Darkness.

  And then, not darkness, but a smothering softness.

  My first returning sensation wasn't sight or sound, but touch. An overwhelming, alien comfort that felt utterly wrong. The hard, unforgiving kiss of dusty stage floorboards against my cheek – the last thing I remembered before the lights went out for good – was replaced by something impossibly smooth, cool, and yielding.

  Silk.

  It whispered against my skin, a sibilant secret I couldn't comprehend. Beneath me, not the solid, unyielding wood of the stage, but a mattress so deep and soft it felt like sinking into a cloud. A comforting weight pressed down on me, a blanket woven from something equally fine, trapping warmth against my body.

  My eyelids fluttered, gritty and reluctant, like old velvet curtains refusing to rise. Light, pale and filtered, seeped into my awareness. Not the harsh, interrogating glare of stage lights, but a gentle, diffused glow painting hazy patterns on what seemed to be… a canopy? Intricate, dark wood arched above me, carved with shapes my sluggish mind couldn’t immediately parse – leaves, vines, perhaps… mythical creatures?

  Where…?

  The thought echoed in the cavernous space of my skull, which felt simultaneously too large and too small. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed behind my left eye, a phantom echo of that final, incandescent agony on stage.

  But it wasn't alone.

  A deeper ache resonated in my chest, a cold, invasive lethargy that seemed to have seeped into my very bones. My limbs felt like leaden weights, disconnected appendages I wasn’t sure I could command.

  Hospital? Did I… survive? Did the play end? Did they call an ambulance? The questions stumbled through my mind, clumsy and confused, bumping into the lingering memory of absolute finality, of the pinpoint of light winking out.

  I .

  I felt it.

  The ultimate exit, stage left.

  So, then, what was… ? I tried to swallow, my throat clicking dryly. The air tasted… clean.

  Too clean.

  It was not the familiar backstage cocktail of stale sweat, sawdust, cheap hairspray, and desperation. Instead, a faint, almost imperceptible scent drifted on the air – something subtly floral, mixed with a sharper, slightly bitter aroma. Herbs? Incense? It smelled… expensive. Polished wood, clean linen, a hint of something metallic like a recently snuffed candle wick. Nothing like the comforting grime of the theatre. Nothing like the sterile chemical tang of a hospital.

  My breathing was shallow, ragged. Each inhale felt like effort, each exhale a surrender. Listening intently, straining against the cotton wool stuffing my ears, I heard… almost nothing. There was no distant traffic hum; there were no hospital beeps, nor any backstage whispers. Just the impossibly soft rustle of silk as I shifted infinitesimally, the faint crackle of something burning low – that incense? – and the too-loud rasp of my own breath. The silence was profound, unnerving.

  With monumental effort, fighting against the leaden weight of my arm and the dizzying throb in my head, I managed to lift a hand into my field of vision.

  It wasn’t my hand.

  My hand – Leo Maxwell’s hand – was calloused from years of hauling props and set pieces between acting gigs. It had ink stains on the index finger from marking scripts, a small, faded scar on the knuckle from a youthful misadventure with a bicycle chain. This hand… this hand was pale, slender, the nails immaculately clean and perfectly shaped. The skin was smooth, almost translucent, bearing no marks of physical labor or artistic struggle. It looked… pampered. Weak.

  A jolt, colder and sharper than the ache in my bones, shot through me. Disbelief warred with the undeniable evidence floating before my eyes. This wasn't a hospital recovery. This wasn't a dream. This was… something else.

  Something impossible.

  My eyes darted around, taking in more detail as the initial blurriness receded. The room was large, far larger than any bedroom I’d ever inhabited. The dark wood furniture – the bed frame, a nearby table, a tall wardrobe against one wall – was intricately carved, gleaming with a low polish. A copper basin sat on a stand near the bed, reflecting the filtered sunlight. Silk hangings adorned the walls, depicting serene landscapes that seemed alien yet vaguely familiar. Even the air felt different – still, quiet, carrying an indefinable sense of age and wealth.

  This wasn't my world. This wasn't my body.

  Panic, cold and slick, began to rise in my throat, threatening to choke me.

