Shen Yuan died exactly as he lived: pissed off and online.

One second he was lying in bed, phone in hand, furiously typing a forty-paragraph hate comment about Proud Immortal Demon Way and its rat author, Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky, cursing Luo Binghe, the pacing, the women, the papapa scenes, the bullshit power scaling, the entire economy of the cultivation world, and then—

Darkness.

Then light.

Then pain.

Then… hair.

So much hair. Long, silky, infuriating, tugging against his neck. He opened his eyes to a canopy, ancient wood beams, and expensive incense that smelled like someone overpaid for “tranquility.”

He sat up.

His sleeves dragged like curtains. Six layers of cloth fell over his knees. He looked down and saw WHITE. ROBES.

“Ah,” Shen Yuan said. “I’m dead.”

Except he wasn’t. He was in Shen Qingqiu’s body. The original. The villain. The peak lord. Freshly promoted, apparently, because people kept bowing like he was a very judgmental Christmas tree.

Nobody explained anything to him. No truck-kun. No god. No system. No tutorial. Just panic, robes, and a sudden, unpleasant awareness that he now had disciples and responsibilities.

The food was bland. The tea was bitter. The sword was heavy. His new spiritual core buzzed like a faulty charger. And every time he looked in a mirror, he had to process the fact that Shen Qingqiu was—unfortunately—beautiful.

Then a familiar idiot happened.

Shang Qinghua. No—Airplane. The rat author in the flesh. Slightly twitchy, suspiciously overstressed, always hovering around like a ghost that forgot its unfinished business.

And to make it worse, he had a System.

“A what?” Shen Qingqiu had whispered.

“It talks to me,” Shang Qinghua whispered back, eyes wide. “It threatens me.”

“Well,” Shen Qingqiu sighed, “tell it to go f—”

They never finished that conversation, but everything spiraled from there.

Which brought him to the present.

A desk overflowing with badly written disciple papers. His brush dragging red lines over characters that offended him aesthetically.

And Shang Qinghua’s head on his lap.

Possibly asleep. Possibly just resting. Every once in a while, his eyes would open, unfocused but clearly pointed in Shen Qingqiu’s direction, like he was checking to make sure reality was still intact. Like he was checking him out. Not in a gay way, obviously.

Somewhere along the way, Shen Qingqiu had stopped questioning when the An Ding Peak Lord began using him as furniture.