Beneath the Borrowed Skies

The pain isn't just sharp; it's definitive. A sudden, absolute finality blossoming in my chest, like a structure reaching its breaking point and collapsing inwards. Then, a sound washes over me, not through my ears, but resonating within the silence left behind – ancient chanting, rhythmic and low, pulling at something fundamental. Consciousness frays. Through a tear in the world, moonlight spills like quicksilver, pooling, erasing the known edges of reality. I feel myself drifting, unanchored, a thought detached from its thinker.

Is this death? Or merely the shedding of a skin?

Awareness returns not as a snap, but as a slow dawn over an impossible landscape. I am... suspended. Floating in an infinite void above a roiling ocean of clouds that stretches beyond comprehension. Below, mountain ranges pierce the mist like colossal stone teeth, their peaks catching starlight on bluestone paths so distant they seem mythical. Paths worn smooth by footsteps I could never imagine. And from somewhere deep within that vastness, the tolling of a giant bronze bell reverberates upwards, a sound that feels less heard and more like a vibration in the fabric of existence itself, measuring time not in seconds, but in the rise and fall of empires.

What a vantage point. Is this what souls see? A final overview before... what? Judgment? Dissolution? Or is this just the last, grand hallucination?

Great Yan Dynasty, Lingzhou Prefecture, Yanhe City. The information surfaces without bidding, like labels appearing on a map I've never seen. Neat, precise designations for an overwhelming reality.

Then, a voice cuts through the cosmic grandeur, shockingly mundane, achingly familiar in a way that disturbs me deeply: "Yi'Er, it's late. Let Xiao Qiu get you washed up."

The sheer domesticity of it, the name, acts like an invisible hand yanking me downwards. The clouds rush up, swallowing me in white, and then—

My eyes fly open. The infinite sky is gone, replaced by the intricate cage of carved wood and cool jade. I'm standing, my limbs heavy, unsteady, in what memory insists is the east wing of the Chen Mansion. A polished bronze mirror reflects a face. Young – fifteen, perhaps? Sharp features, but with an unnatural stillness, a frostiness in the eyes that feels deeply wrong. It's the face of Chen Yi, Third Young Master.

It is absolutely, terrifyingly, not my face.

Soft footsteps approach outside. My gaze sweeps the room, the old analytical habits clicking into place. The canopy bed, heavy with silk and elaborate carving – built to impress, built to last. The bathtub, a single piece of pale xiùyù jade, cool and massive – extravagance bordering on the absurd. Sandalwood furniture, permeating the air with a thick, cloying scent that feels centuries old. A bronze incense burner, its smoke a thin, wavering line against the weight of the room. Everything speaks of wealth, history, and a world operating on principles utterly alien to the one I knew.

I was... am...? I was [REDACTED], thirty-three years old. A civil engineer from Switzerland. My world was concrete, steel, stress calculations, the predictable physics of load-bearing structures. This... this is something else entirely.

"Yi'Er? Are you daydreaming again? Have you bathed?" The voice is closer now, gentle but firm.

My hand reaches, an unfamiliar puppet responding to ingrained commands, toward a light blue zhiduō robe on the bed. The moment my fingers brush the silk, it happens. Not memories recalled, but memories lived. A flood. Watching koi carp swim like living flames beneath snow-heavy branches, the sharp intake of freezing air. The cool vibration of qin strings under moonlight, a melody weaving sorrow and peace. Laughter – bright, shared, then abruptly cut off. The heavy weight of a father's disappointment, unspoken but crushing. Whispered words in the dark with a servant girl, her proximity a forbidden warmth...

No. These aren't mine. The thought is a desperate shield against the onslaught. My memories are of mountains different from these, of languages not spoken here, of a life built on logic and tangible reality. Yet, these feelings, these sensory details, they have the weight of truth. They are colonizing my consciousness.

