CHAPTER 1 — RED

The ceiling was wrong.

Wei Hongzhan registered the fact before he registered anything else. Concrete, cracked in three places, stained by years of leaking pipes. Not the smooth steel panels of his last quarters. Not the forest canopy he had fallen asleep under. Just damp grey plaster and the faint smell of mildew that clung to old military dormitories everywhere.

Something warm and heavy rested on his sternum. Small claws pricked through thin fabric, and a soft, rhythmic snore—more like a purr—vibrated against his ribs. He lowered his gaze.

A silver dragon no larger than a housecat lay curled there, scales gleaming like fresh frost under moonlight. Its tail twitched once in sleep, the tip brushing his collarbone. Wei Hongzhan noted the creature’s presence the same way he noted the weight of a new sidearm: useful, unexpected, and not yet a problem.

To his left, on the edge of the pillow, sat a white qilin cub the size of a large housecat. Golden hooves tucked neatly beneath it, a single iridescent horn catching the weak morning light from the single narrow window. Ancient golden eyes regarded him with the patience of something that had watched empires rise and fall and was mildly irritated to be doing paperwork about it now.

The qilin spoke first, voice clear, formal, and carrying the faintest sigh of long-suffering.

“Host. You are awake. Good. I am Língquè, Spirit Throne System, bound to your soul by the terms of your transmigration. You died. Camping accident. Ravine. Very undignified. Your soul has been placed in the body of Bai Yaoling, first-year E-rank omega student at Tianque Imperial Mecha Academy, Room 407, East Wing. The original owner’s consciousness has been… relocated. Politely.”

Wei Hongzhan blinked once. The motion felt different. Lashes longer. Vision sharper. He lifted a hand—slender, pale, unfamiliar—and watched deep crimson strands slide across his knuckles like fresh blood. The hair had been white when the body went to sleep last night. The mirror across the room confirmed it: a face that was not his, framed by waves of violent red that fell past narrow shoulders. Amber eyes stared back, calm and assessing.

He sat up. The silver dragon grumbled, rolled, and resettled in his lap without waking.

Língquè continued as though reading from a contract neither of them had signed willingly.

“Your mission is simple in objective, complex in execution. The original novel’s shou protagonist—Shen Liuqing—must awaken as the SSS-class alpha he was always meant to be. You will guide, provoke, and protect that process. Completion grants return to your original world with full memories and enhanced spiritual capacity. Failure means permanent residency here as Bai Yaoling, E-rank, no powers, no exit clause. The original plot has already begun. Bullying. Arranged marriage. Imminent suicide. None of which will now occur on schedule.”

Wei Hongzhan swung his legs over the side of the narrow bed. Bare feet met cold wooden floorboards. The chill grounded him. He stood, tested balance—slender frame, lighter than he was used to, but the muscle memory of fifteen years drilling soldiers remained. He made the bed with precise corners, the way he had been taught before most of these students were born.

Only then did he speak.

“Fine.”

The single syllable dropped into the quiet room like a calibration weight.

Língquè’s golden eyes narrowed. “That is… your entire reaction?”

Wei Hongzhan crossed to the small desk. An E-rank badge lay there, silver edges already tarnished. He pinned it to the collar of the plain academy uniform hanging on the wall hook. The fabric smelled of old soap and faint fear-sweat that no longer belonged to the body.

He turned back to the qilin. “You summarized the novel. I listened. I assessed. The situation is suboptimal but manageable. I have operated under worse parameters.” He glanced down at the silver dragon, now stretching luxuriously across the blanket. “And I appear to have brought reinforcements.”

The dragon chirped once in its sleep, as if agreeing.

Língquè’s tail flicked. “Most hosts at least scream. Or faint. Or demand explanations for forty minutes. Your emotional range is… concerningly efficient.”

Wei Hongzhan allowed the ghost of a smile—nothing more than a slight curve at the corner of his mouth. “Efficiency is its own reward.”

He walked to the door. The nameplate read, in neat block characters:

**Bai Yaoling / Shen Liuqing — Room 407**

The second bed was neatly made, pillow still indented from recent use. Shen Liuqing had already left for breakfast. Good. Wei Hongzhan preferred to meet new variables on a full stomach.

He stepped into the hallway. Damp stone walls, flickering overhead lights, the distant clatter of students moving toward the East Wing cafeteria. The air carried the universal academy smell: cheap instant noodles, engine grease, and the faint metallic tang of spiritual residue from overnight training.

Wei Hongzhan adjusted the E-rank badge at his collar, felt the unfamiliar weight of long crimson hair against his back, and started walking.

Behind him, inside the now-empty room, a small white qilin rubbed its forehead with one golden hoof and muttered to the ceiling.

“Fine. He said ‘fine.’ I have been assigned to the one host who treats cosmic reincarnation like a minor equipment malfunction.”

The silver dragon lifted its head, yawned, and went back to sleep.

In the corridor, Wei Hongzhan’s steps were quiet, measured, and utterly unhurried. Somewhere ahead, breakfast waited. And somewhere in this building, a quiet omega named Shen Liuqing was about to meet the roommate who had decided—calmly, deliberately, and without a trace of panic—that the entire original plot was going to be dismantled before lunch.

**Author's Note:**

Língquè: I want it on record that I prepared seventeen different emotional support protocols for the standard host reaction. Crying. Denial. Bargaining. The host used none of them.

Wei Hongzhan: They were unnecessary.

Língquè: You said “Fine” to being dead.

Wei Hongzhan: It was accurate.

Língquè: …I am going to need a vacation.

(Author has already fled the premises and is hiding behind the calibration machine.)

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