The glow from his computer monitors was starting to blur together. The sound of fingers hammering against the keyboard echoed in the empty office, accompanied only by the occasional slurp of overpriced vending machine coffee. Arman's bloodshot eyes darted between lines of code, fingers moving on autopilot.

A deadline loomed over him, hungry and merciless, like a tiger waiting to rip apart whatever remained of his soul. His boss had smiled, patted him on the back, and said, "You're our best programmer, Arman! Just a few more hours, right?"

Wrong.

Three days without sleep. His body was 80% caffeine and 20% regret at this point. He wanted to stop, but every time he closed his eyes, his boss's voice echoed in his skull—"I know you can do it, buddy!" The fake enthusiasm made him want to punch something, preferably his own monitor.

The cheap coffee cup in his hand trembled slightly as he took another sip. How many had he drunk? Five? Ten? Was he at the lethal dose yet?

The answer came immediately.

A sudden, violent pain clutched his chest like a vengeful tax collector. His fingers stiffened mid-keystroke, a strangled wheeze escaping his lips. His heart skipped a beat.

Then another.

Then, it stopped completely.

His forehead slammed against the keyboard with a dramatic finality.

The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was a notification pop-up on his screen.

"Warning: Excessive caffeine intake detected. Recommended break: Immediately."

Too late.

Pain.

A deep, brain-melting pain.

It was as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his soul and then set it on fire for good measure.

His limbs felt like they were being pulled in ten different directions. His thoughts fragmented, scattered between memories of debugging errors and the vague sensation of being dragged into some cosmic blender.

He tried to move. Nothing.

He tried to scream. Also nothing.

Just when he was about to start mentally composing an email to his boss about why he wasn't coming in tomorrow, the pain stopped.

The first thing he noticed was the smell.

Dirt. Grass. Something suspiciously like animal poop.

The second thing he noticed was the cold.

The third was that he wasn't dead.

His body twitched as sensation flooded back in—his fingers curled into the damp soil beneath him, his breathing ragged but very much functional. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, squinting at his surroundings.

Towering trees stretched endlessly around him, their dense leaves filtering sunlight into fragmented rays. Birds cawed overhead, and the air smelled… fresh.

Wait.

Where the hell am I?

He glanced down at himself.

His clothes—gone. In their place was a set of oversized, tattered robes that smelled like they had lost a fight with a damp cave. His hands, once calloused from years of keyboard abuse, were smaller, thinner, younger.

A sense of deep, horrifying realization crept up his spine.

His fingers prodded his face. His nose? Different. His jawline? Not his. His hair? A little longer, a little rougher than before.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

His mind raced through every reincarnation novel he had ever read.

Dead from overwork? Check. Woke up in an unfamiliar body? Check. Surrounded by suspiciously ancient-looking trees? Double check.

A strangled laugh escaped him. "I… I just got isekai'd."

The words hung in the air.

No response. Not even a godly voice to confirm it.

He took a deep breath. Okay. No need to panic. Maybe this is just a dream. Maybe I passed out at my desk, and any second now, my boss is going to slap me awake and demand another all-nighter—

His stomach growled.

Loudly.

Dreams didn't come with hunger.

A cold chill settled over him. This was real.

A hysterical chuckle bubbled up in his throat. "I survived years of corporate hell… only to die from coffee abuse and wake up in a cultivation world?"

The universe had to be messing with him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to calm down. Think, Arman—wait, no. Li Tianren.

A new name. A new world.

He needed to check something.

In cultivation novels, the first thing a person did after reincarnating was… test their spirit root.

He inhaled sharply, reaching inward, trying to sense something.

His breath hitched.

There was something inside him.

Floating within the depths of his soul, a wooden mask.

Unlike ordinary spirit roots, it had a physical form, cracked with faint golden veins running along its surface. It lacked facial features, a hollow expression staring back at him. It pulsed faintly, as if aware of his presence.

His first thought was cool.

His second was wait, what the hell does this mean?

Cultivators usually had elemental roots—fire, water, earth, wind. Not… masks.

A pulse of energy flickered through him. He reached out, mentally probing the mask.

A sharp jolt of pain shot through his skull.

His connection snapped violently, his vision briefly blacking out. He gasped, clutching his head.

Okay. That was a mistake.

Whatever this thing was, it wasn't something he could understand yet. Fine. He'd figure it out later.

Right now, food.

A shift in the wind carried a faint scent—smoke. His stomach clenched. If there was smoke, that meant fire. If there was fire, that meant people.

He followed the scent through the trees, moving carefully. If cultivation worlds were anything like the novels, there was a non-zero chance that the people ahead could be friendly villagers… or bandits.

Through the underbrush, he spotted a small wooden hut, nestled against the base of a rocky cliff. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney.

Hope flared in his chest, but he wasn't stupid. He had seen too many protagonists walk into obvious danger.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door.

A moment of silence passed.

Then, soft footsteps.

The door creaked open, revealing a middle-aged man with silver hair and a calm, unreadable gaze. His simple robes gave no indication of his strength, but the way he carried himself…

Tianren's instincts screamed at him.

This man was dangerous.

The man studied him for a long moment, then let out a sigh. "Hmph. Another lost one."

Tianren opened his mouth to respond.

His body chose collapse instead.

Darkness swallowed him before he even hit the ground.

Warmth. The scent of rice and herbs.

His eyelids felt like bricks, but he forced them open. He was lying on a wooden cot, a steaming bowl of food beside him. Across the room, the silver-haired man sat, hands folded, watching him with mild amusement.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was even, measured. "Good. Now, who are you?"

Tianren hesitated.

He couldn't exactly say, "I was an IT guy who died of caffeine overdose."

He needed a name that fit. A name that belonged here.

After a moment, he exhaled.

"Li Tianren."

The man raised an eyebrow but nodded. Then, he gestured toward the food.

"Eat first. Then we talk."

Tianren didn't need to be told twice.