Liu Ming was buying instant noodles with coins.
Not metaphorical coins. Actual coins. He had poured them onto the convenience store counter with the trembling dignity of a man liquidating his national reserves. One five-yuan coin, three ones, two fifty-cents, one coin that might have been from a board game, and enough shame to found a dynasty.
The cashier, who had seen this exact tragedy three times already this week, looked at him with the kind of pity usually reserved for wet cats and underperforming nephews.
"You're short by two yuan," she said.
Liu Ming stared at the noodles. Braised beef flavor. His favorite flavor, if "favorite" could be used for something he had eaten for twelve consecutive meals.
"Can I remove the emotional seasoning packet?" he asked. "Would that lower the price?"
"No."
"What if I promise to suffer quietly?"
"No."
Liu Ming sighed and began fishing in the pocket of his shorts with the grim determination of a man searching for the last dignity he had misplaced in middle school.
That was when the sky split open.
There were many things one might reasonably expect to happen above a convenience store on a humid Tuesday evening.
Rain, maybe.
A badly parked drone, if society had truly collapsed.
A plastic bag drifting majestically like a defeated jellyfish.
What happened instead was that the entire western sky peeled apart like old wallpaper, revealing a vertical crack of black-red light. Clouds curled inward. The air shuddered. The glass storefront whined. Somewhere, a car alarm began screaming in spiritual harmony.
Then a man walked out of the tear in the heavens.
He did not descend on wires.
He did not emerge from a helicopter.
He did not look remotely union-approved.
He floated in the air wearing layered black robes embroidered with dark gold patterns that looked less like symbols and more like a court case waiting to happen. His hair fell to his waist. His face was handsome in the deeply unfair way of immortal monsters and rich actors. Behind him revolved three black rings of light that made everyone nearby instinctively shut up.
For two full seconds, the entire street froze.
Then modern civilization bravely rose to the challenge.
"Bro! Bro! Is this viral marketing?"
"Holy shit, is that CGI?"
"Wait, wait, don't move—lemme get vertical video."
"Mom! MOM! COME OUTSIDE! SOMEONE OPENED A DLC!"
Phones came out like swords. Several people began filming from different angles. One teenager shouted, "Do the villain laugh! Do the villain laugh!"
Liu Ming did not pull out his phone.
Liu Ming had spent twelve years reading web novels under his blanket while pretending to study.
At that moment, every useless hour of his misspent youth ignited with the brilliance of heaven's own revelation.
Portal in sky. Floating man. Ancient robes. Murder aura.
There were only two possibilities.
One: high-budget film production.
Two: cultivator.
And if there was even a one percent chance it was the second one, there was only one correct response.
Liu Ming dropped his bag of coins, stepped away from the convenience store counter, and slapped himself into a full kneel on the sidewalk.
He clasped his hands, bowed his head, and shouted with all the sincerity in his poor, underemployed body:
"This junior greets Senior! Senior's immortal radiance outshines sun and moon! May Senior's Dao be eternal!"
Silence.
The teenager holding his phone turned his camera from the sky to Liu Ming.
"Yo," he whispered, deeply moved. "This guy committed early."
Everyone else also turned to stare.
The floating man in black looked down.
Of all the mortals in the street, only one had chosen not to record him. Only one had not asked for a selfie. Only one had immediately displayed the survival instinct of a cockroach raised on cultivation fiction.
The man descended.
He did not drift. He simply became lower. Space seemed to give up and place him on the street.
Up close, the pressure around him was worse. The convenience store lights dimmed. Sweat burst from the cashier's forehead. The air smelled faintly of iron and burned incense.
He stood in front of Liu Ming and said, in a voice calm enough to terrify governments, "Why did you kneel?"
Liu Ming kept his head down.
Because he was poor, ugly, unemployed, and generally underqualified for existence, but he was not stupid.
"This junior has read," he said carefully, "a great many stories."
The man was silent.
Liu Ming added, "Also, Senior… with all respect… everyone else here is acting very unwell."
A sound escaped the man.
Not a cough. Not a sigh.
A laugh.
It was soft and brief, but it cracked the tension in the street like a stick.
"Interesting," the man said.
Someone in the crowd tried to edge backward.
Without turning his head, the black-robed man lifted one finger.
The man's movement froze.
Not slowed. Not impeded. Froze. As if the universe had selected him individually and paused his subscription to motion.
