Surviving the Ancient Angst Novel [Transmigration] - Chapter 1

The Eastern Desolate Sect. Since its founding, it has occupied the most mysterious and unpredictable position in the martial world.

It is a name that makes people tremble with fear, yet draws them in like moths to a flame. Legend has it that in the current world of martial arts, the strongest people are in the Eastern Desolate, and the most beautiful people are also in the Eastern Desolate.

Those who rush forward to the sect to serve as human fertilizer for its gardens are either seeking the ultimate secret manual the Tianhuang Ghost Script or are infatuated admirers hoping to catch a glimpse of a legendary beauty.

They say that within the sect, experts are as common as clouds and talent is abundant. Among them, beauties are as numerous as the stars. There is even a rumor that the Eastern Desolate Sect only accepts male disciples a fact that undoubtedly crushed the hearts of countless young girls hoping for a chance at proximity to their idols.

Of course, these are all merely rumors. Whether they are true or false remains unclear, for the Eastern Desolate Sect has been closed off for decades. People go in, but no one ever comes out. No one knows the situation inside. Or rather, anyone on the outside who did know is already dead.

The carriage jolted violently. I sat inside, staring blankly at my fingernails long, thin, and caked with mud. These were clearly the hands of a youth, likely no older than sixteen.

【To be precise, you are fourteen, 】 a tiny voice suddenly echoed in my mind.

I froze, not quite processing it. Who are you?

【I am your “Golden Finger” System. You can call me Xiao Tong, or Tongtong, 】 the thin, reedy voice gradually became clearer.

A System?

I lifted my gaze, looking around before tugging at the tattered grey cloth robe I was wearing. The collar pulled open slightly, revealing a scrawny frame. In my memory, I weighed a solid 70kg; I was never this thin. I could practically feel my ribs.

I can’t be dreaming, can I? I tried pinching the flesh on my thigh.

Hiss!

It really was my body. Had I… transmigrated?

【Yes, you have transmigrated to ancient times. 】

Ancient times? Which dynasty? Who is the Emperor? Is there a martial world (Jianghu)? Or is this just a farming story? Do I have to take the imperial examinations?

Perhaps I had too many questions, because the System stopped answering.

Left with nothing to do, my brain refused to stop whirring. Transmigration. System. Golden Finger. For a moment, all sorts of “counter-attack protagonist” plotlines played on a loop in my head.

If this were a court drama, I’d have the System to help me manage floods, ace the exams, and rise step-by-step until I became the Grand Chancellor, ruling all under heaven.

If this were a farming story, I’d plant orchards, build a ranch, invent things, open shops, and start a franchise until I became the wealthiest merchant in the world.

If this were a martial arts world, I’d have lucky encounters, find secret manuals at every turn, and once my training was complete, I’d be peerless. I’d be the hero in fine clothes on a swift horse, living a life of carefree adventure.

【Sorry to keep you waiting. Please accept these books first. 】 Just as I was getting excited, the System suddenly shoved several books into my mind all at once.

I jumped, my head jerking back and hitting the carriage wall. I rubbed the back of my head, and once the dizziness cleared, I focused on the titles. There were roughly ten of them. They were all part of a series, following a uniform format: The Eastern Desolate Sect of [XXXXX].

I opened the one titled The Eastern Desolate Sect of the Bitter Fruits of Vanity. It was blank; not a single word. The others, The Cage of Despair, The Root of Immorality, Selfish Infatuation, Obsequious Servant, Cold and Heartless, The Ill-Fated, Fatal Black and White were also completely empty.

Looking at these titles, which reeked of old-school “Angst/Tragedy” novels, I had a sinking feeling in my gut.

【These books will help you understand this world more thoroughly, 】 the System said, sounding a bit embarrassed. 【I’ve only found these completed volumes so far. There are ninety more currently being written. Once they are finished, I will transmit them to you immediately. 】

Ninety more.

My lip twitched as I massaged my forehead. Don’t tell me the contents of these tragedy novels are all going to play out in this world.

【Yes. The creative background for all of them is this world. 】

The System confirmed it. It really was an angst novel setting.