  "Where am I?" I tried to croak, but the sound that emerged was a weak, unfamiliar rasp. "Who…?"

  It was then, in that moment of peak existential terror, that the world shimmered.

  Not physically. The room remained solid, the light consistent. But the perception of my mind, overlaying my Vision like a head-up display from some ludicrously high-budget science fiction film I could never have afforded a ticket for, text began to form. It wasn't printed on a screen; it seemed to hang in the air itself, composed of faint, silvery light that pulsed with a soft, internal rhythm.

  [Borrowed Face System Activated]

  My breath caught.

  What the hell…?

  [Host Soul: Leo Maxwell (Confirmed)]

  Leo Maxwell. That was me. Or… it used to be me, anyway.

  Wait… confirmed? Confirmed by ?

  [Current Vessel: Jiang Li (Integration: 88%)]

  Jiang Li. A name. Foreign, yet… resonant? Like a half-remembered line from a play studied long ago. Integration 88%? What did that even ? Was I… incomplete? Was that why I felt so weak, so disconnected?

  [Core Function: Manifestation Through Qualified Belief]

  Manifestation? Belief? My actor’s brain snagged on those words.

  Performance.

  Conviction.

  Making people believe.

  But… manifestation? Making things ? This sounded like bad fiction, the kind of plot device I’d openly scoff at in a script reading.

  [Status: Vessel Weakened (Silent Meridian Frost Detected).]

  [Cultivation: Qi Gathering, Stage 2 (Degraded).]

  [Reputation: Abysmal.]

  Silent Meridian Frost? The name sent an involuntary shiver down my spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the room temperature and everything to do with the sudden, icy

  I could faintly perceive tracing lines within my own body, like frozen rivers beneath the skin.

  Poison.

  And… Cultivation? Qi Gathering Stage 2?

  ?

  What did any of that mean? It sounded like jargon from one of those fantasy web novels Sarah sometimes read between scenes. Reputation: Abysmal. Well, part I could almost believe, given the state I felt in.

  [Active Persona: None. Belief Meter: 0.]

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  The text hung there for a moment longer, shimmering faintly, before dissolving back into nothingness, leaving only the ornate room and my frantic, bewildered thoughts.

  A system? A ? Like… in a game?

  A hallucination. It had to be! Brain damage from whatever did me in on stage. Lack of oxygen. Some sort of psychosis manifesting as… as video-game mechanics? I squeezed my eyes shut, then snapped them open.

  The room remained. The unfamiliar, weak body remained. The lingering chill of the ‘Silent Meridian Frost’ remained.

  And then, as if the System’s activation had flipped a final switch, the floodgates broke.

  It wasn’t like remembering.

  It was like drowning.

  A tidal wave of memories, emotions, sensations – not mine, but , Jiang Li’s – crashed into my consciousness. Images flickered behind my eyes with dizzying speed:

  Opulent, cavernous halls filled with stern-faced elders in rich robes, their gazes filled with disappointment.

  The sneering, triumphant face of a younger boy – a brother? – standing taller, radiating a confidence Jiang Li clearly lacked.

  Lavish banquets with exotic foods tasted but not appreciated.

  Hazy, drunken nights spent in brightly lit pavilions filled with cloying perfume and forced laughter. Gold coins tossed away like pebbles.

  The sting of hushed whispers – "trash," "waste," "disgrace to the family."

  Long, frustrating hours spent sitting cross-legged, trying to feel the elusive ‘Qi,’ only to be met with emptiness and mockery.

  The memory of being told about an arranged marriage, the cold indifference in his father’s eyes.

  The face of a young woman, beautiful but etched with undisguised contempt – the fiancée?

  And then, the final moments… a bitter taste in a cup of wine? A spreading numbness setting in…

  The memories were fragmented, chaotic, infused with Jiang Li’s own potent blend of resentment, self-pity, shame, and a deep, gnawing inadequacy.

  The sheer volume of it all was overwhelming, a lifetime of someone else’s failures and petty indulgences crammed into my skull in an instant. My head throbbed violently, nausea churning in my stomach. It felt like method acting gone horribly wrong, becoming so immersed in a character that you forgot yourself, only this character was , and his life was now .