The street collectively decided not to experiment further.
The immortal looked down at Liu Ming again. "Stand."
Liu Ming stood with the speed of a man whose knees had no principles.
"What is your name?"
"Liu Ming, Senior."
"Liu Ming." The immortal rolled the name on his tongue as if testing whether it could be useful. "This seat is called Daoist Black Calamity."
Liu Ming's scalp prickled.
Daoist title. Not Master, not Immortal, not venerable tourist.
Daoist.
And Black Calamity sounded less like a legal name and more like something cities apologized to after surviving.
He immediately clasped his hands again. "So it is Senior Black Calamity. This junior was blind. Had I known Senior would grace this filthy street, I would have at least worn longer pants."
The teenager with the phone made a strangled noise. He was still filming.
Daoist Black Calamity's mouth curved.
"Tell me, Liu Ming. If I were to kill everyone here but you, how would you feel?"
Liu Ming's soul left his body, wrote a will, and came back.
He swallowed. "Senior is broad-minded. Senior's actions must have profound meaning beyond this junior's comprehension."
"That is not an answer."
"No, Senior." Liu Ming wet his lips. "Then… I would feel lucky to still be able to answer your questions."
The silence that followed was very long and very educational.
Then Daoist Black Calamity laughed again, louder this time.
"Good."
He looked around the street. The pressure vanished like a nightmare at dawn. The frozen man stumbled and almost ate pavement.
"Remember this," Daoist Black Calamity said to no one and everyone. "If you see a Daoist in the sky, kneel first."
Then he grabbed Liu Ming by the shoulder.
The world folded.
Liu Ming discovered two things in the next ten seconds.
First, teleportation felt exactly like being swallowed by an elevator made of thunder.
Second, Daoist Black Calamity had taken him to a mountain.
Not a nice tourist mountain with guardrails and old couples taking pictures beside warning signs.
A real mountain. The kind that looked as though old hermits committed war crimes there. Peaks stabbed through clouds. Pine trees clung to cliffs with suspicious confidence. Far below, a sea of mist rolled across valleys like boiling milk.
Liu Ming's legs turned traitor and attempted to become decorative.
Daoist Black Calamity released his shoulder and looked out over the horizon as if he owned weather.
"Senior," Liu Ming croaked, "with utmost respect, if this is kidnapping, I support it fully."
"I am opening a path through this world," Daoist Black Calamity said. "For three hundred of your years, I must wait."
Liu Ming blinked. "On Earth?"
"Yes."
"For… tourism?"
The Daoist glanced at him. "Sacrifice."
Liu Ming took a full two seconds to process the word.
"Oh," he said.
The wind howled over the cliff.
"Oh," he said again, softer.
Below them, somewhere impossibly far away, an eagle screamed.
Daoist Black Calamity continued, "When the formation ripens, your world and all upon it will be consumed. Until then, I have little to do."
There were many possible reactions to this announcement.
Terror.
Moral outrage.
Patriotism.
A desperate attempt to become useful enough not to be immediately harvested later.
Liu Ming chose the only emotion available to a man whose biggest current problem had been two missing yuan.
"Three hundred years?" he asked.
"Yes."
"My parents won't even make it another forty if they keep eating late-night fried chicken."
Daoist Black Calamity said nothing.
Liu Ming cautiously continued, "I'm not saying world sacrifice is good, Senior. Obviously it lacks certain community values. I just mean… I personally am unlikely to be present."
The Daoist turned to look at him fully.
Liu Ming braced himself.
Instead, Daoist Black Calamity said, "You truly are a rotten thing."
Liu Ming bowed. "Thank you, Senior."
And somehow, impossibly, that was how it started.
To call what followed a friendship would be inaccurate in at least nine legal systems.
Daoist Black Calamity did not become Liu Ming's friend in the ordinary sense.
He became interested.
That was worse, but survivable.
Liu Ming, who had no job worth discussing and only a flexible relationship with dignity, soon found himself promoted to the prestigious post of Personal Earth Guide to an Ancient Demonic Immortal.
The salary was unclear.
The workplace safety conditions were non-existent.
The benefits included not being exploded.
He accepted immediately.
At first, his duties were simple.
Explain money.
Explain traffic lights.
Explain why people voluntarily ate ultra-spicy hotpot.
Explain why online strangers called each other "bro" before attempting homicide in comment sections.
Explain why humans made sixty-second videos of themselves dancing badly and uploaded them for social approval.
