Far from the sect, nestled between two mountain ridges, the lake lay undisturbed.
Its waters shimmered with sky-colored calm, reflecting soft clouds and sleepy peaks. Cranes stalked the shallows. Fish traced lazy circles beneath the glassy surface. Wind skimmed across the top like it didn't want to leave fingerprints.
For a while… everything was still.
Then, in the distance—
A silhouette.
Awkward. Upright.
Floating.
No, not floating—clinging.
A half-submerged man drifted through the lake, arms hooked over a crooked log, eyes wide with something between desperation and disbelief.
His robes hung off him like soggy bedsheets.
Hair slapped his face.
Legs flailed beneath the surface like he was trying to wrestle gravity in reverse.
He coughed. Once.
Then twice.
Then groaned.
"...I don't know how to swim."
The log said nothing.
Lai Ming looked around.
Water. Mountains. Sky.
More water.
"…Oh."
A beat passed.
Then:
"Wasn't I just eating a donut?"
The log creaked as he shifted his grip.
"…Guess not."
Another beat.
"...Am I f**king dead?"
The log creaked again, unhelpfully.
Lai Ming sighed, leaning his cheek against the damp wood like it was his new therapist.
"Well… this sucks."
A soft snort answered him from the shore.
He looked up.
A sheep stood near the edge of the lake, muzzle dipped low, sipping water with monk-like focus. Its wool was thick, slightly dirty, and gave off the energy of someone who knew the exact value of silence.
Their eyes met.
Lai Ming blinked.
"…Yo."
The sheep blinked back.
A pause. Deep. Sacred.
He shifted on the log, trying to get closer without actually doing anything useful.
"You mind helping a guy out?"
The sheep chewed something that definitely wasn't grass.
It turned slightly.
Then—slowly, deliberately—took a step farther from the water.
"...Right. Cool. Thought so."
The breeze was gentle. The sky was annoyingly perfect. Birds chirped. Leaves rustled.
Lai Ming floated.
The log shifted.
His feet kicked out weakly behind him, doing more to splash than steer.
"I can see the shore," he muttered. "I feel like I should be there already."
His head turned slightly. There it was: solid ground, not even ten meters away. Trees. Dirt. Freedom.
He narrowed his eyes at it like it had insulted his mother.
"…Why does it look so far?"
The log creaked again, drifting sideways.
Lai Ming flailed his arms a bit—pointlessly.
The log spun.
"Okay, that's fine. A little spin never killed anyone."
He gripped the sides, legs kicking awkwardly.
The sheep, standing near the shoreline, bleated once.
Short. Nasal. Judgmental.
"Don't you baa at me," he snapped, water splashing his face. "I've died. I think. Respect the rebirth."
The sheep stared.
Then slowly, silently… walked away.
"Coward," he muttered. "Betrayed by livestock."
A wave rolled in.
The log lurched.
Lai Ming's eyes widened.
"Oh—no no no—"
SPLASH.
THUD.
A wet body slammed onto the muddy shore with all the grace of a potato launched from a catapult.
"—Khh—F*ck—!"
Lai Ming rolled once.
Then twice.
Then groaned like a man who'd just been rejected by the ground itself.
Face-first in the dirt.
One leg bent under him like it gave up.
Elbow slammed into the one sharp rock on the entire beach.
He coughed, spat out a mouthful of mud, slapped the earth like it owed him rent.
"Who… the f**k… designed this lake?!"
He coughed. Spat. Slapped the earth like it personally betrayed him.
"Piece of sh*t log… stupid sheep… dumb—ow—tree roots—"
He sat up slowly, with the tragic dignity of a man realizing this was real life now.
His robes clung to him like betrayal—soaked, saggy, and stained with half the lake.
One sandal was gone. Just… vanished.
His other foot was bare and muddy, toes twitching like they were considering retirement.
His hair?
A dripping mess of leaves, dirt, and jungle twigs.
He looked like he'd lost a fight with a rice field and a thunderstorm at the same time.
But his eyes?
Still alive.
Still annoyed.
Still flickering with that "I will nap again, even if I have to kill nature to do it" energy.
He looked around.
Massive trees.
Thick vines.
