Ye Sanqi's funeral was a simple affair.
In this world, Ye Sanqi had no blood relatives left.
Most of the mourners were his construction site coworkers and a few neighbors.
As they watched the girl in coarse mourning clothes standing in the funeral hall without shedding a single tear, they couldn't help sighing behind her back.
"That child must be in shock."
"Poor thing, losing her father so young."
Ye Ruoxi wasn't in shock.
She simply couldn't cry.
Her tears seemed to have dried up completely that night.
Her world had been drained of all color, leaving only an impenetrable, suffocating gray.
She watched Zhang Cuilan.
Dressed in mourning attire, the woman wailed hysterically before the coffin, her voice hoarse, collapsing several times in exaggerated grief.
Neighbors rushed to comfort her.
Ye Ruoxi knew those tears were for show.
Because just the night before,
she had seen Zhang Cuilan in her room,
counting the money in that envelope over and over by moonlight streaming through the window.
The compensation money, combined with donations from the construction site and coworkers,
totaled 103,627 yuan and 50 cents.
Ye Ruoxi had an excellent memory—one glance was enough to sear that number into her mind.
For this household, it was a fortune.
When Zhang Cuilan counted the money, she didn't cry.
There wasn't even a trace of sorrow on her face.
The day after Ye Sanqi was buried,
Little Ma came again.
He carried a net bag of fruit and a small red plastic pouch containing money.
His eyes were still red.
"Little sister..."
He crouched down, unable to meet Ye Ruoxi's gaze,
"This is just a small token from me. Buy yourself something nice."
He tried to tuck the money into her pocket.
Zhang Cuilan charged out from the house and shoved him away violently.
"What are you doing here? Come to laugh at our misery?" she shrieked,
"You jinx! If it weren't for you, my Ye would still be alive! Give him back to me!"
She snatched the money and fruit from Little Ma's hands and hurled them to the ground.
"We don't want your filthy money! Get out! Never come back!"
Little Ma's face flushed crimson, his lips trembling wordlessly.
He glanced at Ye Ruoxi's expressionless face.
Finally, he fled in humiliation.
Ye Ruoxi watched the scattered bills being blown away by the wind.
She also watched that retreating, broken figure disappear into the distance.
She knew that the last echo of kindness her father left in this world had just been severed.
The pillar of their household had truly collapsed.
Zhang Cuilan's indifference toward Ye Ruoxi quickly curdled into venom.
She no longer bothered to hide it.
"Bad luck charm!"
"If it weren't for you, your father would still be alive!"
"He only rushed off work that day because he wanted to buy you some stupid cake—that's why the accident happened!"
She piled all the blame onto Ye Ruoxi.
Onto that nonexistent cream cake.
Ye Ruoxi didn't argue.
She learned silence.
Because she knew any response would only invite more vicious curses, or worse—a beating.
She became the most superfluous presence in that house.
A living, breathing testament to guilt.
The 100,000 yuan wasn't an insignificant sum.
Yet it didn't sustain the household for long.
Zhang Cuilan made a trip to the city.
When she returned, a gaudy gold necklace hung around her throat,
glinting obnoxiously in the sunlight.
She admired herself in the mirror for a long time,
wearing a satisfied smile that had been absent for years.
But the joy was fleeting.
She started gathering with other women to play mahjong.
At first, it was small stakes—just a few yuan per game. Then the bets grew steadily larger.
She lost more than she won.
The gold necklace soon shrank to a gold ring.
Then dwindled to a pair of tiny earrings.
Finally, nothing remained.
The money flowed away across the mahjong table like water.
Once again, the household plunged into hardship.
This time, there was no one left to hold up their crumbling sky.
Zhang Cuilan had to find work.
With no particular skills, she could only wash dishes at restaurants.
Towers of greasy plates loomed like mountains.
She lasted less than a month before quitting, complaining it was too exhausting.
After a screaming match with the owner, she walked out.
Eventually, Zhang Cuilan used the last portion of the compensation money to buy a secondhand covered tricycle.
She stocked up on pots, pans, and some foldable tables,
setting up a spicy skewer stall at the night market.
Rumor had it she'd even purchased a secret recipe from an established shop.
From that day on, Ye Ruoxi's life split cleanly in two.
By day, she was the silent, top-ranking student at school.
By night, she became the nimble little helper at the night market—skewering ingredients, washing endless bowls.
After school each day, she had to complete all the household chores first.
Sweeping floors. Washing clothes for two.
Then she'd follow Zhang Cuilan, riding that clattering tricycle to the night market stall.
Her hands were still small, her fingernails tiny.
Yet they had to skewer slippery cubes of tofu, kelp, and potato slices onto icy bamboo sticks.
Sometimes the sharp ends stabbed under her nails—white-hot pain shooting up her fingers.
She didn't dare cry out. Just sucked at the wound briefly before continuing.
In winter,
the night market wind sliced at her face like knives.
She'd plunge bowls crusted with red oil and broth into freezing water,
scrubbing them over and over.
Her hands soon developed frostbite.
First swelling red, then purpling, finally splitting open in bloody cracks.
Submerging them in water felt like being stabbed by countless needles simultaneously.
She didn't dare complain.
Just gritted her teeth and shoved her hands deeper into the icy water.
Until they went completely numb, losing all sensation.
Then it didn't hurt anymore.
Her dinners usually consisted of customers' leftovers.
Zhang Cuilan would collect the untouched, relatively intact skewers into a bowl.
"Eat! Then get back to work!"
