the blood dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere, the ceremony of innocence is drowned

by notesfromtheunderworld

Summary:

Shen Yuan of Proud Immortal Demon Way was supposed to be a child bride. That was the plan, apparently.

Step one: get sold off.

Step two: die quietly.

Step three: ???

Instead, the house burned down, someone got murdered and Shen Yuan started remembering a past life as a chronically ill and chronically online man with commitment issues and a lot of complaints about webnovels.

Then the System kicked in.

Turns out, he's in a story. And said story keeps trying to shove him down a path paved with suffering and “character growth.” Shen Yuan would really rather not.

Also featuring:

- Shizun LBH

- Overprotective Dads SQQ and YQQ

- A war against the narrative engine of fate itself

- The Council of Transmigrators™ (featuring Kim Dokja, Cale Henituse, and other emotionally exhausted outliers)

Chapter 1: the falcon cannot hear the falconer

Notes:

Reader discretion is strongly advised. This chapter contains depictions of child sexual assault, child marriage, sexual exploitation and graphic violence.

 

(The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.)

 

The Second Coming arrives with a veil that is heavy and crimson.

 

At ten years old, Shen Yuan is wrapped in silk the colour of clotted blood, his wrists lost beneath long sleeves and his face eclipsed by a bridal veil that smells faintly of camphor and something rotting sweet—like dried dates in the sun.

 

The attendants chirp and flutter like birds performing a sacrifice, fluffing skirts and pinning hair as if none of this is a horror. And maybe it isn’t. Maybe this is just how pretty things die.

 

The veil itches and his scalp prickles. His mind is splitting at the seams, memory bleeding in, of a world of glass towers and blue light screens, of skyscrapers and engines.

 

Paint me in arterial hues, he thinks, unmoored, ten years old and drowning in silk too large for him. Red cheeks, red lips, lined eyes—the mirror catches him in a fractured flash, and he looks like her.

 

He doesn’t want to, but he does. Mother’s ghost in wedding paint, lacquered and hollow eyed. He looks like a child dressing in his mother’s skin.

 

At ten, he is a bride.

 

He is a bride.

 

The attendants leave and he runs because that’s what bodies do, instinct before comprehension, and the veil tears off, his fingers claw at the embroidery, and silk pools on the floor like fresh guts.

 

He sees himself for half a second in the mirror, a stranger draped in his skin. Red robes swarming around him, wide eyed like a lamb led to slaughter.

 

And then slams—

 

into nothing.

 

An invisible wall, his body shudders with hollow reverberation, like slamming bone to glass. His head rings, dizzy in that way that turns fear soft at the edges. The air in front of him ripples.

 

A screen appears, translucent grey framed in sharp neon lines of blue. Text on the glowing box:

 

❖ User Alert: Attempted deviation from assigned plot point. Plot Point [1.3.3.1 – Bridal Night] must be fulfilled to maintain narrative progression.

 

Shen Yuan stares. Hysterical laughter bubbles in his throat, but it doesn’t make it past his lips. Plot point? Narrative progression?

 

Shen Yuan stares until the letters fuzz, until the word plot feels foreign and obscene. His head buzzes. System, his mind whispers—half forgotten syllables from a different world, a different him.

 

Someone seizes his wrist, hands dragging him back, and he doesn’t fight, his head numb and dazed, silk dragging against the floor.

 

He’s ten and he’s a bride. He’s ten and his father sold him off like cattle because dice and drink are hungrier gods than love.

 

The wedding procession is nothing. He can’t remember if there was music, if he walked or was carried or simply arrived.

 

The veil never lifts and the smell of red candles makes him sick, sweet fat smoke like animal fat melting, and he wants to laugh. He wants to laugh because he can hear the faint clink of coins changing hands somewhere far off. He’s worth so little it doesn’t even sting.

 

He thinks, bitterly, I didn’t want to be like her but how fitting—her lookalike, following her footsteps straight into ruin.