Who am I, if my own past feels like a fading dream and someone else's life is screaming in my head? Is identity just the sum of experiences? And what happens when those experiences are forcibly implanted? A wave of dizziness washes over me, a profound disorientation that has nothing to do with the physical. I feel... immense things stirring inside, grief, anger, confusion, tenderness – a chaotic storm of emotions that feel too vast for this young body, emotions I don't recognize as my own, yet feel with gut-wrenching intensity. I suppress them, locking them down beneath a layer of bewildered calm.

The door opens before I can process further.

Xiao Mei. The name comes with a pang, an echo of affection that isn't mine but resonates sickeningly. She stands there, framed by the doorway, exactly as the memories paint her. Pale pink ruqun, butterflies seeming to hover on the fabric. Skin like moonlight on porcelain. Dark hair intricately styled. Her eyes, large and holding a surprising depth, show open concern as they take in my dishevelled state. There's a hesitant beauty about her, a vulnerability mixed with something unconsciously alluring.

"Young Master...?" she asks softly, her brow furrowed. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"Xiao Mei," the name feels thick, foreign on my tongue. The coldness in my own voice surprises me; it lacks the warmth the memories associate with her. "I am... adequate."

"Old Madam sent me," she explains, lowering her gaze slightly, perhaps unsettled by my tone. "She said... to help you prepare. For the wedding ceremony." A blush touches her cheeks. She seems uncertain how to proceed, sensing the shift.

I manage a stiff nod, the gesture feeling unnatural. Turning away, I start removing the sleeping robes. This body... it's lean, healthy, aesthetically well-formed. The product of privilege, perhaps some light martial training the memories hint at. But it feels utterly alien, a borrowed vessel. I catch Xiao Mei's fleeting glance in the mirror, quickly averted. The memories supply the context – a history of shared glances, shy touches, lines blurred. Her breath hitches almost silently. She's reacting to the ghost of Chen Yi.

Steam rises, fragrant with herbs, as she fills the jade tub. Sinking into the heat is another wave of dissociation. The warmth is real, the water is real, the scent of sandalwood is real. But it's all happening to this body, not to me.

Reincarnation? Transmigration? These were just concepts, stories. Now...? Is this real? Or some incredibly detailed coma dream? How can I test it? How can I know? The questions spiral, offering no anchor. My mind craves data, verifiable points, but finds only subjective chaos.

"Young Master," Xiao Mei's voice pulls me back again. She kneels beside the tub, arranging oils and cloths. Her voice is tentative. "Today... Second Miss's wedding... It is a grand occasion, isn't it?" There's a slight tremor in her voice, a questioning note beneath the surface statement.

I open my eyes. Her question feels like more than small talk. The memories paint the wedding as a strategic alliance with the powerful Zhang family, connected to a General. Necessary, perhaps, but maybe not universally celebrated within the Chen household. And her feelings for Chen Yi, the memories scream, were complex, perhaps possessive.

"Strategically advantageous," I reply, my voice flat, analytical. "It strengthens the family's position. Such matches are rarely built on sentiment alone." It's a cold assessment, honest to my own way of thinking, but likely jarring compared to the original Chen Yi.

Xiao Mei nods slowly, her expression unreadable. Then, her blush deepens significantly. She picks up a soft sponge. "Young Master... would you... perhaps require assistance?" She glances towards my back, her voice dropping. "Sometimes... you prefer..."

The implication is heavy, thick with the steam and unspoken history. The memories confirm this intimacy, a transgression disguised as duty. It stirs a flicker of something – disgust? Or just profound awkwardness? A line crossed by the boy whose life I've stolen, a line I have no intention of approaching.

"No, Xiao Mei," I say, my voice firm, cutting off the offer. "That won't be necessary." I meet her gaze directly. She flinches slightly. Her beauty is objective, yes, but it sparks nothing in me except a detached observation and a growing sense of unease about the complexities I've inherited.

Her hand trembles as she puts the sponge down. Confusion and hurt war in her eyes. The playful, demanding boy is gone, replaced by... this. But the truth is too outlandish. She likely assumes I'm nervous, or angry, or simply changed.