Daoist Black Calamity learned quickly. Disturbingly quickly. He grasped smartphones in a single afternoon, online shopping by evening, and piracy by midnight.
"Why is this website full of pop-up talismans?" he asked during their third day in an internet café.
"Ads, Senior."
"One says there are lonely women in my area."
"Yes, Senior."
"Are there?"
"Given your aura? Not by choice."
The Daoist smirked.
Three booths down, a college student who had dared complain about the smell of ancient robes had his game account permanently erased by unknown means. Liu Ming did not ask how.
Over the next few years, Liu Ming introduced him to modern treasures.
Bubble tea.
Conspiracy documentaries.
Action movies with physics written by optimists.
Multiplayer games.
Instant noodles, which Daoist Black Calamity declared "an insult to both grain and soup" before eating six bowls in a row.
Liu Ming also learned things.
For example, a true immortal could beat every difficulty setting in every strategy game while only half paying attention.
For example, demonic cultivators cheated at claw machines by subtly bending cause and effect.
For example, if Daoist Black Calamity said, "This city mayor has offended my eyes," what followed would be on the evening news for a week.
Liu Ming adapted.
He bought a notebook titled IMPORTANT THINGS SENIOR SHOULD NOT DO IN PUBLIC and filled three pages in the first month.
Page one included:
Do not hover over hospitals unless necessary.Do not ask children which of their parents they love more."Mortal lifespan is brief" is not a good response at funerals.Please stop using killing intent to skip restaurant lines.
On the whole, Liu Ming proved excellent at his duties.
He had one gift in life, and it was the ability to tell dangerous people exactly what they wanted to hear while making them feel clever for hearing it.
Most people called this spinelessness.
Liu Ming preferred "adaptive diplomacy."
He was, in all meaningful respects, a professional bootlicker.
And Daoist Black Calamity appreciated professionals.
One winter night, while they sat in Liu Ming's rented apartment eating skewers over a portable grill, the Daoist said, "You have almost no virtue."
Liu Ming brightened. "But not zero?"
"Do not become ambitious."
"Never, Senior. Ambition is just poverty with delusions."
The Daoist laughed so hard the lightbulb burst.
That was the closest they ever came to affection.
Four years after the sky first split, Liu Ming made the mistake that ruined his life.
It happened because of a television drama.
Not a good drama. A cheap xianxia romance with glowing swords, tragic misunderstandings, and a male lead who had apparently been raised by wolves with excellent hair products. Every episode contained at least one scene where he offended some powerful elder for no reason and then somehow received a heaven-defying treasure before the next commercial break.
Daoist Black Calamity watched with the serene contempt of a being older than empires.
Liu Ming watched with the frothing resentment of a terminal reader.
"This is nonsense," Liu Ming said around a mouthful of takeout noodles. "Utter nonsense. Look at him. He's weak, poor, stupid, and proud. In chapter—I mean, episode—one, he already slapped three young masters and refused to kneel to an elder. If I did that, I'd be dead before the opening song."
"Yet he thrives," said Daoist Black Calamity.
"Because heaven is blind and screenwriters are criminals." Liu Ming pointed at the TV with his chopsticks. "Any normal person in a cultivation world should spend the first ten years lowering their head and not provoking random monsters."
"Would you?"
"I'd kneel artistically."
The Daoist turned from the television to look at him.
Liu Ming, emboldened by food and years of not being murdered, kept talking.
"I'm serious, Senior. These protagonists are idiots. They survive because the universe pampers them. Ancient inheritance here, secret master there, some hidden bloodline nonsense the moment they cough blood dramatically. Throw me into one of those worlds and I'd do better than half of them."
Daoist Black Calamity's brows lifted.
Liu Ming should have stopped.
Instead, he snorted and went on.
"No, really. Give me the setting and a basic understanding of social hierarchy, and I'd be fine. Better than fine. At least I'd know not to challenge the arrogant young master in public before I could beat his grandfather."
The room went very still.
On the television, the male lead declared, "I would rather die standing than live kneeling!"
Liu Ming scoffed. "See? That line alone should cost him three realms of cultivation."
Daoist Black Calamity reached over and muted the TV.
"Liu Ming," he said, "are you boasting?"
A lesser man might have denied it.
Liu Ming was not a lesser man. He was, in fact, exactly the kind of man who tripped over common sense while trying to look clever.