 

When he’s placed on the marriage bed, the sheets are slick and cold. His fingers clench into fists. He tries to run when the man enters.

 

This time he fights, he kicks and screams, something feral claws its way up his throat but it doesn’t matter.

 

Hands bruise, skin on skin. Shen Yuan bites down on his own tongue and tastes blood.

 

❖ [Plot integrity must be maintained. Plot must continue.]

 

His mind curls inwards, like a dying insect twitching in the sun. His body aches, but it’s distant. When it ends, the blue screen hovers like God:

 

✦ Plot Point Completed: [1.3.3.2 – Flowering of the Delicate Young Spouse]

[+20 Points!]

 

Shen Yuan is still in his wedding robes. They hang half undone, streaked with sweat and something worse. His thighs ache. His body feels borrowed and he thinks he might vomit, but nothing comes.

 

He’s floating and drowning at once. Somewhere, a moth beats itself to death against a candle flame.

 

He reaches for the wine jar, fingers slick and trembling like a fevered prayer, and the room hums with the low lull of a man still talking.

 

Shen Yuan’s blood is rushing to his ears, a red tide crashing against bone, and his face is heat and fire, the world contracts to one point.

 

The wine jar slips from his grip only to be caught again, knuckles white, and then—

 

crash. A dull thud as the jar breaks like glass eucharist on the man’s skull. The first drop of blood is almost beautiful.

 

The man jerks, a noise caught halfway between a yell and a choke, and he grabs Shen Yuan, who has a shard of glass that sinks hazardously into the man’s throat.

 

Shen Yuan’s knee finds his groin with vicious precision, and then another stab, deeper this time. A red bloom unfurls across the sheets like spring. It’s all heat and rage and something sacred.

 

Blood geysers, hot enough to steam in the night air. His hands slip in it. When it is done, he doesn’t know it is done. Only that there’s silence, except for his own breath, high and too fast.

 

His robes are soaked, clinging like a second skin. He thinks, absurdly, of how silk darkens when wet, heavy as drowned fabric in a river.

 

There is blood on the bed, blood in his hair, blood on his face, in his mouth. He stumbles, barefoot and bare souled, hand braced against the doorway, slick with red, his robes dragging a trail of blood.

The room is spinning. His stomach revolts and he hurls. Bile and laughter spill together down his chin. He’s laughing. He’s crying. He’s—

 

Who is he?

 

He is Shen Yuan.

 

And he is also Shen Yuan.

 

A boy with an illness tucked in his bones from the day he was born. Parents too busy to love him properly but it was fine, for he had his brothers and sister. A life that ended at nineteen.

 

And also—

 

A boy of ten, sold. The only child of Zhao Wenrong and Shen Qingyi.

 

The blood is dripping.

 

Drip. Drip. Drip. It sings like a clock. He’s still holding the shard. Why won’t he let go? The system chimes like a bell in a dead church.

 

✦ Plot Point Completed: Deviation: Termination of Target NPC

[+20 Bonus Narrative Points Earned]

[Note: Irregular plot behaviour detected.]

 

His vision tunnels. He has a system. He has no idea where he is. The skin doesn’t feel like his, it is too tight and too loose like it might peel off if he screams hard enough. It’s hard to breathe.

 

He hears footsteps—someone is coming. He moves and wipes his face. Tears and blood streaks down like wings torn from something holy. Was he crying? Laughing? Choking?

 

He lights the candle and tips it onto the bed. The fire eats quickly, it is a hungry, greedy, divine thing. The sheets curl. The smoke rises. The man—his husband, his husband—burns.

 

And still, Shen Yuan watches. He peels off his outer robes and tosses them into the flame like offerings. Smoke claws at his throat and he coughs, stumbles to the window.

 

He leaves. He runs. Out the window, out the night, out of his name.

 

✦ [Milestone Achieved: First Catalyst.] 