I don't try to fake it. The effort would be immense, and for what? Who would ever guess the reality? My own bewildered silence is shield enough. The absurdity is its own defense. Proving I'm not Chen Yi when I possess his every memory? Impossible.

But what does that make me? A parasite? A successor? Or just... lost? The raw emotions churning inside – this vast, directionless feeling – where do they come from? Are they residue? Or mine, amplified by this shock?

The bath ends in a tense quiet. Xiao Mei helps me dress in the light blue zhiduō, her movements careful, almost fearful now.

"You... you look very well, Young Master," she murmurs, keeping her eyes down. "The guests will be... impressed." The words lack conviction.

Just then, the door opens again. Old Madam Chen enters. Age hasn't softened her bearing; her spine is straight, her eyes sharp. Silver streaks her elaborate hairstyle, held by softly chiming jade pins. She carries a small, embroidered golden pouch.

Mother. The memory supplies the label and a complex cocktail of associated feelings – respect, exasperation, underlying affection – none of which I feel originating from myself. It's like watching a film about someone else's mother.

"Ah, Yi'Er. Good, you're ready. Xiao Mei has done well." Her smile seems genuine as she surveys me, then she pats Xiao Mei's head with familiar warmth. "Good girl."

I incline my head slightly. It feels like interacting through layers of glass.

"Here," she holds out the golden pouch. "For Xue'Er. Three Spirit Stones. Don't lose them, and present them properly." Her eyes twinkle then, shifting between me and Xiao Mei. "Now, tell me honestly, Yi'Er, have you been finding new ways to tease poor Xiao Mei this morning?" Her tone is mock-stern, full of underlying affection for them both.

Xiao Mei turns scarlet. "Old Madam! No! Young Master... he has been... contemplative..." she stammers, trying to cover for my strangeness.

I watch them, a peculiar impulse rising. My old self valued honesty, sometimes brutally so. What if I just... answered directly? Not the whole truth, that felt too dangerous, like pulling the pin on a grenade. But... something closer? A test of this reality.

"Mother," I say, the word still awkward, "to be entirely truthful..." I pause, feeling the potential ripple outwards. The chaos feels... tempting, in a detached sort of way. "...I did attempt a small jest at Xiao Mei's expense."

"Oh?" Old Madam raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Knowing you, it was likely nonsensical. What was it this time?"

Xiao Mei looks horrified. He wouldn't mention... the time with the paint... or the frogs...?

"I merely suggested," I state, keeping my face perfectly serious, letting the absurdity do the work, "that if she could recite the Ballad of the Fallen Leaf backwards while standing on one leg, she might temporarily gain the ability to understand the complaints of the stone guardian beasts from the garden."

Silence. Xiao Mei stares, baffled but visibly relieved.

Old Madam blinks, then lets out a genuine laugh. "Stone guardian beasts! Yi'Er, where do you come up with these things? There are no guardian beasts in the garden! Though perhaps we should check under the peonies later, just in case!" She shakes her head, amused.

After a few more light remarks, she becomes serious again. "Now, truly, Yi'Er. Go. Your sister is waiting. The Zhang family is important." She leaves, the air settling after her departure.

Alone again. My gaze drops to the pouch. Spirit Stones. The memories provide context instantly. Not just currency, but crystallized energy, the fuel for cultivators – the true elites of this world, wielding powers beyond the ken of martial artists with their Body Tempering and Internal Forces, and far beyond ordinary folk. These stones represent power, potential, aspiration.

I loosen the drawstring. Three cool, translucent crystals pulse with a faint, internal light. They feel... dense with contained energy. As my finger brushes against one, a distinct jolt, not static, but something deeper, more essential, travels up my arm.

And the world glitches.

Shimmering, translucent text appears before my eyes. Blue-white, sharp-edged, utterly out of place. Visible only to me.