Sometimes it was overcooked vegetables.
Sometimes just a few unwanted sausage sticks.
Ye Ruoxi always ate quickly.
Then resumed weaving between greasy tables—clearing dishes, wiping surfaces.
Closing time rarely came before 11 PM.
She'd help load everything back onto the tricycle.
At home, she still had to wash and prep all the ingredients for the next day.
By the time she finally collapsed into bed,
her bones felt shattered.
Yet at 6 AM sharp, she'd rise again for school.
This life had no end in sight.
Physical exhaustion and emotional abuse pressed down on her like twin mountains, crushing her breathless.
But she didn't break.
She grew quieter. Tougher.
She knew tears were useless.
In this household, tears were the cheapest currency.
They bought no sympathy—only invited Zhang Cuilan's sharper barbs.
"What are you crying for? I'm not dead yet! Save your tears for my funeral!"
't think I'm that capable, I'm just trying my best to stay alive. I've been kind all my life, never did anything bad, yet worldly suffering spared me not one bit. The human world is a nice place, but I won't come back in my next life. A kind young man, who wanted to just get by singing, but through repeated deceits and betrayals, has gone down an irredeemable path.
e, Immortal Body, Transmigration, System, Progression Fantasy, Academy Setting, Third-Person Perspective. Alternate Title: Transmigrating into a High Martial World and Reading Live Comments. Bad news: I transmigrated. This is a terrifying high-martial world, and my original, pathetically weak body fell into a coma and never woke up. Good news: I got a Popularity Points system upon arrival. I can see live comments and even create an unkillable alternate identity. Starting out, the alternate identity has all stats at 1. The system tells me that to grow stronger, I must participate in the plot, gain popularity points to allocate stats and grow stronger, and ultimately awaken my original body. And so, carrying my original body on my back, I officially entered Huaqing Academy, where the story's protagonist resides. From that moment on, Chen Guan kicked the original plot to pieces. Live Comments: [Doesn't anyone find this mysterious coffin guy creepy? He can summon indescribable grey misty hands.] [Is this guy a hero or a villain? What kind of onion became a spirit?] [By the way, does anyone know who's in the coffin? Shouldn't the debt for saving his life be repaid by now?] [According to unofficial histories, the person in the coffin was Chen Guan's first love. Their love was once passionate and earth-shattering, but they were separated by life and death due to worldly circumstances. What a star-crossed pair.] ... Years later, the world knew of a demon god born from a coffin, shrouded in grey mist, impossible to gaze upon directly. His foremost divine emissary often wielded a scythe, reaping lives like the god of death. As war approached, facing former friends and a boundless sea of enemies, Chen Guan merely raised his scythe. "Would you like to dance as well?"
rowess are unmatched, commanding a million-strong army! Yet, the Emperor wants to depose him for the sake of a false prince? Hold on, are you throwing me into some female-oriented romance plot? How can I tolerate this? With a grand wave of his hand—the Nine Clan Extraction Technique! Slander the Emperor? Very well, all of you shall die! ... The False Prince: "Although I am not the biological son, Father and Mother love me more. The throne should be mine!" The Female Lead: "Qin Xiao, you are the Emperor, and I am a commoner. If you wish to marry me, you must abdicate. Otherwise, you will never have me!" The Empress: "After we divorce, you must give me half the empire!" The Transmigrator Consort: "You worthless Emperor, why should I kneel to you? All men are equal—I advise you to be kind!" The Great General: "The enemy general is my childhood sweetheart. For her sake, I willingly abandon the frontier defenses!" The Retired Emperor: "Although Yu'er was adopted, I prefer him. Qin Xiao, you should abdicate and let him become Emperor!" ... Very well! So this is how you want to play? Facing this twisted world of female-oriented tropes, Qin Xiao grins and raises his hand to unleash—the Nine Clan Extraction Technique! I am the Emperor. Why would I bother reasoning with you? Seal the gates! Leave none alive!
transmigrates into the world as the sect master of the Heavenly Yan Sect, which is on the verge of being wiped out. He binds a system that grants him cultivation power based on the number of disciples he has: for each disciple, he automatically gains a year's worth of cultivation every single day! Take one disciple: every day he gains 1 year of cultivation power. While others struggle through a year of bitter training, he gets the same just by sleeping through a single night. Take ten disciples: every day he gains 10 years of cultivation power. Foundation Establishment, Core Formation, Nascent Soul—he breezes through all bottlenecks without lifting a finger. Take one hundred disciples: every day he gains 100 years of cultivation power. Even a Soul Transformation Venerable before him can’t survive a single blow. Take ten thousand disciples: every day he gains 10,000 years of cultivation power! With a wave of his hand, he topples empires. With a single step, he crushes the sacred grounds of the universe. ... While others fight tooth and nail for secret techniques, Lin Yan casually hands out Nascent Soul-level cultivation manuals as beginner textbooks. While others strain to find talented recruits, Lin Yan opens his doors to anyone—so long as they’re human. In just three short years, the Heavenly Yan Sect went from a backwater sect made up of three crumbling huts to a sacred land that every cultivator under heaven would kill to enter. ... One day, otherworldly demon gods invade, with a million demon soldiers pressing down upon the realm. Lin Yan, yawning, rises from his lounge chair and glances at the system panel: [Current Disciples: 1.28 million] [Daily Cultivation Increase: 1.28 million years] He waves his hand casually, and the countless demon soldiers are reduced to ashes in an instant. “So noisy… interrupting my fishing.”