 

(And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?)

 

Notes:

hiii so i started another wip haha. someone actually sedate me lmao. umm yeah i hope you liked it? also to clarify, in case it's a bit confusing, the SY in the cultivation world is the same SY from the modern world. like they're the same person but SY didn't gain his modern memories until then. enjoy?

 

story and chap title is from the Second Coming by W.B Yeats

Chapter 2: i wake to sleep and take my waking slow

Summary:

"—I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.

I learn by going where I have to go."

— The Waking by Theodore Roethke.

 

Shen Yuan stares blankly into the trees. His feet hurt. That’s the first thing he notices. The forest floor is uneven, and every step is a reminder that he's barefoot and bleeding and that this is unfortunately not a dream.

 

His inner robes are soaked with blood, mostly. Some of it is dry and flaking off in curls. Some of it is still warm, sticky against his collarbone, his throat, his scalp.

 

There’s vomit on his sleeves. It sits heavy on the red silk, bile curdled together with blood. Some of it has sunk into the embroidery, clumping in the stitches.

 

He had thrown up. Once he got far enough. Once he stopped running. His stomach still aches, cramped and twisting like a hand wringing it out.

 

The smell of smoke is still on his skin. He looks down at himself. There are bruises blooming like mould up his arms and ribs and thighs.

 

Right. So things are going great.

 

He clears his throat, or tries to. It scrapes raw.

 

“…System?” he calls out, hoarsely and hesitantly. Did he imagine it, or was it really real?

 

A faint blue screen flickers into existence mid air with a cheery ding! like he's just levelled up in a gacha game. He tenses, and it's the last thing he wants to see. He still remembers how it stopped him from escaping.

 

[Hello, User Shen Yuan! (＾◡＾)/]

 

He stares at the screen. He would rub his eyes, but his hands are covered in blood.

 

“What the fuck,” he says.

 

[User Shen Yuan has successfully transmigrated into:

 

Character Name: Shen Yuan

 

Role: Forsaken child bride / Lost nephew / Hidden narrative trigger.

 

Please enjoy your stay~ ￣︶￣)]

 

“Oh my god," Shen Yuan says. “I really did get hit with one of those tropes.”

 

His eye twitches when it dings! again.

 

[You are now a resident of Proud Immortal Demon Way!]

 

“What,” Shen Yuan says flatly. “What. What?”

 

[Proud Immortal Demon Way is a dramatic cultivation novel featuring—]

 

“No, no, no—I know what it is!” Shen Yuan shouts. “I’m in the batshit garbage fire with shitty papapa?!”

 

[Correct! (o^▽^o)/]

 

“I want a refund,” he says. His brain is trying to climb out of his skull and leave without him.

 

[Refunds are not available. However, this matter may be submitted to upper management as a formal complaint. Would User like to proceed?]

 

Shen Yuan rubs the bridge of his nose, “No. And what character am I even? What is ‘lost nephew’? I don’t even remember a Shen Yuan in the book!”

 

Shen Yuan pauses after he says that, actually, that's good. He’s an insignificant NPC. He stifles a hysterical laugh that threatens to crawl out of his lips. He won’t be near the shitshow of a plot; he can stay far, far away.

 

[That’s because you are a previously unlisted background element!

 

You existed only in implied backstory and footnotes. (⌒▽⌒)☆

 

Congratulations on being selected for expansion!]

 

“I'm in hell," Shen Yuan whispers, a tad hysterical, his hands curl into his hair, the blood is flaky and dry, and it falls like dead fly wings when he grips the strands.

 

[Negative! You are in the Outer Forest, on the border of Huan Hua Palace territory.]

 

“I should’ve just died. I was dead. I was fine with that.”

 

[Error: fatal condition interrupted by transmigration protocol.

 

Please note: death no longer an available option. (≧◡≦)]

 

“…Did you just smile at me while telling me I can’t die?”

