Chapter 1: The Borrowed Hand
"—sign here and here." A finger tapped the paper in front of me. "And initial at the bottom of page three."
I looked up. A man in an expensive suit sat across from me, his smile the careful kind that lawyers practice in mirrors. Behind him, the office walls displayed championship banners I recognized from countless hours of watching competitive Glory footage on my laptop back home.
Back home.
Where was that, exactly?
The pressure in my skull spiked. A translucent blue light flickered at the edge of my vision—not quite there, not quite hallucination. Text scrolled across it in clean sans-serif:
[SOE v1.0 — Initialization Complete.]
[Calibrating to host cognitive baseline.]
[Warning: Body-Soul synchronization at 23%. Motor function desynchronization detected.]
I blinked. The text didn't vanish.
The man across from me—Tao Xuan, my mind supplied, though I couldn't remember learning his name—shifted impatiently. "Ye Qiu? The contract?"
Ye Qiu.
Not my name. I'd been Steven Grant, twenty-eight years old, software developer, three months into a cancer diagnosis that the doctors said would give me maybe a year if I was lucky. I'd fallen asleep watching The King's Avatar for the dozenth time, the donghua's familiar opening theme playing as the morphine drip pulled me under.
I hadn't expected to wake up.
Especially not here.
[Host cognitive baseline established. Initializing System of Excellence.]
[Purpose: Optimize host performance through real-time analysis and enhancement modules.]
[Current Rank: F. All modules locked pending Calibration Phase completion.]
[Calibration Phase requirements: Complete one full Glory match using host's physical form.]
The text lingered for three seconds, then faded to a faint icon in my peripheral vision—a small compass rose that pulsed once before going still.
My eyes dropped to the contract. The words swam, then sharpened as whatever was happening in my brain adjusted. Retirement agreement. Termination of employment. Transfer of account ownership.
One Autumn Leaf.
The name hit like a punch to the sternum. I knew that account. Four championships. Ten years of dominance. The most famous Battle Mage in Glory's history.
And this body—Ye Xiu's body, because that's whose skin I was apparently wearing now—was signing it away.
"Is there a problem?" Tao Xuan's smile had thinned.
Think. Think.
The SOE—whatever that was—highlighted three clauses in pale yellow. I read them quickly: a non-compete provision preventing "Ye Qiu" from joining any professional team for one year, an image rights forfeiture clause, and a gag order on internal team matters.
Predatory. All of it.
But the position was untenable. I was sitting in the heart of Excellent Era's headquarters with a body that didn't obey properly and knowledge of a retirement that—according to every episode I'd watched—had already happened. The original Ye Xiu had signed this contract. Had walked away with nothing but a cardboard box and his pride.
I could refuse. Could fight. Could—
Could do what, exactly? I didn't know how to be Ye Xiu. I barely knew how to make this hand hold a pen correctly.
The SOE's compass icon pulsed again, as if sensing my indecision.
Calibration Phase.
I needed to play Glory first. Everything else could wait until these borrowed hands learned to obey.
"No problem." My voice came out rougher than expected—a smoker's rasp that didn't match my mental image of myself. "Just making sure I read everything."
I signed.
Tao Xuan's smile returned full force. "A wise decision. The company appreciates your years of service, of course. Security will escort you to collect your personal effects."
The way he said it made clear he expected a reaction. Anger, maybe. Grief. The legendary Ye Xiu brought low by corporate politics.
I stood. The movement felt wrong too—my center of gravity was different, the legs too long, the shoulders too narrow. I caught myself on the edge of the desk and turned the stumble into a deliberate pause.
"Keep the account."
Tao Xuan's expression flickered.
"We'll see who it serves better."
His smile vanished entirely. I didn't wait for a response.
The security escort materialized the moment I stepped into the hallway—a silent man in a black polo who led me through corridors I recognized from the anime's establishing shots. Past the training room where I could hear keyboards clacking. Past the lounge where Excellent Era's current roster probably sat, blissfully unaware that their former captain was being marched out like a criminal.
Former captain.
Not mine. His. Ye Xiu's.
I was just borrowing this body. Borrowing his life. Borrowing his enemies, apparently.
The security guard deposited me at a storage room where a cardboard box sat on a metal shelf. My—his—personal effects. I picked it up. Lighter than expected. A decade of professional gaming, reduced to something I could carry in one arm.
The building's back exit let out into a parking lot that smelled like cigarette smoke and late autumn. A taxi idled by the curb, probably called by whoever had decided Excellent Era's disgraced Battle God shouldn't linger where the media might spot him.
I climbed in. The driver didn't look up from his phone.
"Where to?"
I opened my mouth to say I didn't know—and stopped. Because I did know. Every episode, every late-night wiki dive while the cancer ate at my insides. I knew exactly where Ye Xiu went after this.
"Happy Internet Café." I fished a crumpled note from the cardboard box—an address written in handwriting I didn't recognize but apparently belonged to this body. "Xin Bei Road."
The taxi pulled into traffic.
I sat back and lifted my hands to the streetlights streaming past the window. Long fingers. Callused from a decade of keyboards. Unfamiliar in every way that mattered.
[Calibration Phase active. Motor function desynchronization: Severe.]
[Baseline assessment: Mechanical skill reduced by 20%. Reaction latency increased by 15ms. Combo execution failure rate: 12%.]
The numbers glowed faintly, then faded.
Twelve percent.
For a normal person, that would be acceptable. For the God of Glory, it was a death sentence.
I flexed the fingers. They responded—slowly, imprecisely, like operating a puppet through frayed strings.
I'm going to have to relearn everything.
The taxi turned onto Xin Bei Road. Neon signs flickered in the darkness, advertising bubble tea shops and convenience stores. And there, wedged between a laundromat and a shuttered restaurant, a building with bright windows and a sign that read HAPPY INTERNET CAFÉ in friendly blue letters.
The taxi stopped. I paid—the wallet in the cardboard box contained enough cash—and stepped out into someone else's life.
The café door opened before I could reach it.
A woman stood in the entrance, mid-twenties, sharp-eyed and frowning. She looked me up and down with the expression of someone assessing a job applicant who'd shown up to an interview without a resume.
"You here about the night shift position?"
Behind me, the taxi pulled away. The cardboard box was heavy in my arms. The SOE's compass icon pulsed faintly in my peripheral vision, patient and waiting.
The night shift.
Ye Xiu had worked here for over a year. Had built Team Happy from nothing in the back rooms of this café. Had returned to glory from this exact starting point.
I could do that. I could follow his footsteps, use the meta-knowledge lodged in my skull, and—
"Well?" The woman—Chen Guo, owner and eventual team manager, though she didn't know that yet—crossed her arms. "You coming in or not?"
I shifted the box to one arm and met her eyes.
"Yeah. I'm here about the job."
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