as his inherited memories suggested.
Except now something else lived there. Coiled around his spiritual center like a parasite.
When he focused on it, the thing moved.
Pressure built in his throat, cough reflex triggering violently. He doubled over, hacking like his lungs wanted to escape through his mouth, and something solid shot out onto the silk sheets.
'ugh!'
A beetle landed with a metallic clink. It was about the size of a fist, its shell gleaming iridescent gold veined with jade patterns that shifted as it moved. Six legs clicked against the fabric as it righted itself, antennae twitching with what could only be described as smug satisfaction. Compound eyes—dozens of faceted surfaces catching light—fixed on him with unmistakable intelligence.
And then it bowed, its front legs crossing over its thorax like a gentleman adjusting his coat.
"Zyx'althar the Infinite," the voice announced with theatrical grandeur, now clearly emanating from the insect. "Keeper of Celestial Harmonies, Companion to Forty-Seven Legendary Heroes Across Six Eras, Bearer of the Cosmic Seed, and—most relevant to your immediate concerns—your cultivation guide. At your service."
The beetle's mandibles moved in a way that suggested a grin. Its shell flashed from gold to magenta, and Ryker felt his sanity beginning its slow exodus.
"You're..." He swallowed. "You're a bug."
"Divine beast class artifact creature, technically. But yes, insectoid morphology. Problem?" Zyx scuttled closer, its antennae waggling. "Don't tell me you're a speciesist. That's disappointing from a transmigrator."
"You know I'm—"
"Reincarnated? Obviously. This Soul signature's all wrong for the body. You wear this meat suit like borrowed clothes." The beetle did a little spin, floating an inch above the sheets. "Takeshi Yamada, age twenty-six, died saving a cat from vehicular trauma. Admirable if stupid. The cosmos recognized your sacrifice and granted you reincarnation as compensation. Plus me, of course. I'm the real prize."
Ryker's hands gripped the sheets hard enough that knuckles went white. "Are you the system? Do I get a status screen? Skills? Quest notifications?"
Zyx made a sound like choking on laughter. "System? haha!! Those Fisher-Price cultivation toys for children? Please. I offer something far more valuable—wisdom accumulated over ten thousand eight hundred forty-seven years of existence!"
"Then teach me," Ryker said immediately, latching onto the familiar narrative structure. Mentor figure acquired"This body's cultivation is crippled."
The beetle landed on his shoulder making him shiver, though its weight was barely registered. One leg tapped his temple insistently. "Eager! I like that. But the Path of Unity doesn't work like orthodox methods. You can't brute force your way through stagnation born from fundamental misunderstanding."
"What misunderstanding?"
"That cultivation requires rigid categories—masculine yang dominating feminine yin, fire crushing water, strength over subtlety. Your previous life spent twenty-six years suppressing your true nature to fit corporate molds. This life's meridians reflect that rigidity." Zyx's antennae crossed in what read as judgment. "To advance, you must embrace complexity. Transcend dualities. Experience connection beyond comfortable boundaries."
That... actually made sense. Ryker's analytical mind caught the logic beneath the flowery language. Plus he had read over 500 cultivation novels. "So meditation and breathing exercises won't work?"
"Oh, they'll work eventually. In about fifteen years, maybe you'll break through to Qi Condensation Second Rank. Meanwhile, everyone else advances and you die ignored." The beetle's shell pulsed warning orange. "My method? Six months to Foundation Establishment. One year to Core Formation. Three years to challenge sects that have stood for centuries."
"What's the method?"
Zyx's mandibles parted in a definite grin. "Tomorrow morning, we visit the merchant quarter. There's a young man selling medicinal herbs—he has slender build, ethereal features, eyes like captured twilight. He is full of yin energy. You're going to compliment his spiritual aura. Make it sincere. Watch what happens to your meridians."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by Ryker's increasingly horrified breathing.
"You want me to... flirt. With a man."
"I want you to forge an emotional connection that transcends your limited categories of attraction. Transcend these foolish views of flesh and bone."
"I'm straight."
"I didn't inquire about your spine's curvature." Zyx tapped his cheek with one leg. "Refuse if you want. Wallow in stagnation. Or trust the being who's trained legends you read about in history books."
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Father. Baron Elias Ashford, whose expectations weighed heavier than any physical burden.
Zyx shrank to thumbnail size, disappearing into his collar. "Choose fast. Dignity or power. Can't have both."
The door opened and a man with broad shoulders, a stern face, and deep crimson eyes entered "Ryker. You're recovered?"
"Yes, Father." The words came automatically from his borrowed memories.
"Good. The Royal Academy trials begin in two weeks. Meditate. Circulate qi. Prove you're not a complete waste of the family name." He gripped Ryker's shoulder once, with firm pressure, then left without waiting for a response.
The door was closed. Silence returned.
Zyx rematerialized full-size on the pillow, preening his shell. "So. Merchant quarter tomorrow? Or we can watch you fail that test and become a footnote in this body's tragic biography. Your choice."
Ryker dropped his head into his hands and wondered which cosmic deity he'd offended to deserve this.