Bili was nobody.
Not in the way people often exaggerate, whining about being invisible in crowds or forgotten by friends. No, he was truly nobody. An orphan without a surname, without history, and most importantly, without a future.
His life was a blur of recycled days: waking up in a decaying apartment complex that groaned with the weight of urban neglect, eating stale instant noodles or whatever was on discount, then trudging to a soulless warehouse job where he scanned barcodes until his wrist ached. Each night, he'd return home and collapse into a stained futon, listening to the hum of faulty wiring and the neighbors' endless arguments.
But in that lifeless routine, there was one place where Bili truly lived.
Web novels.
His favorite? Divine World Academy. A wild, sprawling cultivation epic filled with martial heroes, secret realms, ancient bloodlines, and immortal sects. He'd read it five times, and he could quote scenes by heart. There was something sacred about the way it painted the world in fire and gold—where a beggar could become a god, where the weak could rise through sheer will and strength, where fate bowed before determination.
It was the light of his lonely days.
---
The morning light touched his cheek like a lover's kiss—gentle and warm, filtered through golden silk curtains. There was a faint scent in the air, sweet and floral. Rose incense? Definitely not the moldy, chemical stink of his rundown apartment.
He stirred under soft, velvet sheets. His fingers brushed over the fabric, confused by how smooth it felt. The mattress beneath him wasn't sagging or thin, but plush and luxurious. He opened his eyes.
And froze.
Above him was a grand ceiling, high and arched, etched with floating runes and intricate murals of divine beasts locked in celestial battle. A crystal chandelier spun slowly in the air—floating without chains, radiating soft rainbow light.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
He shot upright.
The motion felt wrong—different. His limbs moved with unnatural grace, as if powered by someone else's muscle memory. He scrambled to the edge of the massive bed and ran to the tall, gilded mirror across the room.
What he saw nearly made him faint.
The face in the reflection wasn't his.
Golden eyes gleamed with impossible clarity. A jawline sharp enough to shame sculptures. Flowing black hair framed a face too perfect to be human. His body, once skinny and worn from poverty, was now lean, well-fed, and dressed in obsidian-silk night robes stitched with silver phoenixes.
"…No way."
The name floated into his mind—John Vallis.
He staggered backward, heart thundering.
John Vallis?
The name meant something. Not from memory—from fiction.
A minor character in Divine World Academy. The disgrace of House Vallis. A background noble who wasted his status on alcohol, women, and idiotic challenges. He died early. No redemption arc. No secret talent. Just… forgotten.
"No, no, no…"
This was too much. He looked down at his hands—smooth, unmarred, powerful. The contrast was dizzying. His real memories remained, but layered beneath them were fragments of someone else: ballroom etiquette, wine-soaked memories, arguments with a cold sister, the biting sting of ridicule.
He was in the novel.
And worse—he wasn't the hero. He wasn't even important.
He was trash.
---
Two days passed.
John—Bili? John?—didn't leave his bed.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, too paralyzed by fear and confusion to act. Servants came and went, offering meals with a respectful coldness, clearly used to his behavior.
His new reality was like a gilded cage. Beautiful, but filled with silent judgment.
"I'm dead," he muttered. "I'm so screwed."
He thought maybe he had some hidden power. A system? A cheat? Anything?
Nothing.
No glowing text boxes. No wise old masters in his dreams. No secret inheritance or divine artifact hidden in the room. Just… a past reputation for being the family failure and a body that had never trained a single muscle.
He couldn't even trust his own house. The servants looked down on him. The guards ignored him. His sister? Forget it.
Rose Vallis.
His older sister was a name that rang like thunder in the novel. A once-in-a-generation genius. Cold, poised, unstoppable. Her sword technique could split mountains. She was chosen by a legendary master before she was ten, and now she stood at the top ranks of Divine World Academy.She was one of the core characters of this novel.
And she hated her brother.
"Maybe I could ask her for help," he said aloud, voice thin with desperation.
Then he laughed bitterly.
"She'd kill me before I finished the sentence."
No—Rose wouldn't help him. She had washed her hands of him long ago. In her eyes, he was a stain on the Vallis name. And now? Now he was living that same discarded life… but with full awareness.