Jungle air so thick it smelled like flowers and wet socks had a baby.
Birdsong in the distance.
Something buzzed near his ear with clear malice.
"…Jungle."
He blinked.
"…I'm in a f**king jungle."
He laughed once.
A short, broken wheeze.
"Yeah. Of course. Get reborn and tossed straight into Jungle: Hard Mode. Love that. That's great."
He slapped his cheek lightly.
"Alright. Focus. You're alive. Probably."
He stood up.
Immediately stepped on something sharp.
"F*CK—!"
Birds flew away.
The trees echoed back his pain, like even the forest was judging him.
Lai Ming stumbled back, clutching his foot. He limped in a circle like a wounded duck, swearing at everything around him.
"Sharp-ass demon rock… jungle lookin' all peaceful and sh*t, then BOOM—pain. Love that. Real immersive."
He stopped.
Looked down.
Just… stared at the dirt.
Mud stuck to his soaked robe. His knees were scraped. A twig was lodged in his sleeve somehow. His toe throbbed like it owed someone money.
He didn't say anything for a second.
Then he squinted at the ground like it was a person who just interrupted his sleep.
"…I was literally about to nap, bro."
The mud didn't respond. Because it was mud. Like the a**hole it was.
He looked up at the sky. So blue. So peaceful. Birds flying around like nothing had happened.
"I swear to all the heavenly realms," he muttered, "if this world thinks it can rob me of naps and dignity in the same f**king hour…"
He trailed off.
Then sighed.
Loud. Deep. Spiritual.
The kind of sigh that came from the soul of a man who had just been reincarnated into a jungle with no bed, no food, no idea what the hell was happening, and—most importantly—no nap.
"Alright," he muttered. "You wanna play rough?"
He slapped his robe twice, shook his foot like it would help, and took one step forward—
Crack.
A branch snapped under him.
He didn't even flinch.
He just whispered, dead calm:
"…F**k you too."
GRRRRRRRRrrrrrhhnnn.
His stomach growled. Loud. Rude.
Lai Ming blinked.
Then looked down like his own gut had just betrayed him.
"…You too?"
He rubbed his belly like he was trying to calm a petulant child.
"Alright, alright. We eat. Chill."
He turned in a slow circle, scanning the jungle.
Trees. Trees. More trees.
A single squirrel chittering up high like it knew where food was—but wasn't telling.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Any fruits? Nuts? Mysterious glowing berries that'll probably kill me but taste like mango?"
Nothing.
He glanced deeper into the jungle.
Dense shadows. Noises. Something growled far off—too big to be friendly.
He immediately took half a step back.
"Nah. Nope. You got me once, world. I'm not getting mauled by a f**king tiger on Day One."
Another tree. Another check. Nothing.
"This place really said, 'Congratulations on reincarnation. Here's your welcome gift: f**k-all.'"
He crouched, poked at the grass. Nothing edible. Unless he wanted to start chewing roots like a wild boar.
His stomach grumbled again, quieter this time. Like it, too, was realizing how screwed they were.
Lai Ming stood up straight. Stared into the jungle.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's start small. Find a stick. Throw it at something. Eat whatever doesn't run."
A pause.
"…Unless it throws the stick back. Then we scream and flee."
He nodded at his own logic.
Then paused again.
Looked down at himself.
His robe stuck to his skin like damp tissue paper.
Every step felt like dragging a wet curtain through a swamp.
A leaf slid down the back of his neck. It might've been alive.
"Okay, no. This ain't it."
With all the grace of a man past giving a sh*t, Lai Ming stripped.
The outer robe went first—soaked, heavy, it splatted onto the jungle floor like it died mid-air.
Then the sash, tangled and muddy.
Then the undershirt—sticky and smelly enough to qualify as a biohazard.
When he looked down, finally breathing free air again…
he froze.
"…Oh."
This was not his body.
His hands? Thinner. Callused in weird places.
Chest? Lean, wiry muscle.
The rest?
He blinked. Took a half-step back from himself.
"…Okay."
A long, beat of silence.
"…This is not the torso of a man who ate donuts for breakfast."
He looked up at the sky.
"I didn't ask for this. Why would you give me—this?"
