I never imagined that one day I’d transmigrate into the book I’d written. A maid beside me quietly reminded me that it was time to prepare for the martial arts contest to find a husband. This was bad. A delicate liberal arts student like me never fought, and the closest I’d ever come to martial arts was the tai chi class I took as an elective in college. Was I really going to perform a whole set of health-preserving tai chi in front of a crowd? The maid kept trying to reassure me, praising my kung fu as unmatched in heaven or earth. With a wave of my hand, I could strike down a whole crowd from across a mountain; with a stomp, I could churn rivers and seas and bring mountains crashing down. If I hadn’t written this story myself, I’d have thought I’d transmigrated into a xianxia novel. Girl, there are limits to how much you can flatter someone.
