Two years passed.
"Shen Feng! Stop running!"
Shen Feng. Yeah, that's my name.
My elder brother—Shen Hongyu, who was three years older than me— shouted as he chased after me. He lunged and caught me right before I reached the door.
"Damn it." I glared at the entrance. So close.
"Don't interrupt Father while he's talking with someone about work." My brother adjusted his grip on my collar. Six years old and already acting like a miniature adult.
I sighed internally. From their perspective, I was just a hyperactive toddler. But I was the mature one here—I'd lived a whole other life, thank you very much. While other kids barely started walking, I was already running full sprints.
I glanced sideways at the mirror on the wall. My face was round and chubby, cheeks still holding onto baby fat, but I could already tell—I'd turn out quite handsome. Unlike my father. Thankfully.
Hehehehe. As expected of the protagonist.
I'd learned quite a bit during my time in this world. My father—Shen Jiakang—had average looks and a head balder than a peeled potato. Yet somehow, he'd bagged two beauties. His cultivation was weak too. Nothing special.
But he had the one thing no woman could refuse.
Yeah.
He had big... pockets.
We were one of the wealthiest families in our region. We sold paper, weapons, and other valuables. I'd pieced that much together from overheard conversations.
My mother was his second wife. She died sometime after giving birth to me. Her only child.
According to my brainrot-cultivation-novel knowledge, my father should hate me. I was the son who killed his beloved wife. He should discriminate against me, push me away, make my childhood miserable. Then, after I unlocked my cheat skill, I'd get revenge for all the suffering he caused.
That's how these stories worked.
Come on—when was the last time a bald, below-average-looking character turned out to be the good guy?
But here he was.
The door to his only-business-room (he was very serious about that name) burst open. He ran toward me with his try-hard cutesy voice, arms outstretched.
"Hahaha! My son is already so eager to learn skills from his father! He'll surely take over our business one day!"
He lifted me from my brother's arms and settled me on his hip and kissed my cheek. I wiped the saliva away on autopilot—I'd gotten used to this by now.
I glared at him.
Why was he so obsessively kind?
But deep down, I knew. My mother left this world and left only me behind. I was the only reminder of her. He must be using me as emotional support. A coping mechanism. My face was proof—I looked just like her, or so they said.
I hated to admit it, but I was starting to grow fond of him.
"Haa... the son and father seem to be getting along well." My Stepmother—Shen Wanqing—stepped toward us, smiling as soon as our eyes met. A maid followed close behind her. "Our Feng'er's legs haven't stopped moving since he started walking, have they?"
She kissed my other cheek. More saliva. I wiped again. Since I came here, there hadn't been a day without it.
My eyes dropped to her swollen belly. She was carrying my father's third child.
Noticing my stare, she laughed, those rich ha-ha-ha laugh.
"Hahaha, don't worry." She patted my head. "Your baby sister will come out in a few months and play with you. You won't be bored."
Everything about this house was wrong.
My parents in my previous life were complete opposites. Not a single day passed without loud bickering, plates shattering and doors slamming. I'd lie in bed with my headphones on max volume, trying to drown them out with novel audio.
But here?
Why was everyone so caring?
It felt wrong. Very unsettling. Like I'd walked into the wrong house and everyone was too polite to mention it.
At this rate, I might actually get attached to them.
I squirmed out of my father's arms and ran toward the hall. Our house was massive—rich antiques, intricate furniture, silk clothing draped everywhere, and weird-ass paintings on every wall. I'd asked about the paintings once. My father mentioned something about "artistic expression." I still didn't get it.
Letting out a sigh, I plopped onto the small chair made for me.
This wasn't what I expected from a cultivation novel.
Where was my heaven-defying skill? The face-slapping young masters? The jade beauties fighting for my attention?
The mascot said he'd come back after completing the first chapter. But it'd been two freaking years. Was he still writing it? Did he bump his head on that toilet seat and forget about me?