  God, Sarah would have loved this. My stage partner, bless her geeky heart, had tried for months to get me into those translated Chinese web novels she devoured between rehearsals – Xianxia, she called it. Worlds overflowing with cultivators harnessing mystical energy called Qi, ruling over talentless mortals, progressing through ridiculously named stages like Qi Gathering, Foundation Establishment, Golden Core… all striving for immortality or ultimate power, defying heavens, slapping faces. It was a chaotic landscape of sects and clans locked in eternal rivalries, arrogant young masters acting like spoiled brats with godly power, ancient masters hiding in caves and dispensing wisdom or trouble, miracle pills solving impossible problems, spirit stones used as cosmic currency, and everyone pathologically obsessed with saving or losing 'face'. I'd always dismissed it as over-the-top power fantasy, escapist nonsense filled with repetitive plots and characters thinner than stage flats.

  But now? Sitting here, suddenly in the body of a “Qi Gathering Stage Two” cultivator, possessing a System, poisoned with something called 'Silent Meridian Frost'… the 'nonsense' suddenly felt terrifyingly, absurdly real. Maybe Sarah's novels weren't just stories, but horrifyingly accurate for this bizarre new reality I found myself in?

  Amidst the cacophony of memory and reflection, a profound, earth-shattering realization struck me. The memories, the emotions, the System’s text – it was all processed and understood in a language I had never learned. Fluent, native-level Chinese, or something very much like it. Concepts like ‘Qi Gathering,’ ‘Spirit Stones,’ ‘Meridians’ – words that should have been meaningless glyphs – resonated with an innate understanding derived from Jiang Li’s memories. My own thoughts, my internal monologue, were starting to shift, translating themselves seamlessly.

  I could still think

  Leo, recall my English lines from Hamlet or Streetcar, but the… operating system of this mind, the default language, had been overwritten.

  The world tilted again, not from pain this time, but from sheer cognitive dissonance. I wasn't just in a new body, in a new place. I was in a new , a new reality with rules I didn't understand, speaking and thinking in a language that wasn't mine.

  Slowly, carefully, I pushed myself up against the plush pillows, the silk sheets rustling around me. My muscles screamed in protest, weak and trembling. The effort left me breathless, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool air. But I needed to see. I needed to ground myself in this impossible new reality.

  My gaze swept the room again, this time armed with Jiang Li’s memories and the System’s cryptic pronouncements. The luxury wasn't just apparent; it was… specific.

  The dark wood was Red Sandalwood, ridiculously expensive, favored by wealthy merchants and minor nobility.

  The silk hangings weren't just decorative; they depicted the ‘Misty Peaks of the Azure Cloud Sect,’ a place Jiang Li had only heard of in reverent tones.

  The faint scent wasn't just herbs; it was specifically ‘Three Suns Grass,’ a common but necessary ingredient for low-level Qi stabilization poultices – suggesting someone knew I was unwell, or at least, that such things were readily available here.

  On the bedside table, next to a delicate porcelain teacup, sat a small, intricately carved jade pendant shaped like a coiled serpent. Jiang Li’s memories supplied the context: a protective charm given by his mother, worth a small fortune, yet utterly ineffective against whatever happened to him.

  I picked it up.

  The stone felt cool and smooth against my unfamiliar fingertips. It probably cost relatively more than I, as Leo Maxwell, had earned in the last six years combined.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet sinking into a thick, plush rug woven with intricate patterns. Standing was a challenge; my knees felt weak, my head swam. I caught my reflection in the polished surface of the copper basin on its stand.

  The face staring back was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, with features that could have been handsome if not for the pallor, the slight puffiness around the eyes, and the petulant, dissatisfied set of the mouth that seemed etched there by habit – Jiang Li’s habit. Pale skin, dark hair tied back loosely, eyes that held a flicker of my own panicked intelligence within their unfamiliar depths. The figure was dressed in fine silk sleeping robes, embroidered with subtle patterns.

  This… this was me now.

  Jiang Li.