 

[(≧◡≦)]

 

Shen Yuan, “…”

 

[As your system guide, I will assist you in navigating key plot events and optimising narrative integrity for Proud Immortal Demon Way.

 

Please note: deviation from major plot anchors will result in penalties.

 

Side quests are optional, but incentivised. ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ ]

 

Shen Yuan stares off into space for a bit, his mind dazed. He—he does not know how to feel about whatever has happened in the past hours.

 

[User's enthusiasm is at 3%… Perhaps a motivational cutscene is required?]

 

“No,” he mutters. “Whatever. You got a map?”

 

[Affirmative! Uploading navigational interface ⊂((・▽・))⊃]

 

A glowing panel expands on the screen with a softly pinging sound, displaying a simplified map of tangled forest paths. Shen Yuan squints.

 

“...Why is this labelled as ‘Mildly Cursed Grove’?”

 

[Atmospheric naming improves immersion! (ᵔ◡ᵔ)]

 

Shen Yuan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great. Love that. Where’s the river?”

 

[Fifty meters west!]

 

He pushes through low shrubs, wincing as branches snag his sleeves. The sky hasn’t turned yet. The stars are fading, the dark peeling up into a lighter blue. The river is exactly where the map says it is.

 

It is fast moving and clear, bubbling through rocks like something out of a tourism brochure. He kneels by the bank and scrubs at the blood on his face.

 

It comes off in flakes, thickening the air with the smell of iron. He scrubs extra hard at the places where vomit stains. The water stings as it hits the shallow scratches across his thighs and arms. His robes soak heavier, but at least he doesn't reek like a butcher shop now.

 

“System,” he says, watching the water run red. “What’s the next plot point?”

 

[Next Plot Anchor:  Heartfelt Reunion Between Those Long Thought Lost

 

Estimated trigger: 2 years.]

 

Shen Yuan blinks at the screen. “What the fuck does that mean.”

 

[It means: An emotional, fated meeting ♡]

 

He stares. He does not comment.

 

“Two years?” he says instead.

 

[Correct!  Would user like to fast-forward to plot anchor?]

 

“...sure?”

 

[Unfortunately, user does not have enough Narrative Points to unlock this feature.

 

(◡‿◡) Please try again later!]

 

“Then why the hell did you offer.”

 

[System thought user would appreciate the illusion of choice!

 

Would user like to file a complaint?]

 

“No,” Shen Yuan sighs. “No, never mind. Just—shut up.”

 

[Understood! System will enter standby. ♫٩(＾◡＾)۶♫]

 

With the system finally quiet, Shen Yuan peels himself up from the bank. His robes are soaked, heavy around the hem, but the bloodstains mostly blend into the deep red fabric now.

 

He wrings the sleeves out as best he can and starts walking. Branches scratch at his arms as he pushes through the undergrowth, the wet fabric sticking to his back. His bare feet sting every time they meet something sharp.

 

Heartfelt reunion, he thinks, grimacing. What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?

 

The words had sounded innocuous at first, the kind of cheesy subplot you’d find in the B-tier sections of a long running shitty serial. Long lost siblings or deadbeat dads showing up and begging forgiveness.

 

He stumbles slightly on a dip in the path and catches himself, his hand stinging against the bark. No way. It can’t be. It can’t possibly be him. His stomach twists.

 

The idea plants itself behind his ribs like a bad seed, what if the system meant that? His father? No, not father— the man who sold him the second it was convenient. The one who ruined his life like he ruined his mother’s. The one who—

 

Shen Yuan stops walking. His hands are clenched and white knuckled. He exhales slowly through his teeth.

 

A “heartfelt” reunion? That man doesn’t have a heart to feel with and if the system thinks Shen Yuan is going to fall into his arms, weeping with gratitude, it can go choke itself. The only thing Shen Yuan will be doing when he meets that pig fucker is stabbing him.