[Energy Signature Detected: Spirit Stone (Ambient Qi Condensate) x3]

[Reality Simulation Framework Available.]

[Initiate Predictive Simulation? Cost: 1 Spirit Stone Unit.]

[Confirm: Y/N]

The interface hangs there, an artifact from a future I thought I'd left, or perhaps never existed, now superimposed on this ancient reality. I glance sharply towards the door. Xiao Mei has slipped back in to collect the discarded robes. She catches my intense stare, looks puzzled, tilts her head. She sees nothing.

A simulation system? Here? Powered by... this world's fundamental energy source? My mind begins racing, not with equations, but with possibilities. Modeling outcomes? Testing scenarios? Seeing consequences before they happen? The potential is staggering, terrifying.

"Xiao Mei," I say, my voice tight, but controlled. The storm of internal feelings surges again – fear, excitement, dread. "I need... a moment. To compose myself before the ceremony. Please ensure I am not disturbed."

"Of course, Young Master," she says, looking concerned but obedient. She bows and withdraws, closing the door softly.

Silence. I move to the bed, the pouch heavy in my hand. It feels like holding fate itself. My heart – whose heart? – is hammering. Fear, yes, but also a desperate, burning curiosity. With a trembling finger, I reach out and touch the glowing 'Y'.

The world doesn't stop. It ceases.

Motion halts. Dust hangs suspended. Sound vanishes into absolute vacuum. Color drains, leaving a universe of intricate grey scales. Time itself feels fractured, irrelevant.

Only the interface remains, burning brightly against the frozen monochrome backdrop.

[CONFIRMATION RECEIVED. INITIALIZING SIMULATION CYCLE.]

[ALLOCATING RESOURCES... CONSUMING 1 SPIRIT STONE UNIT.]

I watch, utterly captivated, as one crystal in the pouch simply dissolves. Not burning, not fading, but unraveling into pure light that flows into the interface and vanishes. The physical subtraction is chillingly real.

[SIMULATION SCENARIO: 'The Crimson Banquet Manifest']

[Generating Probabilistic Outcome Stream... Accessing Local Causality Data...]

[ENGAGING NARRATIVE IMMERSION...]

Colour floods back, sound crashes in, but it's subtly wrong. Too sharp, too clear, like watching an ultra-high-definition recording directly against your eyes.

[You are amidst the noise and colour of the wedding feast. Red silk banners whisper auspicious lies in the breeze. The air is thick with forced laughter, the clinking of cups, the weight of unspoken tensions beneath the veneer of celebration. Chen Xue, your sister, sits beside the groom, Young Master Zhang – a beautiful puppet, her smile painted on. Gifts pile high, symbols of wealth and alliance.]

[Yet you stand apart, an island of cold observation. The vanished Spirit Stone weighs on your mind. Was that the real event? The initiation? Or is this simulation merely simulating the memory of being started? Where does reality begin and the reflection end? The uncertainty is a physical ache in your gut.]

[Time flows unevenly. Rituals proceed. Toasts echo. Then, a subtle shift, a tightening. Li Junfeng, head of the rival Li family, rises, his smile a blade's edge. But the collective gasp isn't for him. It comes from behind you.]

[You turn. Old Madam Chen stands frozen, her expression caught between maternal pride and sudden, shattering disbelief. A dark flower blooms on her chest, spreading rapidly across the fine fabric – blood. The hilt of a dagger protrudes obscenely from her back. Her eyes meet yours, wide with confusion, betrayal, and the awful finality of understanding, before the light in them is extinguished. She crumples, less a fall, more a… ceasing.]

[Chaos detonates. Li Junfeng roars, sword drawn. Simultaneously, the world inverts: General Zhang's soldiers, meant to be honoured guests, turn their weapons on the Chen family. A betrayal so swift, so complete, it beggars belief. The celebration becomes a slaughterhouse. Screams tear through the air. The scent of spilled wine is lost in the rising tide of blood.]