Also—when would my cheat appear?
I stared at a painting on the wall and let my thoughts drift.
...
Just like that, another four years passed.
I am six years old now.
Finally
I walked toward the training hall with the confidence of someone who'd been waiting his whole second life for this moment.
The rich families in this world checked their children's potential between ages five and six—when most organs had fully developed. It was an indispensable custom. Basically, they verified whether the child was worth investing cultivation resources in.
"Good luck, brother!" My little sister waved her tiny hands at me.
Shen Mingzhu. Three years old now. The cutest in our family—only after me, obviously. Fortunately, she'd inherited her mother's genes. Father's genes didn't even dare to step in.
Only my brother was unfortunate in that aspect. He leaned more toward Father's look.
Sorry, Hongyu. The genetic lottery is cruel.
An aged physician stood at the center of the big training hall, stroking his long white beard that extended past his belly. Classic cultivation novel aesthetic. At least some things followed the rules.
I glanced at my family. My father and stepmother stood with reassuring smiles. My father gave a curt nod.
I nodded back and stepped inside.
I removed my robe and sat before the old man. He pressed his hands against my back, preparing to push his qi into my body to assess my potential. Cold air brushed against my bare chest.
The process was simple. Potential was determined by two things: the width of your meridians—the rivers carrying qi through your body—and the strength and quality of your dantian—the lake where qi collected.
Every cultivator knew this.
I didn't even need to investigate much. These were default settings in every cultivation novel. This one wasn't any different.
Five minutes passed and I couldn't feel anything.
The hall was so silent that breathing felt like a gust of wind.
The old man finally withdrew his hand.
"This kid..."
His voice was low. Heavy. He shook his head like he'd tasted something bitter.
"He has excellent meridians. Wide, unobstructed—the kind geniuses are born with."
My heart jumped.
"But..."
But?
He let out a sigh. "The Heavens are cruel. I don't think he can ever cultivate."
The words landed like stones in still water.
"What?" My father's voice came from somewhere behind me.
The old man continued, each word precise and clinical. "His dantian is completely missing. It's very rare, but there have been cases. A missing organ, essentially. A disability."
"A disability?" My father's eyes widened.
"Is there any way to cure it?" My brother—the one who only spoke when absolutely necessary—stepped forward.
The old physician shook his head slowly. "You cannot heal something that was never there."
Disability.
The word echoed in my skull.
I'd expected this. Prepared for it. Told myself a hundred times that this was just the "character development" the mascot promised. That the cheat would come after.
But hearing it out loud—called a disability by a stranger who didn't know me… it landed differently than I'd imagined.
Like a punch to the gut from someone who knew exactly where to hit.
I stood up.
Thanked the physician and walked toward the door.
I couldn't face their looks. A look of sadness, consolation and pity.
"We never expected anything from you, Feng'er. It's not your fault."
"Poor Feng'er..."
My father's and stepmother's kind words echoed behind me as I took faster steps.
"Feng'er!"
I looked back. My brother ran toward me, chest heaving, breath ragged from sprinting across the courtyard. He halted in front of me, hands on his knees for a second before straightening.
"Do... do not worry, Feng'er." He clenched his fists. "If you want to be a cultivator, I will find a cure—even if I have to search to the ends of the world."
I stared at him.
He didn't know.
In every novel I'd read, the one who made promises like that was either the first to die or the one who betrayed you in the end.
"No need."
I said. Two words. Simple and clear.
I don't like too much drama.
I turned and walked into my room.
Closing the door behind me, I leaned on it and stared at the intricate ceiling.
Who needs cultivation? I told myself. I'll have a cheat skill. The mascot promised. You guys—I'll show you. Just you wait.*
The ceiling didn't answer so did the mascot.
I climbed onto my bed and waited for the destiny that kept slipping away.
...
Like that, another two years passed.
I was eight now.
Still waiting and got nothing.