My Wuhun is the [Jade Phosphor Body]

Note: Helped by ChatGPT making this.

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Prologue 0.1

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting their sterile glow over the cracked pavement of the nearly deserted street. The air was thick with the faint scent of exhaust fumes and the lingering warmth of a city that never quite cooled down, no matter the hour. I trudged along, my cheap, knock-off-brand briefcase dangling from fingers that felt more like dead weight than actual limbs.

Another day in paradise.

I sighed, the sound lost in the urban hum around me. My back ached—not the dramatic, heroic kind of ache from saving lives or surviving some grand adventure, no. Just the dull, soul-sucking stiffness that came from sitting in an ergonomic chair designed by someone who clearly hated humans. Thirty-seven years old. That's me. A proud, distinguished, socially dead virgin with the track record of confessions so pitiful, even ghosts would swipe left. Not that I'm haunted. Well, unless you count regret.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket, pretending to check something important, as if the pixelated glow could somehow shield me from the reality of my existence. But no—just the same empty notifications. No surprise there. It's not like my inbox would suddenly be flooded with messages saying, "Hey, we've realized you're the missing piece to humanity's puzzle. Please save us."

Yeah, right.

Work was the same circus, different set of clowns. Lazy co-workers who'd perfected the art of task-dodging, flinging their responsibilities at me like some corporate game of dodgeball—except the balls were flaming, and I wasn't allowed to step off the court. Then there's the manager. A loudmouthed, uncivilized prick who barked orders like he was auditioning for the role of "World's Worst Megaphone." Funny how his voice only seemed to work when yelling at us, but suddenly went all soft and buttery when chatting up the pretty interns. Real professional, that guy.

And the gossip? Oh, the gossip. My colleagues could probably form a black market intelligence agency with the level of information they traded daily. Who's dating who, who's getting promoted, who cried in the bathroom—because apparently, emotional breakdowns are just juicy content now. Spoiler: it was me last Thursday.

But I digress.

Wait, is this even a monologue? I mean, sure, I'm thinking these thoughts, but doesn't a monologue have to be… I don't know, dramatic? Meaningful? This is just me complaining to myself like some sad narrator in a discount documentary. "Here we observe the average office worker in his natural habitat—depressed, overworked, and questioning his life choices."

God, that's cringy.

Note to self: Stop narrating your own life like some budget protagonist. It's pathetic.

Still, as my apartment building finally came into view, the flickering neon sign above the entrance felt less like a beacon of safety and more like a reminder of how repetitive my existence had become. Wake up, work, survive the chaos, come home, sleep, repeat. Like clockwork. No purpose. No adventure.

Just me and my dumb, cringy "monologue."

-

[Prologue 0.2]

I shook my head, an amused snort escaping before I could stop it. Accurate introspection, I suppose. Maybe I should make this a habit—talk to myself in mental footnotes, catalog my daily failures with the same enthusiasm as a bored librarian. Might even figure out why Lady Luck treats me like an ex she regrets.

Shrugging off the thought, I crossed the cracked pavement toward my apartment building, the flickering neon sign above buzzing like it, too, was exhausted with existence. But just as my body instinctively prepared to melt into the familiarity of my cramped apartment, something tugged at the corner of my attention.

A small stall.

Barely noticeable, tucked near the edge of the street like it had simply appeared there by accident. No flashy signs, no desperate vendor shouting deals, just a modest wooden setup draped with a faded cloth. An old lady sat beside it, her posture relaxed, as if she had all the time in the world. She didn't call out or wave. Just sat there, waiting.

Now, any sane person would've ignored it—chalked it up to some late-night hustle, maybe a vendor trying to squeeze out a few more sales. But me? Apparently, I'd decided tonight was "make weird decisions" night.

Great.

I glanced up at my apartment, the promise of sleep and digital escapism within reach. But no. My feet had other plans, steering me toward the stall like they'd made some secret pact with my curiosity.

Boredom, huh? Guess this is how people end up in horror stories.

I approached, hands shoved in my pockets, pretending I wasn't mildly intrigued—or mildly concerned about my own life choices. The old lady didn't even flinch as I stepped closer. Her eyes, sharp and clear despite her age, met mine with a calmness that felt… unsettling. Or maybe that was just me being dramatic again. Probably the latter.

"Uh, evening," I muttered, clearing my throat. "Nice night to be selling… stuff."