"A little," he admitted.
"A little."
"I mean…" He waved his chopsticks. "Compared to them, Senior. Fictional standards. Casual comparison. Not a formal declaration to heaven."
Daoist Black Calamity leaned back in his chair.
A smile spread slowly across his face.
Liu Ming felt his stomach sink.
That smile had preceded many terrible things.
One time it had preceded a cryptocurrency crash.
Another time it had preceded him asking a televangelist, on live stream, whether his faith could survive eye contact.
"Excellent," said the Daoist. "Let us make a bet."
Liu Ming set down his chopsticks. "Senior, with deepest respect, those are words I hate hearing from immortal beings."
"You claim you could become a suitable protagonist if placed in such circumstances."
"I claim," Liu Ming said carefully, "that I would make fewer obviously suicidal choices."
"Then prove it."
The apartment seemed to shrink.
Liu Ming laughed weakly. "Senior jests."
"I do not."
A contract talisman appeared between the Daoist's fingers, woven from black flame and red characters that hurt to look at.
Liu Ming's mouth dried.
"Wait," he said. "Senior, let us be reasonable. I am a citizen. I have obligations."
"You owe your landlord three months."
"That is a financial disagreement."
Daoist Black Calamity ignored him. "I will send you through cultivation worlds."
Liu Ming stood up so fast his plastic chair toppled.
"Senior! Senior, no. Absolutely not. Respectfully not. My support for this idea is philosophical at most."
"You boasted."
"I overperformed socially!"
The Daoist's expression did not change.
Liu Ming clasped his hands with the speed of long practice. "Senior, this junior is mortal. Frail. Diseased in spirit. Allergic to hard work."
"All true."
"Then why—"
"Because I am bored."
There it was. The most dangerous sentence in the language.
Liu Ming tried a different angle. "Senior, if your goal is entertainment, there are safer options. We can watch cooking competitions. I can show you reality television. Humans degrade themselves for free."
Daoist Black Calamity flicked a finger.
The black flame talisman unfolded into a circle of floating script around them.
"Listen well," he said.
Liu Ming listened with the full attention of a condemned man hearing menu options.
"In each world, you will enter at eleven or twelve years of age."
"Why that age?"
"Old enough to understand pain. Young enough to be kicked around."
"That is a terrible reason."
"It is sufficient."
Liu Ming opened and closed his mouth.
The Daoist continued, "You will keep your memories, your temperament, and any soft skills you can carry in mind. Your body will revert each time to its root state, rejuvenated and whole."
"Whole is good," Liu Ming said faintly.
"You will not keep cultivation, treasures, or direct power between worlds."
"That is less good."
"You will receive three gifts."
Liu Ming narrowed his eyes. "Senior, in my experience, when demonic cultivators say 'gift,' civilians should hide."
Daoist Black Calamity smiled. "First: in every world, you cannot die for thirty years."
Liu Ming blinked. "What?"
"You heard."
"No, I heard the words. I'm checking whether they were arranged legally."
The Daoist ignored this. "From the moment you enter a world, thirty years begins. You will bear three marks. One fades every ten years. When the last fades, you will transfer instantly."
A pattern of three black dots appeared in the air.
"If someone cuts off your head, you will not die. If poison enters your organs, you will not die. If fate, curse, spell, or accident seeks your death, you will not die. You will recover."
Liu Ming stared.
"That sounds…" He hesitated. "Actually quite useful."
"You may still be trapped, buried, sealed, imprisoned, tortured, dissected, studied, or otherwise inconvenienced."
Liu Ming's face changed.
"Inconvenienced?"
"Greatly."
"That word is carrying too much weight."
"Yet you will not die before thirty years. Not by your will, nor another's. No force in that world may keep you beyond it, either. At the limit, you leave."
Liu Ming swallowed.
Immortality for thirty years sounded heroic until one imagined spending twenty-eight of them bricked inside a mountain by enemies with hobbies.
"Second," said Daoist Black Calamity, "you will have no great fortune."
"Ah," said Liu Ming. "There it is. There's the knife."
"No heaven-defying inheritances by chance. No miraculous masters selecting you from crowds. No supreme bloodline awakening because you tripped over your own foot. No legendary treasures found under suspiciously convenient waterfalls."
Liu Ming felt personally attacked on behalf of literature.
"Then how am I supposed to cultivate?"
"Work."