  Second son of the wealthy Jiang merchant family, exiled to this backwater city, known failure, poisoned, engaged to an unhappy stranger, a cultivator — though possessing the cultivation talent of a slightly damp rock (Qi Gathering Stage 2, degraded!), and… owner of a bizarre reality-bending System.

  "The guy lived like ," I whispered, the voice still feeling foreign in my throat, "and was considered a ?"

  The sheer wastefulness of the original Jiang Li, illuminated by the stark contrast with Leo’s decades of scrimping and saving, filled me with a mixture of disgust and dark amusement. He had access to resources, comfort, a safety net I couldn't have

  of, and he squandered it all on fleeting pleasures and petty grievances?

  And yet… the fear was real.

  The weakness was real.

  The poison, this Silent Meridian Frost, felt real, a subtle, chilling counterpoint to the room's warmth.

  And the abysmal reputation? That could be just as deadly as any poison in a world that, according to Jiang Li's fragmented memories, seemed obsessed with face, status, and power.

  I took a few shaky steps, exploring the confines of my gilded cage. A wardrobe filled with more silk robes, finer than anything Leo had ever owned, even for a costume. A writing desk with brushes, inkstone, and high-quality paper – apparently, the original Jiang Li occasionally made attempts at scholarly pursuits, likely to appease his family, with little success. A window overlooking a quiet courtyard garden, meticulously maintained.

  Privacy. Space. Comfort. All the things Leo had craved, now handed to me on a poisoned platter.

  Deep breaths. I needed to think. Analyze. Like breaking down a script, finding the character's motivation, the scene's objective. My actor's training kicked in – break down the situation. I needed clarity, something concrete amidst this surreal nightmare. Spotting the writing desk across the room – the one laden with brushes and ink, I rummaged through its drawers, my unfamiliar and numb hands clumsy for a moment. Relief washed over me as I found fine paper. Picking up an elegant brush, I sat down at the desk, the silk robe rustling around me. On a clean sheet of paper, using the blocky English letters of my past life, I began to write, listing the facts as I understood them. The letters flowed smoothly, far more quickly than I ever managed to write in my previous life.

  Problems:

  Immediate Danger The "Silent Meridian Frost."

  Physical State: Abysmal cultivation (Qi Gathering Stage 2, and degraded).

  Reputation & Status: Rock bottom . Known as trash by cultivators and my family. Exiled.

  Resources: Exiled.

  Social Complications:

  I paused, contemplatively, then continued to the elephant in the room.

  Assets:

  The System:

  My Skills:

  My Knowledge:

  Jiang Family Name:

  Jiang Li's Memories:

  I stopped writing, staring at the stark English words on the fine paper. It felt grounding, like sketching out the plot points of a particularly challenging play. The weight of the situation felt immense, terrifying. Poison, enemies, a hostile world, a broken body, a stolen life. And yet… beneath the fear, a familiar spark ignited. The actor’s thrill. The buzz before the curtain rises on opening night. This wasn't just a role. This was the ultimate improvisation, with the highest stakes imaginable. Survival itself depended on my performance.

  My gaze drifted back towards the empty air where the System interface had appeared. Manifestation through belief. Qualified belief.

  It was insane.

  It was impossible.

  It was… my only real chance.

  …

  "Okay," I murmured, the unfamiliar voice gaining a sliver of Leo's old determination. "Okay, actor. Let's break this down."

  My eyes narrowed, focusing on the list.

  "First step: what the hell

  this 'Silent Meridian Frost'? If someone poisoned me, and it seems damn likely someone did, I can't trust anyone easily. Survival means playing the part... staying in character until I know the entire script."

  I glanced at my reflection in the polished basin again. Jiang Li's face stared back, pale and uncertain.

  "Time to become Jiang Li," I told the reflection, a grim smile touching lips that weren't mine. "At least until I figure out who wanted him dead and why."

  The thrill intensified, chasing away some of the cold fear. This acting gig just got real.

  The stage was set. The audience -- this new and dangerous world -- was waiting.

  And I, Leo Maxwell, now Jiang Li, had to give the performance of a lifetime.

  Or die trying.

  Again.