He wrapped the wet underwear back on with the urgency of a man putting duct tape on a crime scene.
"Nope. Not mine. That's not mine. We're not doing this."
He cleared his throat. Brushed dirt off his shoulder.
Tried to pretend the last thirty seconds didn't happen.
"Anyway. Fire. Yes. Let's go emotionally recover by rubbing sticks together like a caveman."
He glanced down once more.
Then shook his head and marched toward the nearest dry-looking branch.
"This body better come with a manual. Or at least a damn snack."
He stepped forward—and blinked.
…That felt light.
Another step. No knee pain. No belly slapping against his thigh.
Just clean motion. Controlled. Easy.
He jogged. Just a little.
Didn't hurt.
Didn't jiggle.
"…Yo."
He spun once, just to test it.
His body responded like a well-oiled machine. Fast. Balanced.
His foot caught a vine and he instinctively hopped over it without faceplanting.
"Hah! What the—am I a ninja now?"
His voice echoed through the trees.
Something rustled in the branches overhead. He immediately stopped celebrating.
"I mean—a silent ninja. Stealth. Very discreet."
He spotted a cluster of dry sticks under a thick tree canopy.
Bent down, scooped them up into his arms.
No back pain. No wheezing. No groaning.
He smiled. Actually smiled.
"I could get used to this…"
Returning to the lakeside, he dropped the sticks into a messy pile near a flat patch of dirt.
Then turned back toward the forest.
He wasn't done yet.
His eyes scanned the shadows until they landed on a solid fallen log, thick and dry.
With a sharp inhale, he crouched—then lifted.
His arms strained a little, but the log came up.
Carried like a beast.
"Yo. Yo. This is fun."
He half-jogged back, barefoot and wet, dragging the log like it owed him money.
Dumped it down with a thud next to the pile.
"I'm not just a ninja. I'm a fking jungle warrior."
He dusted his hands off, slapped the log once with approval.
"Fire time, b*tch."
That confidence lasted about ten seconds.
He crouched beside the pile of sticks, grabbed a few thinner twigs, snapped them down to size like he'd seen in survival videos.
Then found two rocks nearby. They looked… fire-y.
Fire-adjacent, at least.
He banged them together.
Clink.
Nothing.
Again.
Clink.
Clinkclinkclink.
"…These rocks are fking defective."
Tossed one away. Grabbed another.
Clink.
Clank.
One slipped and nearly took off his thumbnail.
"Fk!"
Deep breath. Patience.
He tried rubbing sticks instead.
He rubbed sticks like a caveman on a caffeine blender.
Nothing.
Just sore arms and existential heatstroke.
"WHY ARE YOU DRY IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BURN!?"
The stick snapped in half.
He just sat there.
Breathing heavy.
Sweat dripping down his forehead like he was mid-marathon.
The sun shifted slightly.
He looked up at it, shielding his eyes with one hand.
High in the sky, but not directly overhead.
Kinda… leaning down?
He squinted hard.
"…Must be like… jungle o'clock. I dunno. Four? Three-thirty?"
A beat.
"Whatever. Fire o'clock now."
He wiped his face, hands blackened with dirt and shame.
Locked in again. This time with extra disrespect in his stare.
Like the sticks personally owed him money.
He bent over, drilled another twig into the log groove, mouth clenched, arms working like a man grinding for EXP.
Whisk.
Whiskwhiskwhisk—
A puff.
Just a puff.
His eyes widened.
"No fking way."**
He leaned in too hard—blew it out by accident.
Dead silence.
Then:
"NOOOOO—"
Banged his head against the log once. Then twice.
Then just rested there for a second, forehead to bark, whispering curses to the ancestors of all firewood.
Tried again. More careful this time.
Whisk. Whisk. Whisk…
A spark.
He stopped.
Didn't breathe.
It flickered.
He cupped his hands and leaned close.
Blew gently.
The spark caught.
Smoke curled upward.
Then—
Fwoom.
A small flame.
A real flame.
He scrambled back like it might explode, stared for a second like he didn't believe it.
Then—
"YESSSS! HAH—TAKE THAT, NATURE!"
He jumped up and spun around once like a victory dance.