My vision went dark. I thought of all the tragic tropes: amnesia, carriage accidents (though I suppose not in ancient times), jumping off cliffs, misunderstandings, “killing my father and stealing my wife,” disabilities, forced cesareans, heroes being falsely accused and executed by a thousand cuts, “stand-in” lovers, and organ transplants. My life felt like it was already over.

Even without seeing the contents, my vast experience as a reader told me that with titles like these, the actual text would be more absurd than I could imagine. There is no “worst” only “worse.”

Angst, angst. Only cruelty brings satisfaction. If you put the protagonists of all those angst novels on the same stage, it wouldn’t be a story; it would be a “Who has it worse?” competition. And if the protagonists are that miserable, the supporting characters won’t fare much better. Most importantly angst novels are notorious for “Bad Ends” (BE)!

Even the protagonists can die! Who knows what insane plots a deranged author might arrange just to squeeze tears from the readers?

From what I overheard from the two men outside earlier, the “me” of this world had already been sold by my parents. Ten taels of silver roughly two thousand RMB. Originally, I was supposed to be sent to a wealthy family as a slave, but the human trafficker thought I was tall and had long legs good potential for martial arts. He planned to sell me to the Eastern Desolate Sect, where he heard the price could double.

What kind of place is the Eastern Desolate Sect? It’s a “blessed land” capable of mass-producing a hundred tragedy novels. If I really end up there, what good could possibly come of it?

The more I thought, the more terrified I became. I shoved those ten books into a corner of my mind like they were the plague, trying to keep them out of sight and out of mind.

Wait, why are these books empty?!

【Because they are stories that haven’t started yet! For your “Immersive Transmigration Experience,” they are temporarily masked. 】 The System seemed to grow more confident, its voice sounding a bit deeper and less reedy than before.

They haven’t started? The hair on my arms stood up. I asked warily: Is my name in any of the lead roles?

【One moment, let me check. 】 After a flurry of pitter-patter sounds, the System said cheerfully: 【Your name isn’t there. Would you like me to recommend you for a role? 】

“No need!” I hurriedly stopped the System’s suggestion, feeling a massive wave of relief.

There was still hope.

In angst novels, there aren’t just tragic leads and supporting characters; there is also a very safe role—the “Passerby A” (Extras) that the author barely mentions.

There are two types of Extras. The first is the “Cannon Fodder” extra, whose only purpose is to heighten the tragic atmosphere by dying in various creative ways (PASS on that one). The second is the “Background Prop” extra. Like a blade of grass next to a flower the flower is responsible for attracting bees and butterflies and performing the high drama, while the grass is just there to fill out the scene.

The wildfire cannot consume it; it grows again with the spring breeze.

Isn’t it better to just keep living tenaciously, peacefully, and quietly? Why be a protagonist? Why charge into the dragon’s den or fight for the title of “Number One in the World”?

An angst novel isn’t like a power fantasy. Under the spotlight, what awaits you isn’t flowers and applause, but a pack of wolves and tigers that you can’t afford to provoke. One wrong move and your life is forfeit. And that’s the light version the worst part is when the author gets a cruel streak and keeps you hanging on by a thread, wishing you were dead. That is truly “calling to heaven and getting no response.”

In short: The tallest tree catches the wind. I must never be the one to stand out. Being an unnoticed background character is the ultimate strategy for staying alive.

I don’t know how much time passed, but by the time my stomach was growling so loud it was sticking to my spine, the carriage finally stopped.

Someone knocked on the exterior wall, and a coarse voice called out: “Kid Lu, get down.”

I stood up, hunched over, and pulled back the curtain to jump down.

The midday sun was directly overhead, and the sudden light made me squint as I surveyed my surroundings. We were by a riverbank. A breeze blew through the dense reeds along the embankment, scattering reed blossoms. Weeping willows lined the shore, their branches dipping into the mirror-like water and creating tiny ripples. The golden sun, the swaying reeds, and the shimmering water looked like a fine oil painting.

Besides me, there were a dozen or so others, all dressed very simply. Only a few middle-aged men the human traffickers—stood together talking. Behind them stood children, all quite young; some looked no more than six or seven.

They were all boys, and their faces were quite decent.

