001 The Wrong Genre

The city sprawled before me, an endless tapestry of curved rooftops, towering pagodas, and floating lanterns that glowed like artificial stars in the twilight. It was breathtaking, no doubt about it. Exotic. Grand. The kind of place that would make a Xianxia nerd weep tears of joy.

Too bad I wasn’t one of them.

I was more of a sword-and-sorcery kind of guy—give me knights, dragons, and a good old-fashioned tavern brawl over cultivators and qi-powered nonsense any day. And yet, here I was, somehow dropped into a world that felt straight out of a Chinese fantasy drama.

Just this morning—well, "morning" as far as I was concerned—I had been alive, well, and sitting at my desk, basking in the glory of my max-level Paladin build. I had achieved true gaming perfection: indestructible, unkillable, a divine force of pure righteousness. And then, my PC exploded.

Now, I was here. Wherever

here

was.

I had snuck into this city under the cover of night, avoiding unnecessary attention. Not that it was easy. My divine-tier armor—gleaming gold and blue, with radiant holy inscriptions—made me stick out like a crusader who took a wrong turn and ended up in the wrong mythology. So, I did what any sensible person would do: I reached into my Item Box and pulled out a cosmetic set that I had won during a Chinese New Year gacha event—Lofty Jade Proposition.

I sighed as I equipped it on top of my divine gear.

The flowing robes, ornate jade accessories, and embroidered patterns screamed

rich young master who has never worked a day in his life.

Not exactly my style, but it blended in far better than holy knight chic. The 15% stat debuff it came with, though? Utter garbage. What kind of game punished you for wanting to look stylish?

Oh, right. This wasn’t a game anymore.

I let out a slow breath and started walking, doing my best to study my surroundings. The streets were busy, even at this hour, with merchants packing up their stalls and street performers showing off dazzling qi techniques. Some people

actually

flew past on swords, zipping across the sky like mystical skateboarders.

I sighed again.

"This is definitely the wrong genre."

The inn was a riot of color, sound, and motion. Silk banners swayed from the rafters, painted with golden dragons and swirling clouds. Laughter and conversation filled the air, blending with the lively tune of a pipa being played by a musician in the corner. The smell of sizzling meat, fragrant spices, and rich wine was intoxicating, making my stomach tighten with longing.

Courtesans drifted between tables, their flowing sleeves fluttering as they refilled cups and playfully teased drunken patrons. Warriors, merchants, and scholars alike sat together, boasting of their exploits, making wagers, and devouring their meals with reckless enthusiasm. A few armored men—probably guards or hired muscle—watched the crowd with sharp eyes, their swords resting within easy reach.

The whole place was festive, alive.

I kept my head down as I slipped into an inconspicuous corner, choosing a shadowed seat near a support pillar. Too many people. Too much risk of being noticed. I just had to lay low, observe, and hope no overly enthusiastic waitress came my way demanding I order something. I had no idea if my gold coins would even work in this world. And even if they did, I wasn’t about to risk drawing attention to myself by fumbling with currency I didn’t understand.

I focused on the conversations around me, my ears filtering out the noise until I caught something useful.

“—Yellow Dragon City is at its peak now, I tell you!” a man boasted, his words slightly slurred from drink. “Forty years since the old patriarch laid the foundations, and now look at it! The jewel of the southern province!”

“A true city of heroes!” another agreed, raising his cup. “That’s why this festival is unlike any other! Forty years of prosperity, forty years of strength! The lords and sects wouldn’t dare ignore this celebration!”

“Sects?” I muttered under my breath. Right. Of course, there were sects. This was

that

kind of world.

A third voice joined in, a younger man’s. “I even heard that one of the Seven Grand Clans might send a representative! If they grace the city with their presence, it could elevate Yellow Dragon City even further!”

“Bah!” The first man scoffed. “Who cares about those lofty immortals? The real excitement is the dueling stage tomorrow! I hear even Young Master Lu himself will make an appearance!”

More murmurs followed. Young Master Lu, apparently, was a big deal.

I exhaled slowly, processing the information.

Yellow Dragon City.

That was my first solid clue. And a festival? That was both good and bad. Good, because no one would pay much attention to a random traveler when the city was already bustling with visitors. Bad, because important people might be gathering. The kind of people who could see through my disguise or worse—decide to pick a fight for no reason.

And if this Young Master Lu was the type of character I suspected he was… Well, I had a feeling I’d be running into him sooner or later.

