In the spring of the fifth year of the Da Sheng Dynasty, the capital was in an uproar—if only in rumor.

  Rumor had it that the youngest son of General Nangong, Gong, had dashed into the pleasure house of boys at night and he was found in a private room, carousing with pretty boys and drinking themselves senseless for three days.

  Three days later—

  Lian, Gong’s favorite, enraged for the sake of his beloved, took up a sword and rushed to the brothel, binding the young master and hauling him off to be confined.

  The Emperor flew into a rage: the General’s family was stripped of command, every member thrown into prison.

  And yet, the next morning, all of them—save for Gong—had simply vanished and disappeared.

  It is called the “Bordello Coup d'état” in history.

  From then on, everyone talks:

  "Genearl Nangong’s youngest son, the capital’s top rake—wanton and wild, with demons in his wake; he stirred up the court, brought chaos to all, and ended up trapped behind prison walls."

  Surely.

  As for me, I have but one thing to say:

  —What a load of nonsense.

  I won’t own it. It’s all made up; amuse yourself with the tale if you must, but don’t pin it on me.

  After all, who would believe that I— Gong, the youngest son of a great general —am actually the tragic lead of a long-abandoned, never-finished old melodrama?

  The original story died half-written and the hero’s fate was written in misery.

  And now the plot has stalled on the “protagonist jumps off a cliff” beat. Beneath my feet: a precipice. Ahead: blades and blood.

  One step back and I shatter; one step forward and NPCs will mince me into mince meat.

  A system at my side buzzes insistently:

  Please host, immediately complete this plot point: voluntarily leap from cliff and obtain extraordinary encounter.

  I snorted, my hands were bound, my hair a mess, a bloody lash mark streaked across my face.

  “Douche.”

  System: …Please cooperate with plot progression as soon as possible.

  I glanced around and let out a long, heavy breath.

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  Three months ago I thought I was simply the little master of the famed General’s household.

  And now?

  I was suddenly told that my lover is the leader of a demonic cult, spending every day draping me in affection while secretly plotting his schemes.

  The host of the male brothel is his right-hand, and even the jade pendant on my chest is actually a national military token.

  And me—

  I’m written to be useless, cursed with bad fortune, all skills at zero, floating on a single thread of the written fate.

  But you want me to jump off a cliff?

  Nope.

  If the plot insists on pushing, I will stubbornly refuse. If they want me dead, I’ll play dead.

  Yes, I am an awakening type of protagonist—but what awoke in me was nothing but insubordination.

  The wind howled at my cheek, but it couldn’t match the tumult inside me—wild and cold as the storm in December.

  I looked about again and pressed a hand to my forehead, sighing.

  How quaint.

  “Gong.” That familiar soft, pliant voice curled up to me again, but today the charm was gone—replaced by something cold. “If you have any shred of conscience left, tell me where the military token is. Then I won’t have to push you this far.”

  I stood on the cliff’s lip, wind whipping my hair, my robes snapping like flags—a lone silhouette, defiant and desperate at the world’s end.

  I turned my head to the system. “Can I… just stay up here?”

  The system replied in its usual flat cadence: “Friendly reminder: according to the setting—if you don’t go to hell, who will?”

  I snorted. “If you want to go to hell, go yourself. Don’t drag me along.”

  “Regrettably, this system has no physical form”, it answered.

  “Fine, I give up. Can I just… step back?”

  I shifted half a foot forward and shouted at Lian, who still stood a short distance away in his red robes, unnervingly calm: “Lian, I’ve thought about it. The cliff’s windy and slippery—too dangerous. Let’s go back to the mansion. I’ll show you where the token is. It’s really—”

  A metallic clang cut me off. Someone had drawn a sword.

  In the gusting wind, the figure in black spun; the blade thrust straight for Lian’s chest.

  My mind went blank. “Watch out!” I yelled.

  “Traitor!” Lian’s eyes hardened. He sprang aside, but the sword’s rush still nicked the hem of his robe.

  I scrambled, shouting again, “Careful!” The attacker’s swing missed Lian, but by some cruel luck the blade—or the momentum—hooked me instead. I was yanked, unbalanced, and my body lurched toward the void.

  “Wh—why are you dragging me?!” I demanded.

  Silence. No answer.

  Then, in a chorus of curses and protests, we toppled together down the cliff—far more dramatically (and disturbingly naturally) than the system ever would have arranged.

  Wind howled in my ears as I tumbled: three flips, head-first, feet akimbo, twisting like a grotesque living pretzel.

  “SYSTEM!!” I screamed, throat raw. “Is there… any way to survive?!”

  The system replied instantly: In standard settings, after cliff-jumping the protagonist may experience one of the following: (1) stumble into a former-dynasty secret and acquire supreme martial arts, mastering them within three months; (2) encounter an immortal and receive a cultivation manual, beginning the path of Dao; (3) be rescued by a white-haired fairy and start dual cultivation toward ascension…

  My eyes lit up; I nearly kicked off the cliff again in excitement. “Which one am I? Which?! Tell me!”

  A cold pause.

  “Regrettably, none of the above will occur for you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Due to setting restrictions, you are a useless protagonist. Cliff-jumping grants no bonus clues.”

  I felt like I might suffocate with indignation. “Then why the hell am I jumping?!”

  “To advance the main plot, the story will continue. Good luck landing—head first.”

  “You—”

  Before I could finish, my skull slammed into a jagged rock. Stars burst across my vision; pink petals danced in my sight. The last thing I managed to register before blackness closed in:

  Above the cliff, Lian had shoved a black-clad attacker aside, standing there with an expression that, absurdly, looked like someone desperately hunting for a privy.

  My chest dropped. My final coherent thought was useless and plain: military token, ancestry, court intrigue—forget it. My head is probably about to turn to tofu.