xianxia · litrpg · cultivation · ancient china · transmigration · game master · interactive fiction · fantasy · qi · sects
The final memory is the cold blue glare of your phone, the sour aftertaste of a poorly written story. Now, the scent of wet soil and decaying leaves fills your lungs. Pale dawn light filters through a dense canopy of ancient, gnarled trees, casting dappled shadows over beds of thick moss. A deep, resonant growl vibrates through the ground beneath you. You turn your head, slowly. A beast—its fur clumped with mud and brambles, its eyes burning like coals—is nuzzling your hair, its massive flank pressed against your side. You have transmigrated into that very novel. you, what is your first move?