 

Still, the dread sits coiled under his skin. He starts walking again. By the time the forest thins and he catches sight of buildings, the sun has fully rolled in.

 

The town is small and half shuttered, dusty stone paths, a few open stalls, the copper smell of cook fires in the air. Wooden signs swing gently from doorways. Shen Yuan squints at one as he passes.

 

“Tianqiu.”

 

He exhales sharply through his nose. Great. Tianqiu. Remote, poor, and just close enough to Huan Hua Palace to be dangerous if someone decided to check too closely.

 

He briefly entertained the idea of joining a sect and becoming a cultivator before banishing the thought; it was too risky and close to the main characters.

 

He shuffles to the side of the path, dodging a cart piled with vegetables, and rubs his temple.

 

“So,” he mutters. “Now what?”

 

No money, no family, technically a runaway, and a murderer.

 

Lovely. 

 

Notes:

hiii so apparently ao3 and tumblr got married?? i think? consider this a late wedding gift lol. also question; does the system use 'host' or 'user'? i keep seeing variations of that and i'm a tad confused.

 

hope you liked it!

Chapter 3: whatever returns from oblivion returns to find a voice

Summary:

In which Shen Yuan makes some questionable life choices. Mostly because he has no choice.

Linzhou City crouches southeast of Huan Hua Palace Sect, just far enough to slip the noose of its shadow, yet near enough that it’s met with passing cultivators and officials.

 

Stone streets coil and bright gates arch overhead, lacquer faded at the edges. Lanterns hang from rooftop to rooftop, paper thinned by rain, their red bleeding into the city.

 

Wealth showed itself in polished wood, in ponds where carp swam circles under curved eaves but that was simply the high quarters. Past the high quarters were clay walls flaking, roofs patched with straw, whole families pressed into narrow rooms.

 

Incense burned everywhere, smoke clung to the air, curling through alleys until it seemed to settle in the lungs. The city smelled of too many things at once. Wine, pepper, sweat, and iron.

 

It was alive in the way something crowded is alive, friction against friction, one body pushing against another. To walk through it was to be absorbed and ignored all at once.

 

His feet still hurt and he was hungry enough to chew off his own arm. He felt dizzy in the way only hunger and exhaustion could bring, his head pounding. He considered what to do next. For a fleeting moment, he even entertained the idea of becoming a cultivator, before shutting that thought down fast.

 

He wanted to, truly, and no, it wasn’t just about cool swords. He wanted to finally lay his mother’s soul to rest. He hadn’t been there for her funeral, if there’d even been one, he didn’t know. But the risk of getting too close to the main plot loomed like a blade over his neck. So... no. He couldn’t afford that. Not yet, but it was something he would revisit later.

 

“So,” he mutters, eyeing the glowing System screen beside him, “what’s the plan, Clippy 2.0?”

 

The screen dings with a cheerful, artificial trill.

 

[Mission Title: ✿ Rise as the Dazzling Flower of Yanyu House! ✿ 

╰(°▽°)╯ Make your dead mother proud ♥ 

 

Within 3 months, secure a patron or position of influence! 

Charm Madame Hua and win her glowing approval~ ✧٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و✧ 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━ 

 

REWARDS: 

+150 System Points ✦ 

Trait Unlock: [Grace Under Fire] ✦ 

Skill Unlock: [Courtesan’s Poise] ✦ 

+60 Reputation: Yanyu House ✦ 

+1 Consumable: “Silken Favour” (one-time protection from Madame Hua) ✦ 

 

FAILURE PENALTY: 

-150 System Points ✦ 

Debuff: “Social Clumsy” (NPCs show less tolerance, +30% hostility chance for 2 months) ✦]

 

Shen Yuan stares at the screen.

 

“Did you have to add the ‘dead mother’ part?” he mutters.

 

The screen blinks innocently.