Almost tripped over his own underwear.
"I AM THE FLAME GOD."
He pointed at a tree. "You! Respect me."
The tree didn't answer.
He wiped the sweat from his face, chest heaving.
Hair stuck to his forehead. Dirt smeared across his arms.
The jungle warrior was now the jungle disaster.
But…
There was a fire.
Real, warm, crackling fire.
He sat down slowly in front of it.
"…Hell yeah."
The flames crackled, warm and defiant.
Lai Ming sat like a man who'd just won a war using rocks, spit, and profanity.
His stomach, however, hadn't gotten the memo.
Grrrrrhhhhh.
Lai Ming winced. "Jesus—how do you still have fuel to complain?"
He clutched his belly.
Cold sweat mixed with dirt on his arms. His ribs ached from more than just hunger now.
The fire danced, mocking him with the promise of warmth but no food.
Then—
Crunch.
He froze.
That wasn't firewood.
That was a step.
A slow, casual, leaf-crunching step from just behind the treeline.
Lai Ming picked up his stick again, half-heartedly.
"I swear to f**king god, if that's a jungle bear, I'm jumping into the fire."
Another step. Then silence.
And then—like a ghost from a fever dream—
It appeared.
The sheep.
Majestic. Round. Unbothered.
Like it had wandered off earlier just to pee and came back to check if he was still a dumb*ss.
Lai Ming blinked. "No f**king way."
The sheep took one long look at him. Walked up to the fire.
Sniffed the smoke. Flicked its ears.
Then… it dropped something.
A clump of uprooted greens.
Ragged leaves. Thick stems. A little dirt still clinging to the roots.
Lai Ming stared. "You… brought me food?"
The sheep said nothing.
Just turned around.
Chewed.
Then walked away.
Like a mysterious anime mentor who refuses to explain their backstory.
Gone.
Again.
Lai Ming looked down at the bundle.
Picked it up. Sniffed it.
Didn't smell poisonous.
His stomach was practically screaming.
"…Screw it."
He took a bite.
Bitter. Kind of stringy. Probably the taste equivalent of sadness.
But it was edible.
He chewed. Sat back. Fire warming his knees.
Stared into the jungle.
Then whispered, through a slow, grateful exhale:
"…F**king giga chad."
The jungle dimmed.
Orange bled into gray.
Gray into blue.
Crickets started their chorus.
Lai Ming poked the fire with a stick, eyes darting between the flames and the shadows dancing beyond them.
"Alright. Just gotta… keep it going. Keep the fire going. No big deal."
He tore off another bite of the greens.
Chewed.
Chewed some more.
Still bitter. Still weirdly fibrous.
Like chewing a wet sock dipped in cough syrup.
But it filled the void.
Kinda.
"Giga chad grass," he muttered.
"Tastes like sh*t. Saves lives."
He tossed a few more twigs onto the fire.
The flames flared up, briefly bold.
The shadows flinched.
Then crept closer again.
He sat cross-legged, stick in hand, eyes flicking from tree to tree.
Rustle.
Snap.
Crack.
A leaf fell.
Lai Ming jumped.
Then immediately cursed himself.
"It's a fking leaf, bro. Calm the fk down."
Another twig popped in the fire.
He turned.
Nothing.
Every sound was louder now.
Every breeze suspicious.
Every damn rustle a death flag.
He tightened his grip on the stick.
"I'm not scared," he whispered.
The wind disagreed.
Something howled.
Far off.
"…Okay. I'm mildly concerned."
The flames hissed.
Smoke curled into the sky—
up into a night so wide it could swallow thoughts.
Stars burned overhead.
Too many.
Like the gods forgot how to count.
He stared for a moment.
Then two.
Then whispered:
"…No way that's normal."
The fire cracked again.
A whisper of heat on his cheek.
He glanced around.
Still jungle.
Still threats.
Still alive.
Lai Ming didn't sleep.
He just sat there.
Guarding his little fire like it was his firstborn.
And when the horizon finally started to glow…
When that first sliver of gold cracked through the trees…
He exhaled like he'd survived a war.
The sun was up.
And he was still alive.
Lai Ming grinned.
"B*tch," he muttered to the jungle.