[Chen loyalists fight back with the fury of the doomed. Servants scatter, cut down indiscriminately. You see Xiao Mei, her face a mask of raw terror, tears streaming. Rough hands seize her – Zhang soldiers, their faces hard, pitiless. They rip at her pink dress. Her scream is high, thin, inhuman – the sound of something precious being irrevocably broken. A surge of something hot and fierce – protective rage? Chen Yi's lingering instinct? – rises in you, instantly drowned by cold, pragmatic fear.]

[Survive. The imperative screams louder than the chaos. You pivot to flee. Agony explodes in your left shoulder, blinding, absolute. You look down, numb, watching your own arm arc through the air, landing with a sickening thud. A Li family martial artist grins, bloodlust twisting his features, his sword dripping.]

[The shock is a buffer, but the visual, the fact of the dismemberment, is undeniable. Is this pain real? The question hammers uselessly. If the context is false, does the suffering still count? Your father's voice bellows your name, cutting down a foe. "Yi'Er! Go! Live!"]

[You run. Clutching the mangled stump, stumbling through carnage. The world is a red-smeared nightmare. Through the ruined pavilion, into the gardens, towards the dark promise of the forest. Each step is agony. Pursuit echoes behind. A dark opening in the rock face – a cave. Refuge? Or just a final, lonely place?]

[You plunge into the cool, damp darkness. Deeper. The sounds of the hunt fade. Your right hand traces the cold, weeping stone. The earlier philosophical questions return, now laced with the coppery taste of your own blood. What is the value of knowledge gained through such horror? Does simulated trauma leave real scars?]

[Your legs give out. You slide down the cave wall. Your fingers brush against something hard and brittle. Bones. A complete skeleton rests here, undisturbed for who knows how long. Another soul who sought refuge and found only an end? The black irony of it claws at your throat. Will I become the next layer of dust?]

[Time blurs into a throbbing continuum of pain and encroaching cold. The bleeding slows, but life drains away like water through cupped hands. Consciousness flickers. Let me wake up. Please, let this not be the end. The thought repeats, less a hope, more a desperate denial against the overwhelming sensory evidence. The pain feels real. The cold feels real. The darkness feels absolute.]

[The chill seeps into your core. Thoughts fragment. Images flash – snow falling on a Swiss lake, Chen Yi's shy smile, Xiao Mei's terrified face, your mother's dying eyes. If I cease to exist in this shadow… does any part of me endure? What remains when the dream ends?]

[Darkness swallows the last light. Breath becomes a shallow rattle. The final coherent thought is not fear, but a profound, weary query into the nature of this borrowed existence: Am I just a witness, doomed to experience tragedies I cannot prevent, paying for foresight with fragments of simulated death?]

[SIMULATION CYCLE #1: TERMINATED]

[Subjective Duration: 8 hours, 43 minutes, 21 seconds]

[Termination Cause: Systemic collapse initiated by exsanguination following traumatic limb loss.]

[Processing Experiential Data... Identifying Key Nodes and Deviations...]

[Reward Selection Interface Active. Assimilate one aspect:]

[1: Physiological Baseline (Retain current Mortal state. No physical augmentation from simulated experience.)]

[2: Experiential Imprint (Integrate comprehensive memory trace of Simulation #1]

[3: Causal Fragment (Manifest one tangible item encountered or proximate within the simulated timeline.)]

The grey stillness snaps back into place, absolute silence rushing into the void left by the simulation's end.

And the knowledge... it's a lead weight in my gut. The wedding, looming just hours away, isn't a celebration. It's an execution. A meticulously planned betrayal. My 'mother', Xiao Mei, countless others... condemned. And this body I inhabit is marked for mutilation and death.

But I saw it. The thought is cold, sharp, cutting through the fog of residual terror. I saw one possible future. One path.

The interface glows patiently, waiting. Waiting for me to choose what piece of that nightmare I carry back into the present. Waiting for me to decide how to use this terrible foresight.

Run!