Wow. Nailed it. A+ social skills.

She smiled, a faint curve of her lips that seemed to hold an entire lifetime of knowing things I didn't. "Good evening, young man. Curious, are you?"

"Something like that," I replied, glancing at the items laid out on the stall. Small bottles, ceramic jars, and what looked suspiciously like… pills? "What are these?"

"Medicinal pills," she said simply. "For cultivation."

I blinked.

Cultivation.

Right. Because that's normal. Just your average Tuesday evening, stumbling across an old lady selling magical pills like it's the farmer's market for wannabe immortals.

A part of me—probably the part responsible for my chronic bad decisions—considered this could be one of those 'main character lucky encounters.' You know, the kind where some random nobody stumbles into a life-changing event because fate was bored. I briefly imagined a dramatic montage: me, gaining mystical powers, unlocking hidden potential, and maybe—just maybe—figuring out how to talk to women without sounding like a malfunctioning NPC.

But no. This was reality. My reality. And reality doesn't hand out cheat codes wrapped in ancient scrolls and cryptic prophecies.

Still, standing there, I couldn't help but feel the weight of my own ridiculousness. I'm literally entertaining the idea that this is some kind of plot device.

I sighed internally. God, I'm weird.

But hey, if I've already decided to spice up my life with cringy monologues, why not add "talking to mysterious old ladies at questionable street stalls" to the list?

"Alright," I said, leaning slightly closer. "Let's say I'm interested. What kind of 'cultivation' are we talking about here?"

Got it! I'll draft Part 3 based on your outline. Here it is:

-

Prologue 0.3

"Alright," I said, leaning slightly closer. "Let's say I'm interested. What kind of 'cultivation' are we talking about here?"

Why did I say that?

As the words left my mouth, my brain immediately queued up a well-deserved self-roast. Seriously? Cultivation? What's next, am I going to ask her if she's selling dragon eggs or secret martial techniques?

I could practically hear the sarcastic echo in my head: "Oh yes, madam, do you have any spirit stones or perhaps a mystical jade pendant that unlocks the secrets of the universe?"

I sighed inwardly. Get a grip. This isn't a novel. Cultivation is fiction, fantasy—pixels on a screen or words on a page. Not… I glanced at the old wooden stall. …whatever this is.

The old lady chuckled softly, her laugh like the rustle of autumn leaves. It wasn't mocking, though. More like she'd heard this kind of skepticism a thousand times and found it charming.

"You don't believe me," she said, not as a question, but as a simple fact.

I opened my mouth to deny it out of reflex, but she continued before I could summon my next half-baked excuse for being here.

"That's fine. Doubt is the companion of curiosity, after all." Her eyes sparkled with something unreadable—amusement, maybe. Or wisdom. Hard to tell when someone looks like they've seen more sunrises than I've had awkward small talk.

She gestured toward the neat rows of small ceramic bottles and glass vials. "Cultivation, young man, isn't just one thing. It's a path—many paths, in fact. Some walk it to strengthen their bodies, others to expand their minds, and a few to touch upon realms beyond either."

She pointed at a small, pale green pill nestled in a dish. "That one purifies the meridians. Even the frailest body, riddled with sickness or malnutrition, could find itself perfectly healthy after taking it."

My skeptical brain jumped in immediately. Sure, and next you'll tell me it cures heartbreak and taxes.

She moved her finger to another vial containing faintly glowing blue capsules. "These soften the rigidity of one's spiritual essence, allowing mystical energy to flow freely. Perfect for someone who's never cultivated before."

Yeah, like me, I thought, suppressing a snort.

Then she pointed to a collection of pills varying in color and shape. "Cures for poison, paralysis, even blindness or injuries that would leave someone crippled."

Despite myself, I felt a flicker of… something. Not belief—no, that would be ridiculous. But the way she spoke, so matter-of-fact, like describing common household items, made it hard to completely dismiss her.

She's either the best roleplayer I've ever met or genuinely knows more about cultivation than half the webnovel authors out there.

I stared at the array of pills, then at the old lady, my curiosity outweighing the little voice in my head screaming "This is weird!"

"So…" I rubbed the back of my neck, chuckling awkwardly. "Got anything that can change a boring life?"

It was meant as a joke. A throwaway line, like asking for a potion of good luck at a theme park gift shop.