Liu Ming looked offended. "Senior, that was uncalled for."
"You may still gain what you earn through effort, planning, skill, and persistence. But luck will not make you special."
The Daoist paused, then added, "Minor misfortunes may be softened. Small bad luck may slide away from you. You will not notice when it does."
Liu Ming blinked. "That part is nice."
"It is not for comfort. It is for balance."
"It is still the nicest thing you've said tonight."
"Third," said Daoist Black Calamity, "I will suppress your aura."
"My what?"
"Your presence. Charisma. Killing intent. karmic weight. Fate-significance. What you fools call 'main character aura.'"
Liu Ming slowly lowered himself back into his chair.
The Daoist went on, sounding almost instructional now. "You will be difficult to notice, easy to dismiss, and hard to remember. People will overlook you. They will struggle to take you seriously. Fame will not cling to you. Reputation will fade. Loyalty will be harder to build."
Liu Ming stared at him. "Senior."
"Yes?"
"I already had some of that on Earth."
"Then adaptation should be easier."
"That felt personal."
"In early stages, this suppression will be nearly absolute. Only truly high-level beings will see through it with ease."
Liu Ming rubbed his face. "So let me summarize. I get tossed into random cultivation worlds as a child, with no luck, no aura, no reputation, no inherited power, and if people hate me enough to chop me up and bury the pieces, I simply remain alive for the full duration of the experience."
"Yes."
"And this is your idea of friendship?"
"I am helping you."
Liu Ming laughed. Then he realized the Daoist was serious and stopped.
"What exactly counts as winning?" he asked quietly.
Daoist Black Calamity looked pleased by the question. "Grow strong enough to break what I have imposed. Return to Earth by your own ability. If you can do that, you will have proven your words."
"And losing?"
"If you truly give up, admit defeat, and abandon the attempt, then the bet is settled."
Liu Ming's eyes narrowed. "So I should never say 'I give up.'"
"I did not say that."
"You absolutely implied it."
The Daoist's smile sharpened. "Be careful, then."
The apartment hummed with silence. On the muted TV, the male lead was kissing someone under falling peach blossoms, unaware he had just ruined a stranger's life.
Liu Ming looked at the contract flame.
Then at the Daoist.
Then at his noodles, now cold and greasy.
It would have been wise to refuse.
It would have been wise to beg, or run, or fake a heart attack.
Unfortunately, Liu Ming possessed a fatal combination of traits: fear, vanity, and just enough stupidity to use one against the other.
He heard himself say, "If I win…"
"You return."
"And if I lose…"
"You learn humility. Across several worlds."
"That seems excessive. I could learn it locally."
"You have not."
That was true, which made it rude.
Liu Ming inhaled slowly.
Somewhere inside him, under the laziness and pettiness and bootlicking instinct, there was a mean little coal of pride. It had never made him noble. It had only ever made him argumentative in safe environments.
But it was there.
And the worst part was that he had said those words.
He had bragged.
To a demonic immortal.
About being protagonist material.
There were consequences for being that kind of idiot.
Apparently, this was one of them.
Liu Ming stood. He smoothed down his shirt. He tried to look like a man entering history instead of an open grave.
"Senior," he said, "in the spirit of fairness, I would like the record to show that this is an absurd overreaction."
"Duly noted."
"And if, in the future, I suffer unimaginably—"
"You will."
"—I reserve the right to complain."
"I would be disappointed if you did not."
Liu Ming extended his hand.
"Then let's bet."
Daoist Black Calamity looked at the hand, then took it.
The moment their palms touched, the black flame contract collapsed into his skin.
Agony burst through Liu Ming's body.
Not pain exactly.
Revision.
It felt like invisible laws were opening his ribs and writing notes on his soul.
Three black dots appeared on the back of his left hand.
The room darkened.
"Wait," Liu Ming gasped. "Do I at least get to prepare—"
"No," said Daoist Black Calamity.
The floor disappeared.
Space split beneath Liu Ming like wet paper.
He dropped with a scream that began dignified and ended extremely civilian.
The last thing he heard was the Daoist's voice, amused and distant:
"Try kneeling first, protagonist."
Then the apartment vanished.
Liu Ming fell through roaring blackness, clutching at nothing, while somewhere ahead a new world opened its jaws.
And because the universe had a sense of humor, he had just enough time to realize one final, horrifying truth:
he had never once asked which kind of cultivation world he was being sent to.