 

[Emotional framing improves motivation! (≧◡≦) ]

 

Shen Yuan side eyes harder, “…”

 

[System personality was pre-selected based on your psychological profile!
We hope you enjoy your experience! ]

 

Yeah, no. Never mind. He’d rather staple his fingers to a rock than join a brothel. He can be a street dancer or join a circus crew, begging on a street corner, literally anything else. He can live off scraps.

 

“Yeah, no thanks,” he says flatly. His pulse is rabbit fast.

 

[Refusal detected.

Initiating Directive Override: Behavioural Correction Protocol.]

 

He doesn’t even process the words before his throat seizes. He claws at his neck on instinct, nails scraping over skin that’s suddenly useless. His lungs are two fists clenched shut. He stumbles, knees buckling, vision blurring with that sharp, starry, too-much-light feeling.

 

He slams his palm into the wall, drags his nails down stone. He is breathless, a soundless scream in his head: Oh. Okay. I’m dying like this, this is it.

 

Except, he doesn’t. He doesn’t die. The edges of his vision white out, but it plateaus there. He is stuck in this grotesque halfway point where he’s neither alive nor dead, an infinite almost-dying.

 

Something ugly in his chest wants to laugh. Of course. Of course. He sags against the wall, trembling and watery eyed. His hands won’t stop shaking.

 

His head is screaming press it, press it, just press accept and he wants to spit in the system’s face, except he doesn’t actually have spit left because oxygen deprivation is funny like that.

 

Fine. Fine. Whatever. His fingers stab the blue tinted interface that hovers before him like a neon guillotine.

 

The air floods back all at once, harsh and ugly. His first gasp sounds like someone strangled a broken pipe. He collapses forward on hands and knees, coughing so hard it feels like his ribs will crack from the inside.

 

[✦ Mission Accepted! ✦

 

☆⌒ヽ(‘､^) chu. You got this, flower! 

Let’s make Mama Shen proud! (งˆ▽ˆ)ง ✿ 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━ 

 

Penalty Applied: 

-50 System Points (Reason: Refusal Attempt) (◞‸◟) 

 

Reminder: Repeated refusal will result in escalating penalties! 

ヽ(＾Д＾)ﾉ  ]

 

The cheerful ding! is obscene. Shen Yuan wipes his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, watery eyed and his throat raw like ground glass.

 

“You cunt faced bitch,” he rasps out hoarsely, glaring at the glowing panel. His voice breaks halfway, and he hates that it does. He wants to put his fist through it.

 

Instead, he just sags against the floor, legs folded awkwardly, pulse still wild in his ears. It’s funny, in that nauseating way things get funny when they’re bad enough

 

Guess he’s going to work in a brothel.

 

---

 

Shen Yuan’s mother, Shen Qingyi, had once been the beloved star of the Qingluan Pavilion. A dancer so radiant the moon itself might’ve asked her for lessons.

 

It was how she’d caught Zhao Wenrong’s attention— Shen Yuan’s father, if the term could be applied to such a useless, pig bastard.

 

She always said she was lucky, she had said she was blessed to have been bought out, married and saved. Shen Yuan used to believe her. Now, older, he thinks she’d have been better off working in a brothel than ever having met him. 

 

Shen Yuan had inherited her talent and skill. And, if he does say so himself, that made the mission a lot easier. To be perfectly fair, it was a risky gamble but it wasn’t like he had a choice.

 

It had been too easy. Shen Yuan had danced well enough. Or maybe he danced like someone with nowhere else to go. That probably helped.

 

Yanyu House had signed him before he could blink. Fifteen years with room, board, and a spot on the performer rotation.

 

Yanyu House was mid tier, but respectable. At the very least, he wouldn’t be forced into serving customers in…other ways unless he was desperate. Or bad at his role. He tried not to think too much on that.

 

The place offered both entertainment and other services. It depended on the performer and the patron and the contract. Shen Yuan sighed as he signed the 15 year contract. Unwillingly. All because of a dickhead system.