But the old lady didn't laugh.

She smiled—slow, knowing, like I'd just asked the exact question she'd been waiting for. "Ah, now that is an interesting request."

She leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. "The pills I sell can certainly lead to changes. A stronger body, a sharper mind, a healthier spirit—those are all forms of change, are they not?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but she raised a hand, stopping me with a gentle gesture. "However, if you seek something more immediate… something beyond the ordinary… then perhaps you don't need just a pill."

I blinked. "Oh?"

She nodded slowly. "Tell me the answer to one question, and you may receive more than just a simple remedy for boredom."

Now she had my full attention. My exhaustion, my cynicism—all pushed to the background by the undeniable pull of curiosity.

"Alright," I said, crossing my arms. "I'm ready. What's the question?"

-

Prologue 0.4

"Alright," I said, crossing my arms. "I'm ready. What's the question?"

The old lady's smile didn't waver. She tilted her head slightly, as if measuring something unseen, then asked in a calm, gentle voice:

"To you, what is the importance of happiness in life?"

Simple question, right? Basic. The kind you'd expect in some self-help seminar or scrawled in loopy handwriting on a motivational poster. But when the words hit me, they didn't land like fluff—they landed like a brick to the face.

I blinked.

Happiness? The importance of it?

I knew the answer. Or rather, I thought I did. The textbook stuff, the cliché lines you hear in school or read in feel-good articles: "Happiness gives life meaning." "It's the fuel for the soul." "Without happiness, what's the point of living?"

But none of those answers felt… real. Not to me.

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Frowned.

Because the truth? I had no idea.

Sure, people say happiness is important. But why? Is it some vital life ingredient like oxygen or water? I mean, look at me—I'm breathing just fine. My heart's ticking, my brain's chugging along, and yet… happiness? That's like a rare delicacy I haven't tasted in years. Maybe since I was a kid—innocent, naive, with parents who handled life while I just existed, blissfully unaware of how heavy everything really was.

But now?

I'm definitely not "happy," at least not in that warm, glowing, soul-hugging way people talk about. I can smile. Sure. I can laugh at dumb memes, chuckle at bad puns, even joke about my own misery. But that's just… surface-level. A performance. Not a feeling.

And yet, here I was, being asked to define the importance of something I don't even have.

I could've brushed it off. Walked away. Pretended I was too tired, too busy, too—insert excuse here. But something deep down, buried under all the cynicism and sarcasm, told me I needed to answer. Not for her. For me.

Because maybe that's the real reason I stopped at this stall. Not boredom. Not curiosity. Just… a tiny, fragile hope that there's something beyond the monotony. That I'm not just an NPC in someone else's story.

Funny, I thought, glancing at the stall again. All this because of some random question from a stranger.

It felt like hours passed, though it was probably just a minute or two. My thoughts raced, collided, tangled up in contradictions. But eventually, the noise quieted, and I found the answer—not in books, not in quotes I'd heard a thousand times, but somewhere in the quiet, neglected corners of myself.

I took a breath. Opened my mouth.

And spoke.

"To me," I said slowly, my voice steady despite the chaos in my head, "happiness is the finest paint that could be put into life's canvas."

The words hung in the air, simple but heavy, like they carried more weight than I'd realized until I said them out loud.

For the first time in a long while, it didn't feel like a performance.

It felt real.

-

Prologue 0.5

The words lingered in the air like a fragile echo, but instead of fading, they seemed to settle between us, heavy and real.

For a moment, the old lady's ever-present smile wavered. Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her face like a candle caught in a breeze. It vanished just as quickly, replaced by that same gentle smile—only now, there was something different about it. A subtle shift, like she wasn't just smiling out of politeness anymore. She looked… intrigued. Maybe even pleased.

"Well," she said, her voice carrying a hint of amusement, "I wasn't expecting that answer."

She chuckled softly, leaning back a little. "Bonus points for trying not to butcher the grammar too much."

I snorted, then rubbed the back of my neck, feeling heat creep up my face. A sheepish laugh slipped out before I could stop it. God, why am I like this? I thought, cringing internally. How did I even graduate college with my habit of mangling sentences like they owed me money?

The memories of rushed essays, awkward presentations, and hastily written reports flashed through my mind. Somehow, despite my charming disregard for grammar rules and the sacred 'ethics of word usage,' I'd landed a degree and even managed to get hired at my company. Miracles do exist, apparently.