What gave me a headache was that this body was remarkably tall. Looking around, only one dark-skinned, handsome boy was nearly as tall as I was. The others only reached my chest or stomach, or were at least half a head shorter.

While the “higher altitude” provided better air, I felt no joy. If this were a power fantasy, this “supermodel height” would be a standard protagonist trait. But in a tragedy, standing out is never a good thing.

I quietly moved next to that dark-skinned boy, hunching my back slightly to make myself look haggard and dejected. Ideally, I wanted to be rejected.

As I lowered my head, feeling a bit troubled, a System panel suddenly popped up it was a book interface. The title was: The Eastern Desolate Sect: Obsequious Servant.

My spirits lifted, and I immediately opened the book. Unlike the previous blank pages, the first page of this one actually had content

When the trafficker arrived at their village, Qiao Kaiheng looked back at his mother lying on her sickbed and his young brother who was constantly crying from hunger. He made a decision.

He kissed his brother’s tear-stained, dirty face, gritted his teeth, and ran out.

A moment later, he returned clutching a cloth bundle. When he opened it, there was shimmering silver inside.

His mother on the bed sensed the movement. She opened her dim, sightless eyes and reached out, her hand finding Qiao Kaiheng’s face. “Heng’er, where did this come from?”

“Mother.” Qiao Kaiheng’s voice trembled as he caught that withered, frail hand and leaned into it longingly. “I have to go on a long journey. I might not be back for five or ten years. This is the silver the master gave me in advance. It’s enough for you and my brother to get through these next few years.” For a poor family, a few taels of silver could last a long time. Once these years of famine passed, his brother would be grown enough to support the household.

The woman tilted her head numbly. “Years without coming back?”

“Five years, ten years… or maybe…” A lifetime. Qiao Kaiheng swallowed the unfinished words.

“Oh,” the woman seemed to understand instantly. Her numb expression grew a fraction more pained. She nodded, her dry, peeling lips opening and closing before finally uttering a few hollow words: “Take care of yourself, Heng’er.”

“I will.” Qiao Kaiheng felt his sleeve being grabbed by a small hand. His young brother was crying so hard he could barely open his eyes, rasping and begging him not to go.

Qiao Kaiheng pulled him into his arms, whispering into his ear over and over: “Take care of Mother, Yue’er.”

The door creaked open, and a shadow stretched across the floor. Qiao Kaiheng turned his head. It was the trafficker.

“Time to go,” he reminded him, his yellowish eyes staring at the tall youth as if appraising a piece of merchandise.

Qiao Kaiheng let go of the child, hardened his heart, and stepped out with red-rimmed eyes. Behind him were the heart-wrenching cries of his brother and the low, stifled sobbing of his mother.

“You’re lucky; you’ve arrived just as the Eastern Desolate Sect is recruiting,” the trafficker revealed on the road.

Qiao Kaiheng’s depressed eyes suddenly lit up. “You’re selling me to the Eastern Desolate Sect?!”

The trafficker hummed a low note of confirmation.

Qiao Kaiheng was overjoyed. The Eastern Desolate Sect it was the legendary holy land of martial arts. Even in his remote mountain village, the legends of the martial world from years ago were well known. He and his friends had all admired the grace of those great masters.

Boys, especially during puberty, always have a surge of hot blood in them, hoping to one day roam the world as heroes.

At this moment, he still does not know what exactly is waiting for him ahead, yet his heart is filled with dreams of clashing swords and the carefree life of the Jianghu.

That last sentence was truly thought-provoking.

I rubbed my chin, tilting my head to study Qiao Kaiheng. The more I looked, the more I realized his features were refined. Though his skin was dark, his frame was straight and sturdy, and his eyes shone with a startling brightness under the sun. At a glance, he was clearly different from the other scrawny, sickly kids around him.

As expected of an angst novel protagonist: tragic backstory, iron will, and a “Hell-mode” start.

What was the title of this book again? The Eastern Desolate Sect: Obsequious Servant?

I pondered the meaning of the title and quietly took a step to the side, instinctively wanting to distance myself from him. But then I reconsidered and moved a bit closer. With him right next to me for comparison, the chances of me being rejected were much higher.