"What do I do?" he whispered. "I'm just a warehouse worker. Not a schemer. Not a warrior. I read about these worlds—I don't survive in them."
He paced the room, running a hand through his hair. His mind returned to what he did know—the story.
House Vallis.
They were famed not for politics or wealth, but martial power. A noble house of warriors. That meant they had their own martial art library.
He stopped pacing.
"Maybe… I could start training," he said slowly. "Even if I'm talentless, I can still learn something. I can try."
It wasn't much. But it was a start.
---
That morning, he got dressed—simple robes, nothing flashy—and opened his chamber doors. A maid stood just outside, straight-backed and unreadable.
"You," he said, trying to sound confident. "Take me to the martial art library. I… must've forgotten where it is. Wine, you know."
She blinked, stunned by his request.
"Young Master?" she asked, as if unsure he was serious.
"I want to train," he said simply.
She hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "As you wish."
---
Five minutes later, they stood before a grand obsidian door carved with dragons and spears. The Vallis Martial Archive.
John's heart raced.
As he stepped forward, the maid suddenly asked, "Young Master… are you sure you want to enter?"
That made him pause. "Why? Is something wrong?"
Her lips tightened, but she said nothing.
He pushed the door open.
Light poured out in a brilliant wave. Glowing shelves rose into the shadows above. Every book glimmered faintly with embedded runes. The air buzzed with energy.
He stared, awestruck.
"This… is real."
He stepped inside.
And froze.
The library was empty. Completely so.
No students. No guards. No masters. Just him… and silence.
Uneasy, he began pulling books from the lower shelves. The titles were strange: Lineage of Winds, Principles of Qi Flow, History of Vallis Combat Theory. But when he opened them…
Nothing.
Blank pages. Or worse—books filled with philosophical rambling that meant nothing to him. He searched for hours. Still nothing useful. No beginner guides. No diagrams. No cultivation techniques.
Frustration grew in his chest.
"Come on… there has to be something…"
And then—pain.
A fist slammed into his face.
He flew back, slamming into a wall hard enough to crack it. His vision spun. Blood ran down his nose.
A figure in a black robe stepped out from behind a shelf, expression hidden by a hood.
"You are not allowed here," the man said, voice sharp as a blade. "By order of the First Mistress, you are banned from training."
John blinked through the pain. "First… Mistress?"
Then everything went black.
---
When he woke up, he was back in his bed.
His face ached. His head pounded. The fear returned, crawling under his skin.
"Why…?" he muttered. "Why am I not allowed to train?"
Who is the First Mistress?
She wasn't in the novel. Not in any arc he remembered. She must've been a background figure… or someone introduced later.
He sat up slowly.
And then—creak.
The door opened.
A man stepped inside, cloaked in black. The lights were off. John pretended to sleep, instincts screaming at him.
The man walked to the bed… and leaned close.
"It's your fault," the man whispered. "You were warned."
John's eyes snapped open.
The blade shimmered in the darkness.
He rolled and threw himself from the bed. Glass shattered as he dove out the window. Wind roared in his ears. The ground rushed up—
CRACK!
Pain exploded in his legs. He screamed but forced himself to run, limping through the courtyard.
But behind him, the night split with silver light.
A sword slash like moonlight.
Too fast.
Too clean.
He didn't even feel it.
His vision tilted.
He was… looking at his own legs.
And then…
Darkness.
---
Gasp!
John sat upright in bed, drenched in sweat.
The silk sheets, the incense, the quiet hum of morning—it was exactly the same as before.
The sun slanted through the curtains at the same angle. Outside, the birds chirped in the same rhythm.
He checked his body—unwounded. No slash, no broken legs.
"What…?"
He leapt out of bed.
And froze.
His legs moved with perfect fluidity. His heartbeat was calm and steady, like a warrior in meditation.
He clenched his fist—and the air trembled faintly around it.
This wasn't the same weak body he had when he first woke up.
This was the body he had just before dying.And it has almost double of its strength.
The one that had moved on instinct, dodged a blade, and leapt through glass.
He had died.
But he had returned.
And not empty-handed.
---
GIFT UNLOCKED:
[He Who Dies, Returns Stronger]
Each time you die, your body returns to the past…
But your strength stays with you and it will be doubled.