The First-Rate Young Master
Wei Liang woke up with someone else's headache, someone else's enemies, and approximately three weeks before someone else's story killed him.
He knew this world.
Not from living in it — from reading about it. A webnovel. Cultivation empire, chosen protagonist, noble houses playing political chess with people's lives. He'd read the whole thing. He knew how it ended. He knew every major plot beat, every villain's death flag, every moment the story needed a sacrifice to make the hero look good.
He knew, specifically, that the body he now inhabited was scheduled to pick a fight with the protagonist at a banquet, lose catastrophically, and get carried off the floor crippled while the real main character walked away with his first major reputation win.
Wei Liang — arrogant, cruel, the household embarrassment — existed in the original story for exactly one scene.
The new Wei Liang had no intention of performing it.
But surviving a story is harder than it sounds.
The novel didn't care about Wei Liang's inner life. It didn't explain why his cultivation was mysteriously weak for a noble heir with full access to resources. It didn't mention the carefully hidden saboteur working inside his own household. It didn't cover the intelligence network that would take two years to build, the political war quietly happening behind every court gathering, or the moment the emperor started paying attention to a young master everyone else had written off.
The original Wei Liang was a footnote. A cautionary example.
The new one is taking notes.
He doesn't fight the protagonist.
He studies him.
While Shen Yue rises — sect doors opening, battles won, the world bending in his direction the way worlds bend for chosen ones — Wei Liang watches from the edges and begins, very quietly, to remove every threat before it can reach him. Not for Shen Yue's sake. For his own. A dead protagonist means an unstable story, and an unstable story is dangerous to everyone inside it.
He builds an intelligence network from overlooked servants and underpaid merchants. He engineers political outcomes through channels so indirect no one can trace them back. He takes public humiliations in exchange for private victories. He becomes, without intending to, the most useful person in every room he enters — and the least noticed.
Then the protagonist starts wondering who has been cleaning the road ahead of him.
Then the emperor's eyes start moving in the wrong direction.
Then Wei Liang's own uncle makes a move, and he realizes the most dangerous enemy he has isn't in the story at all.
This is not a story about a villain who reforms.
It's not a story about a transmigrator who out-trains the protagonist and steals his thunder.
It's the story of a man who woke up inside someone else's narrative, realized he was supposed to be furniture, and decided — carefully, methodically, and with considerably more patience than anyone around him — to become the author instead.
He had the map. He just had to redraw it before the story noticed.