I shelved the name

in the back of my mind. As a self-proclaimed gamer who had spent an unhealthy amount of time on RPGs, I knew the importance of remembering significant names. Main quest givers, important faction leaders, potential bosses—this Lu guy was probably one of those. The

Seven Grand Clans

also piqued my interest. Sounded like the equivalent of legendary guilds or noble houses. If this were a game, they'd likely hold political power, have broken abilities, or both.

But right now, my biggest concern wasn’t the lore of this world. It was surviving in it.

I had no idea how things worked here. Cultivators clearly existed, and from what little I knew about

Xianxia

tropes, they operated on something called

. Me? I didn’t feel anything resembling

in my body. Instead, I had mana and my Paladin skills.

The problem? I had no clue how that translated in a world where people flew around on swords and punched mountains in half.

As I mulled over my predicament, a round-looking man—barrel-chested with the beginnings of a double chin—marched to the front of the counter and clapped his hands together. His booming voice silenced the room.

“Brothers and sisters! A most generous gift has been bestowed upon us tonight! Courtesy of none other than

Young Master Zhao!

”

He gestured dramatically toward the second floor, where an intoxicated young man lounged against a pile of courtesans. His robes were silk, his belt embroidered with golden dragons, and his expression one of pure, drunken indulgence. He gave a lazy wave, and the inn erupted into cheers.

Within moments, a pair of waitresses bustled through the crowd, handing out mugs of ale to every table. One was plunked down in front of me, the sloshing liquid a murky brown. I lifted it warily and took a cautious sip.

Immediately, my face contorted in disgust.

Holy hells.

It tasted like stale vinegar mixed with a hint of regret. Like someone had left beer out in the sun for a week, then decided,

You know what? This is still drinkable.

I pinched my nose, forced myself to swallow, then promptly spat the rest back into the mug.

No offense to the locals, but I came from the 21st century. I was used to things like water filtration and drinks that didn’t taste like they had personal vendettas against my taste buds.

Still, I set the mug aside instead of shoving it away. If nothing else, it was a good prop. Looking like I was partaking in the festivities would make me seem less suspicious.

Blending in was key.

After all, I had no idea how long I’d be stuck in this world.

I leaned back against my chair, arms crossed, as I considered my situation.

Now, if I had been something like a World-Ending Lich, I might actually

thrive

here. Liches loved long lifespans, and

these

people were all about that immortal life. But a Paladin? My strength shined the most when fighting in a party with a solid backline to cover me. That was the stereotype. Sure, I loved playing solo and I could hold my own in a one-on-one duel, but I wasn’t delusional enough to think I could survive an

entire sect

coming after me.

I'm a PvP guy, not a PvE guy.

I sighed. Overthinking would get me nowhere. I needed to focus on my immediate problems first.

Priority One: Money!

I had no clue if my gold coins were usable here. Maybe I could exchange them somewhere. But if that wasn’t an option, I needed a way to earn local currency.

Fighting in that dueling stage I overheard people talking about? It was a tempting idea. I was no stranger to arena fights—the concept was familiar enough. There had to be rewards or betting opportunities involved.

But that was risky.

For one, I had no idea how this world’s cultivation system worked. If I showed off something they didn’t like or didn’t understand, I could be branded as an evil existence—which, in Xianxia, tended to mean public enemy number one.

And while Paladins were naturally good-aligned, that wouldn’t stop some self-righteous cultivator from trying to exorcise me on principle. Conclusion: Gather More Intel.

Yeah, jumping into a fight wasn’t my best move right now. First, I needed to learn more about this world, its rules, and how people here operated. Once I had a better grasp of my surroundings, I could start making calculated moves.

I exhaled, stood up, and adjusted my Lofty Jade Proposition robes. Time to continue my research elsewhere—

—until I

bumped into someone

“Oh, I’m sor—”

I didn’t even get to finish before the other person erupted into furious indignation.

“

DON’T YOU SEE WHO I AM?

”

I blinked as the pudgy, half-drunk young man in front of me turned a shade of red that looked slightly unhealthy. He was decked out in expensive silk robes embroidered with—you guessed it—golden dragons. The smell of alcohol clung to him like a second skin, and his courtesan entourage peeked over the balcony, giggling at the commotion.

The round fellow at the counter gasped, then loudly announced, “You fool! This is Young Master Zhao you speak to, peasant!”

Ah. So this was the guy who bought everyone drinks.

Zhao crossed his arms and sneered. “Kowtow, kiss my foot, and beg for forgiveness! Or I shall have you thrown into the city jail!”

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

Oh, for the love of—

was this a genre-typical young master situation?!