The old lady let me stew in my embarrassment for a beat before tilting her head, her gaze sharp yet thoughtful. "So, why is happiness the finest color then? Why not hope?"

Another question. Simple on the surface, but with roots that dug deep.

I didn't need as much time this time. The answer was already there, tucked somewhere between my thoughts and the emotions I usually ignored.

"Hope and happiness…" I started slowly, picking my words with care, "they're like the colors yellow and orange. One's lighter, brighter—hope is like yellow, blinding if you stare too long. It's sharp, intense, something you cling to when everything else is dark."

I paused, letting the thought settle.

"But happiness—it's like orange. Warm. Softer on the eyes. It's not about brightness that overwhelms you; it's about warmth that stays. A person can't look at bright colors without squinting because it's too much. But with softer shades, you can take it all in without turning away."

The old lady nodded slowly, her eyes gleaming with something I couldn't quite place. Approval, maybe. Satisfaction.

Or something else entirely.

Without a word, she reached beneath her stall and pulled out a small, ornate chest. The wood was dark and polished, with intricate carvings etched along the edges—nothing flashy, but elegant in a quiet, understated way. She placed it gently on the stall, then unlatched it with a soft click.

I leaned in, curiosity prickling at the edges of my exhaustion.

Inside the chest were two items: a pill, dark green with a faint purple sheen that caught the light when she tilted the box, and a small vial filled with a sickly yellow liquid. The color was… unappealing, to put it mildly. I grimaced instinctively, my brain unhelpfully comparing it to things best left unmentioned.

Yikes. Not exactly the treasure chest moment I was hoping for.

Somehow, despite all the weirdness of the night, I still half-expected something more dramatic. A glowing orb, maybe. A scroll with ancient runes. Something that screamed "you've unlocked a secret quest!"

Instead, I got… this.

The old lady's smile didn't falter. She noticed my expression—of course she did—and chuckled softly.

"These," she said, her fingers gently brushing the edge of the chest, "are what can give you the change you desire."

I blinked, tearing my eyes away from the questionable vial to look at her. "Change? Like… metaphorically, or are we talking literal life-altering transformation here?"

She didn't answer that. Not directly, anyway.

"All you need to do," she said, her voice soft but firm, "is consume both the pill and the liquid. At the same time."

I stared at her, then at the chest, then back at her again.

Of course.

Because that doesn't sound sketchy at all.

-

Prologue 0.6

'Because that doesn't sound sketchy at all.'

The thought dripped with enough sarcasm to drown an unsuspecting optimist. I stared at the vial and the pill, my skepticism doing somersaults while my common sense sat in the corner, quietly weeping.

Seriously, what am I even doing here?

Shouldn't this be the part where alarm bells blare in my head, screaming, "Hey, buddy, maybe don't ingest random substances handed out by mysterious old ladies at suspiciously inconspicuous stalls"?

But no. My brain was just... silent.

Was this normal?

No, obviously not.

Was I normal for even considering it?

Absolutely not.

Since when did blindly following strange instructions ever end well? I'd watched enough movies, read enough stories, and lived enough years to know this was the part where someone made a dumb choice and paid for it—sometimes literally, sometimes with their kidneys.

I squinted at the old lady. She didn't look like an organ trafficker. Then again, did they ever?

As if sensing the chaotic courtroom of thoughts inside my head, she chuckled softly. "They're safe, you know," she said, her voice calm, like she was offering tea instead of potential life-altering substances. "Unless, of course, you've already dabbled in cultivation or have ties to mystical forces."

I blinked. "Wait, what?"

She nodded, fingers lightly tapping the side of the ornate chest. "If you've ever practiced cultivation—or if you're connected to mystical forces in any way—these would be useless to you. Borderline harmful, even."

Oh. Great. Because that makes me feel so much better.

"But," she continued, her eyes locking onto mine with unsettling certainty, "you'll be fine. I know you will."

I opened my mouth to reply, then closed it. What do you even say to that?

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, mysterious pill-peddling grandma?"

"Wow, I feel so reassured by your vague, cryptic words?"

"Hey, are you actually sane?"

Instead, I stood there, mentally juggling the world's most confusing decisions.

One part of me thought, Maybe just thank her—sarcastically, of course—and walk away with your internal organs intact.

