Ruthless, scheming, and no self-sacrificing saint. At the peak of immortality, my name will have a place among the great.
At three in the morning, in a rented apartment, the ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts. Chen Mo stared at the words “To be continued” on his computer screen. The cigarette between his fingers burned his skin before he snapped back to his senses. The worst cultivation-novel writer on the entire internet, he had just received a termination notice from the website. The medical report that popped up in the lower-right corner of the screen felt like a vicious taunt: late-stage lung cancer.
“Damn it, I’m not even qualified to leave a story unfinished.” He laughed at himself and grabbed the bottle of Erguotou on the desk, gulping it down. As the alcohol burned his throat, his heart suddenly clenched as if gripped by an invisible hand. Before his consciousness sank into darkness, the last thing he saw was the name of the protagonist readers had cursed as a “saintly hypocrite”: Mo Chen.
When he opened his eyes again, glaring sunlight streamed through a carved wooden window. Chen Mo struggled to sit up and found himself lying on an antique wooden bed, dressed in a coarse linen robe. Stranger still, his mind was filled with memories that did not belong to him. The original owner of this body was named Mo Chen, a collateral relative of the Mo family, a third-rate clan in Qingyang City. Born with a muddled spiritual root, he had been written off as useless. Yesterday, during the clan trials, his cousin Mo Feng had shoved him down a flight of stone steps, leaving him with a blow to the back of the head.
“Mo Chen?” Chen Mo felt the lump on the back of his head and suddenly burst out laughing. “I’ve written hundreds of villains to their deaths. You lot are no match for me, you backward locals!”