 

[Congratulations, User! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧ You are now bound by a legally enforceable performance agreement!]

 

"Gee," he muttered. "Can’t wait to build my LinkedIn profile."

 

The woman in charge, Madame Hua, looked like someone’s classy grandmother, if that grandmother could kill a man with her pinky.

 

Her hair was white streaked and coiled in elegant buns, her robes deep crimson with silver thread at the hems. She stared at him like he was the Jesus of profit.

 

They didn’t ask many questions, as long as you looked clean and didn’t stink of prison. Lucky for Shen Yuan, he scrubbed up okay and had the baby face of someone who had never committed provable crimes.

 

(He was ignoring the fact that he was very much a baby.)

 

His demonstration dance had sealed it.

 

[Performance rating: 62%!

+1 Reputation point ☆彡(ノ^ ^)ノ]

 

The others were wary. A few looked him over with that half curious, half resentful stare that said "new blood" and also “threat." Only one person spoke to him— Qiao Ci, a tall, round faced girl with sleepy eyes and huge big sister energy. She smiled easy, but there was tension in her hands.

 

"Call me Qiao-jie," she’d said, patting his arm like she wasn’t sure if he’d bolt. "Don’t worry. You’re small and pretty enough, and you said you’re just here to dance, right?”

 

"Yeah," he’d said.

 

“Did you always want to be a dancer?” She asked, speaking in that same soothing voice you’d use with a stray cat. He had laughed, a bit wry, a bit mad.

 

The dormitory wasn’t much, just enough beds to qualify as “accommodation” instead of “storage.” The air was warm with breath and incense, still with the hush of sleeping bodies.

 

Shen Yuan crept between beds, careful not to step on anything, and chose the cot near the back wall. He sat on the edge of the mattress, ankles crossed, and rubbed at a bruise on his forearm.

 

The other bunks were filled, but no one was awake to talk. Only the soft sound of breathing and the occasional cough. The mattress was hard. His sheets smelled faintly of incense and sweat. His ankle ached.

 

(It is terrible to survive as consciousness buried in the dark earth.)

 

He stares at himself, at the blurred ghost of his face in the reflective surface of a metal jug. The resemblance is sharper tonight. His mouth—her mouth. His eyes, too wide, too knowing like someone always half listening for the breaking point.

 

He tilts his head, and the phantom moves with him. Her ghost wears him like an heirloom. He doesn’t remember choosing to follow her steps but here he is, bare-footed on that same glass spun path, and the air tastes like a rope swinging just out of frame.

 

There was a flicker in the corner of his vision. That familiar ding that made him tense— for a moment, he was back there, trying to escape.

 

[✦ System Reminder ✦

 

Current Arc: The Ashes Before the Spark ✦ 

Narrative Integrity: Stable ✦ 

Active Plot Anchor: The Star’s Unveiling ✦ 

 

Reminder: Deviations from core plot trajectory will result in penalties. 

Please continue to shine, Host~ (＾▽＾)  ]

 

“You’re not helping,” he hisses. “You’re doing the opposite of helping.” And what plot, Shen Yuan thought miserably, weren’t minor characters meant to be left alone and have little role?

 

[System is always helping! (OωO) 

…It’s just not always in ways Host appreciates.] 

 

“…Shut the hell up,” he whispered.

 

[System is always listening!

 

Sweet dreams, User Shen Yuan (っ˘ω˘ς )]

 

He rolled over and pulled the thin blanket over his head. It didn’t help.

 

How the fuck is this his life.

Notes:

hiii sorry for the late update, i've been super busy but i'm finally on term break ⸜( ˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝ although i'll probs be spending most of it studying T^T

this is the chapter where you understand why there's the anti system rebellion tag lol, i fear the system will only get worse. sorry. hope you enjoyed, thank you for all the comments, it really helped me have the motivation to continue writing this fic!

 

chap title is from The Wild Iris by Louise Glück