Stranded Awakening
Pang Yujin. "Incompetent Yujin?" It was only in his final moments, as if he'd been deceived his entire life, that the memories finally returned. This world was actually an NTR game. Not that anyone was deliberately toying with him, but why had the realization come only when death loomed so close?
Now, at last, he could understand why he'd ended up in such a pathetic state. He was one of the game's greatest victims: "Incompetent Yujin."
If the memories had returned the instant he'd possessed this body, he might have prepared in advance and suffered less trauma. But the shock had already hit him full force, leaving his mind in tatters. Was this goddamn world—or whatever system governed it—trying to deliver the ultimate mental assault? It felt like nothing less than pure malice. This is fuckin' bullshit. He wanted to spit those exact words out loud.
But the timing wasn't right. "Bubub, buhbubek!" Physically venting his rage was impossible.
He was on the verge of drowning, with death's threat right before his eyes.
"Glub, save me!" This wasn't some calm valley stream or lake—it was the vast, open ocean, with foul weather to boot. And during his fall from the cliff, he'd smashed into rocks and outcrops, leaving his body battered and aching all over. Utterly on the brink of drowning, a do-or-die crisis.
All he could do was flail desperately, trying to keep his head above the massive waves crashing down. Am I really gonna die like this? For a fleeting moment, he wondered if this surreal nightmare might just be a dream, tempting him to give up and let go. But as if flashing a yellow card at the thought, a warning message popped up before his eyes.
Possession is non-fiction, not fiction.
Death here means real death.
He hadn't done anything wrong—why the hell had he been dumped into this absurd situation? It was infuriating, but acceptance was his only option.
"Hah, what the fuck. Feels like I'm starting to get the hang of this if I just hold on?" Still, silver linings amid the misfortune? At first, he was too frantic adapting to notice, but as things settled, the waves seemed to follow a pattern. Testing it a few times with his breathing, the chaos began to stabilize. "This is manageable?" He uttered the words he shouldn't have, unwittingly raising a flag.
SPLASH!
"Gahk!" No sooner had the arrogant words left his mouth than a massive wall of water slammed into his face. Hitting him dead-on during a deep breath, seawater flooded every orifice—mouth, ears, nose—like a brutal invasion.
Aaagh, sorry! Gotta stay humble before Mother Nature's wrath. Valuable lesson learned.
The problem? Paying the price for it. Cold. Salty. Stinging. What kind of sensory hell was this? No respite as it pummeled him relentlessly; he could feel his limits closing in.
"Gluglglug."
Maybe it was thanks to living as a martial artist—his robust body held out far longer than expected. But as his modern, pampered soul's mentality resurfaced and clashed, confusion shattered his balance. His body sank deeper, consciousness fading, control slipping away. Swept by the currents, he plunged into the depths.
*
Squawk, squawk!
"Fuckin' hell." The seabird cries in his ears, paired with the creeping dread invading his mind—nothing else captured it but that word.
What sin from his past life? No swearing, no crimes, always dutiful... right? Memories blurred; he couldn't swear to it.
Anyway, "Yujin... Pang Yujin." Having lived his life from childhood, he knew little of the original "game Yujin"—just the basics: name, role.
Red Heart Lotus. The title screamed generic wuxia game. It should have vanished quietly among countless mediocrities. But the illustrator's killer art—gorgeous, alluring characters—drew gamers in. Then the trap: a hidden "Netorare" tag at the end, undiscoverable without clicking. Shock value made it "popular" in the worst way.
Why so familiar? Mitigating circumstances: he was a diehard fan of the illustrator "BellflowerBear," who contributed to it. Flaw? Underestimating his own fragility. Thought himself omnivorous, immune. Big mistake. Judging the abyss without diving in—self-reflection on his naivety ensued.
Impressions? Stellar illustrations, first external gig, outshining her usual. Eye candy. But beyond that? Trash. Story worst of all. Even as the "stealer," it soured your mood.
Pang Yujin—even in name-packed China, Pang clan was rare. He belonged to the near-royal Hebei Pang Family, one of wuxia's great sects.
But empty shell. External arts genius, quick mastery. Internal arts? Zero talent. Couldn't learn the clan's famed blade arts despite stamina. Doomed in succession struggles.
Rumors branded the direct-line failure a halfwit. Life turned grueling.
Yet he endured. Amid family—lord, even mother—turning away, one ally: childhood friend and lover, Namgung Yeona.
Gaps widened. Losing to retainers, daily humiliation. But her visits healed wounds, fueled training.
Of course, that ended in a brutal backstab.
Her excuse? Moyong Shin knew a cure for his blocked meridians; she got close for it. Caught their affair red-handed—rage beyond the illustrations.
Learned how far desperation pushes. Thanks for the lesson, you scum.
Now, tempted to say it: "This is fuckin' bullshit."
Curse of knowledge hit. Ignorance was bliss. Profanity he avoided now poured out, raw emotion.
So what now? This trash body can't avenge shit. Scrape by from rock bottom?
"Hah."
No point lamenting. At least, he'd sorted his plight mentally.
"Where the hell am I?"
Washed up on a remote southern isle. Wreckage on the beach evoked theme parks—or that famous pirate flick, high sync.
"What is this? Feels so out of place."
Wuxia to Age of Sail? No such map in the game. Too exotic to forget.
"Really stranded, huh."
Fresh memories churning, now castaway. If orchestrated, pure evil.
Fiction trope, now reality. Shoulda binged more survival manga reruns.
Childhood comics surfaced—devoured "studying" math. Fun over facts; zilch recalled.
"Feels hopeless."
Haa, flop onto back. Ocean, isle, beach. Hated waves yesterday; now lounging ironically serene. World-weary apathy crept in.
Revenge necessary? No talent—why not chill here?
'Nah, can't here. Moyong Shin.'
'Shut up and follow. You want it too?'
"Fuck!" Flashback of tormentors—nausea surged. Vivid betrayal memories assaulted.
Worse unmoving. Waves crashing, breeze soothing—mood soured.
"Can't even say 'whatever' now."
Stray thoughts looped. Time to move.
Activity beats negativity. "Stranded first—priorities."
Survival basics: secure safety. Coast clear. Wounds? "Scabs formed." External prowess sped healing.
Next: inhabited? Terrain later. Shelter first—eyes on wreck.
Risky collapse, but must check. Supplies? Tools, weapons for new home. Clues better.
No delay. Dragging weary body, he approached the hulking ship.