Another part whispered, Don't take them. This is how people become cautionary tales.

Then there was that annoying little voice screaming, RUN. Just RUN. Find your bed. Pretend this never happened.

And finally, the greediest part of my mind—let's call him Discount Merchant Brain—was rubbing its metaphorical hands together, saying, Ooh, shiny! What if this really works? Imagine the possibilities!

I sighed, rubbing my temples. Isn't gut instinct supposed to kick in right about now? You know, that primal, survival-driven part of humanity that warns us about danger?

Mine was apparently on vacation.

But amidst the chaos, something quieter lingered—a whisper buried under all the noise. A small, persistent urge. Not logical. Not even emotional. Just… a pull.

Change.

The word echoed in my mind like a pebble dropped into a still pond. Change from the monotony, the routine, the invisible life I'd been dragging around like a threadbare coat. Was I really going to go back to that boring, colorless existence after this? Pretend none of it happened?

I glanced at the old lady again. She wasn't pushing me. No persuasive tactics, no aggressive sales pitch. Just… waiting. Patient. Like she already knew what I'd choose.

Damn it.

Without giving myself another second to overthink, I grabbed the pill and the vial. My fingers felt strangely steady despite the hurricane inside my head.

"This is probably the dumbest thing I've ever done," I muttered.

And then, before I could change my mind—or, you know, regain basic sanity—I tossed the pill into my mouth, uncorked the vial, and downed the sickly yellow liquid.

Bottoms up, I guess.

-

Prologue 0.7(Last)

I waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Maybe I was expecting too much. Like, you know, instant glowing veins, spontaneous combustion, or at least a dramatic scream followed by me sprouting mystical powers. Something. Anything.

Instead, I got… nothing.

Not even a hiccup.

I glanced down at myself. Still human. No signs of scales, feathers, or sudden muscle growth. My fingers wiggled as usual—no claws or spontaneous jazz hands. I even gave my face a quick pat. No third eye. No ominous runes. Not even a rash.

Okay, cool. So, not dead. Not mutated. Just… normal.

I checked the time on my phone. Thirty minutes had passed. Thirty long, uneventful minutes of me standing there like an idiot, waiting for the universe to surprise me.

Frustrated, I turned to the old lady, ready to ask the very reasonable question: "What the heck is this supposed to—"

She was gone.

Gone.

The stall? Also gone.

I froze. Blinked. Rubbed my eyes. Then blinked again.

Nothing. Just an empty street corner, as if she'd never been there at all.

What… the heck?

I spun around, half-expecting her to jump out from behind a lamppost and yell, "Surprise!" But nope. No old lady. No stall. Not even a stray receipt left fluttering in the breeze.

My brain stuttered like an old computer trying to process an error message.

Was I hallucinating?

Did I fall asleep standing up?

Did someone drug me?

Wait—did I drink something weird before this?

Nope. Nothing. Just me, my suspiciously normal body, and the ghost of an old lady who sold me… whatever that was.

I squinted at the spot where the stall had been. I was sure it was there. The old lady had been sitting right there, smiling like she knew the universe's best-kept secret. But now? It was just an empty patch of pavement. No signs, no shadows, nothing out of place—except for my sanity.

Okay. Cool. Awesome. This is fine.

Deciding that the less I thought about it, the better, I shoved my hands into my pockets and started walking back to my apartment. I didn't even bother glancing back. If I didn't see it disappear, then maybe—just maybe—I could pretend none of it happened.

Maybe I was just tired. Maybe my brain decided to throw a surprise episode of "Hallucination Theater" to spice things up.

Yeah. That's it. Definitely sleep deprivation. Or maybe I accidentally inhaled cleaning fumes?

Did I drink something weird earlier? No?

Maybe I am losing it.

By the time I reached my apartment, I'd mentally filed the whole encounter under "Weird Stuff I'll Ignore Until It Becomes a Problem."

I kicked off my shoes, too tired to care about the fact that my socks didn't match. Didn't even bother with a shower. I just yanked off my work clothes, threw on the nearest t-shirt, and face-planted onto my bed.

I needed sleep. Desperately.

If there was one thing I could control in this world, it was my ability to sleep through existential confusion.

So I closed my eyes, letting the exhaustion pull me under, my mind blissfully empty for the first time that night.

Unaware that when I woke up, everything would be different.