I Have 91 Days Left to Live

The day I transmigrated, a number appeared before my eyes: 91.

No one else could see it. It didn't glow or make a sound, and I couldn't touch it. It simply hovered a foot in front of me.

It took me all night to figure out what it was: I could see the outcome of every choice, a silent three-second vision. The price was that each time I looked, the number dropped by one.

It was the number of days I had left to live.

So this place wasn't called the world of cultivation. It was called a ledger. Take one path, and I lose a day. Take another, and I lose three. Hesitate and do nothing, and I might die that very day.

The steward ordered me to dump the dregs behind the mountain at midnight. Rule Nine of the sect code said: Servants may not enter the herb garden within three li of the back mountain. Violators will have their legs broken. I was the one who cleaned the furnaces. I knew what was in that bucket of dregs, and I knew five people had died doing this job in the past three years.

I looked at two possible outcomes. In one, only a single shoe remained in the muddy ground. In the other, I was hanging from the archway, a wooden placard around my neck bearing two words: