rule one

Chapter 01. Truck-Kun

Blood painted the earth beneath a mountain of corpses, a gruesome river of red carving through the shattered remains of what was once a battlefield.

The stench of death mingled with the acrid scent of sweat and the foul odor of decay filling the air with the unbearable reality of war's aftermath. The ground, filled with swords, lances, and various weapons of another time, was littered with implements of destruction, some still buried in the bodies of the fallen.

The sky, a dull grey canvas, empty even of scavenger birds, seemed to mourn the loss below, its cold light casting an eerie glow on the desolate scene. A chilling wind whispered through the field, it carried the faint cries of agony from the few who still managed to clung to life, their bodies mangled and broken beyond recognition.

At the center of this devastation stood a solitary figure, towering above the death mountain as if a monument to the carnage. Their seemingly once white robes were soaked in the blood and filth of the fallen, blending them into the landscape. Their eyes, a piercing scarlet, burned bright and their body radiated a fierce light that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the dead.

Jon, standing right below the human mountain and witnessing this hellish tableau, felt a creeping dread settle in his bones. The scene before him was way too vivid, too visceral to be a mere figment of imagination. He was there, amidst the horror, feeling the cold bite of the wind, the sticky warmth of blood underfoot, and the oppressive weight of death all around.

Suddenly, his heart hammered against his chest, a primal dread settling in as, from above, the figure's gaze met his, a silent challenge, a promise of unspeakable horrors yet to unfold.

The figure spoke, their voice disturbingly familiar, cutting through the oppressive silence.

"Come on Barbie, let's go party."

Suddenly, Jon awoke, gasping for air, his bed soaked with sweat. The alarm on his phone blared the song "I'm a Barbie Girl", not the new one, the original by Aqua. Though, he liked both versions.

Jon's breaths slowly returned to normal, the manic tempo of the song still playing in the background. The familiar scent of coffee lingered in the air, grounding him in the reality of his usual, unremarkable surroundings. His room was a snapshot of everyday life.

He reached out, his hand grasping the phone, and with a half-amused, half-resigned smile, he found himself singing along, "...In a Barbie world, life in plastic, it's fantastic..."

Turning off the alarm, Jon swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting there for a moment.

He scratched his head, a smirk spreading across his face despite the lingering unease. Damn, third time this week. That psycho even looks at me now. Almost gave me a heart attack.

"Dick."

Jon flopped back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. The dream had been a nightly visitor, each iteration more vivid, more detailed.

This time, he couldn't shake the surreal feeling that the figure had truly seen him, their gaze piercing through the veil of sleep into reality. "Am I losing my mind?" Jon wondered. Almost a month of this, and it's like a freakin' HD remaster every damn time, he thought.

He couldn't help but notice the eerie similarity of the corpses' attire to the cultivator garb from the webnovels of his younger days. Those novels really did a number on me. I've fried my brain with all that xianxia crap and now I'm dreaming in cultivator couture.

Jon sighed deeply, the absurdity of his situation not lost on him. "Guess I'm gonna need to find some shrink who specializes in exorcising batshit crazy nightmares," he mused, a tinge of annoyance lacing his words.

This was the last thing he needed, especially after convincing himself he didn't need a therapist for his other issues, here he was, contemplating a visit for his midnight horror shows. "Great, just what I needed," he muttered, "another head trip to the psycho doc to figure out why I'm the guest star in Cultivator Chainsaw Massacre every night."

The morning light broke through the curtains, casting a warm glow across Jon's room. Today wasn't just any day—it was his mom's birthday. He, his best friend and business partner Eddy, and a few family members had orchestrated a surprise party for the evening. Jon had gone all out, planning to gift her a new car and a nice little house nestled in a vineyard by a river, with a cottage and a cherry blossom tree garden, exactly the kind of place she'd always dreamed of retiring in—a vintage sanctuary where she could enjoy peace and family time. Given that Jon was now her only immediate family.

His dad, bless his soul, had tried to stop a bank robbery with nothing but guts, good intentions and an apparent misunderstanding of his own combat skills. Needless to say, he was offed swiftly in front of his son, batman style. Leaving 8 years old Jon not just fatherless but also with a front-row seat to the kind of emotional mess not even Alfred could clean up.

Sometimes, he could still hear the screams, the thunderous unloading of guns. Bam! Once, twice, thrice then the smell of the gunpowder, and see the vein in Daddy's forehead throbbing as his last synapses feverishly tried to process exactly how he'd managed to fuck things up this royally. Exactly in that order.

Boy, talk about setting the bar high for irreversibly screwing up your kid before puberty had even hit...

Evidently, Jon's childhood psyche was shattered into a billion fragments before replacing it with a heaping slice of PTSD pie he never really recovered from.

Especially with what happened right after that, but that's another story for another time.

Jon rose from his bed, shaking off the remnants of dark thoughts and dreams. Today was not the day to dwell on the past; it was packed with celebrations and milestones. Beyond the birthday surprise for his mom, he was set to inaugurate the new premises of his startup in the heart of Chicago. Ditching Silicon Valley's saturated markets had proven to be a stroke of genius.

Life had been on an upswing for him. Post-breakup with Daeun, ah, Daeun, that was one tough damn time he'd like to Eternal Sunshine right out of his brain, but now he seemed to be on a winning streak: acing college as the top student, hitting a $100 million jackpot, starting a business with his best friend and watching it thrive. It was as if fortune, after years of dealing him a bad hand, had finally decided to throw him a bone.

Either that or Daeun really was just the ultimate, crampon-wearing, constantly nagging and nagging and nagging obstacle to his happiness and success this whole time. Some people are just toxic black holes like that, unfortunately. Can't live with them, can't successfully trap them in a cave for the greater good of society because that's illegal... or so they say.

Well, to be fair, Jon also had a pretty rough start at life, so, there's that too.

Everything's coming up roses, he mused internally with a smile. What could possibly go wrong? No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he winced. "Shit, never say that. It's like begging the universe to drop a piano on your head." Ah, the joys of tempting fate with a good old dose of Murphy's Law.

He always kicked off his day with a workout, because working out is good for you.

He stretched out the sleep, hit the pavement for a jog, and dove into some calisthenics, warming up for the main event. At the bench press, Jon pushed his limits, hoisting a personal best of 170 kg.

Fresh from his workout, he headed to cleanse the sweat of victory, then to the kitchen where breakfast awaited. In his penthouse, Jon's private chef, Carmen, was already orchestrating breakfast.

"Hey, Carmy!" Jon greeted as he sauntered into the kitchen.

"How're you doing, cousin?" Carmen shot back with a grin. They weren't actually cousins, it was just a thing they did.

Jon chuckled at the banter. "You tell me, cousin. What's on the menu this morning?"

Carmen, with a flourish befitting a culinary maestro, laid out the feast: "For you, cousin, I've got your favorite—scrambled eggs with chives and smoked salmon, whole grain toast with avocado spread, a side of fresh berries, and Greek yogurt with honey and nuts. And, of course, your mandatory cup of black coffee, as dark and intense as your soul after leg day."

Jon chuckled, correcting with a hint of pride, "Chest day, actually. Hit 170 kg today."

"Good job, just try not to kill yourself lifting weights," Carmen joked, flipping a spatula in the air. "I'd hate to have to scout for a new millionaire client."

Breakfast was a symphony of flavors, which Jon savored while tuning into the morning news. The buzz was all about his startup, especially with the grand opening of their new location. The cameras loved Eddy, who was giving an interview, looking every bit the tech visionary.

Post-breakfast, his headphones and sunglasses on, Jon set out on foot to work.

The city air wasn't exactly pristine, but the walk had a calming effect on him. Lost in thoughts about the day's schedule, he passed an alley and noticed something amiss. Four men were cornering another, who was on the ground, beaten and with his mouth and limbs taped. In the shadowy confines of the alley, the violent scene was hidden from the morning's casual observers, but not from Jon.

His gaze locked with the victim's, the man's eyes screaming desperation, a silent plea for rescue etched in his bruised face. But the haunting image of his father's bloodied end flashed before him, a visceral reminder of the cost of heroism. He lived by a hard-learned lesson: playing the hero was a fool's game.

It's none of my business, Jon reasoned silently, his steps resuming their rhythm. Why gamble with his safety, especially now when life is finally on an upward swing? No, he wouldn't risk it all on a stranger's plight.

Determined to keep out of trouble, Jon quickened his pace, planning to call the police once he was safely away, ensuring help would come without dragging him into the fray. He would not put himself in danger, but that was the least he could do. This helped him think of himself as less of an asshole and more of a pragmatic gentleman.

In the alley, the man was mercilessly beaten, fists raining down on him like a brutal hailstorm, his muffled cries barely audible over the thuds of blows. Jon, haunted by his resurging memories, was so lost in thought that he mindlessly stepped onto the road, oblivious to the oncoming danger.

Suddenly, the blaring horn of a truck shattered his reverie. The massive vehicle bore down on him, its driver frantically pumping the brakes, but momentum was not on Jon's side. Time seemed to dilate, each second stretching out as he saw snippets of his life darting through his mind. So this is how it ends? he thought despairingly, bracing for the imminent impact.

But in that razor-thin margin between life and death, a forceful hand yanked him back, pulling him out of the truck's deadly path in a blur of motion, saving him from a tragic fate.

Jon was utterly speechless, his shock rendering him indifferent to the truck driver's furious tirade, the words lost in a haze of adrenaline. Onlookers swarmed around him, their voices a din of concern, querying if he was hurt or if anything was broken. He noted, with a detached sense of relief, that the truck hadn't collided with anything else, sparing him from a landslide of guilt and legal troubles.

But amid the commotion, Jon's thoughts fixated on the mysterious savior who had yanked him from death's jaws. It struck him then, the absurd notion of those stories he'd read, where a protagonist gets 'isekaied' to another realm after a noble act, often involving a truck.

Would I have ended up in some hellish realm for not helping that guy? he pondered, still shocked, making him even more indebted to the unseen hero who intervened.

Scanning the crowd of concerned faces, he searched for any sign of his rescuer. Yet, no one stepped forward to claim the deed,

Jon pondered the sheer strength of his unseen savior. At 194 cm and 88 kilos, he was no lightweight, yet he had been whisked away with ease, as if he were as light as a feather. After dusting himself off and offering an awkward apology to the still-fuming truck driver, Jon continued his walk to the office, now with heightened vigilance.

He slung his headphones around his neck, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts about the day's uncanny events and a nagging sense of having overlooked something important gnawed at him, but before he could pinpoint it, a peculiar sensation seized his attention, one of unease.

Approaching another alley—what was it with alleys today?—Jon's gaze landed on a solitary figure whose attire seemed to leap out of the pages of the fantasy novels he cherished. "No way..." Jon yanked off his sunglasses, blinking hard. The person's presence, so oddly out of place, piqued Jon's curiosity.

"Hey, you there, you alright?" Jon called out, keeping a safe distance from the alley's mouth. "If you're looking for the comic con, it's not for another month!" He figured it was just another cosplayer; after all, his nerdy inclinations had led him to many such events.

Yup, it was definitely a dude dressed up like an ancient cultivator, standing alone in the middle of an alley and giving him a look that could curdle milk. Jon squinted, trying to place the character they might be impersonating, but no answers came. "Oookay, that's weird," he muttered under his breath,

As the mysterious figure retreated further into the alley's shadowy depths, still holding Jon's gaze, a chill ran down his spine. When the stranger vanished into the darkness, Jon was left staring into the void they'd disappeared into. "Fuck that, I'm not following you in there," he declared. He had seen enough horror movies to know that venturing after a mysterious figure into a dark alley rarely ended well.

Jon turned to leave, a flicker of fear sparking within him, when suddenly a strange breeze caressed his back. With each step he took, the wind seemed to grow stronger, eerily blowing towards the alley he was so keen to avoid. Jon's heart raced; he didn't dare look back, even as the wind intensified, morphing into a force that seemed to pull him toward the shadowy passage.

Panic surged through him as he found himself helplessly drawn backwards. "Shit, shit, shit! What is this? Help!" Jon's cries for help were desperate, his voice rising in terror. It felt as if an invisible hand had latched onto him, dragging him inexorably back into the alley's ominous embrace. "This is not happening, no, no, no!" Jon screamed, his body tensing as he was yanked into the darkness, the alley swallowing him whole.

Chapter 02

Man's Best Friend

Jon's fingers clung to the cold metal pole with the desperation of a man holding onto the last vestige of reality. The semi-invisible hands, large and unyielding, grasped him with a force that seemed to mock the laws of physics and common sense. "Help! Someone, for the love of—this can't be happening!"

The alley around him blurred, the dim light from the street creating eerie shadows that danced mockingly on the walls. Jon's mind raced, a jumbled mess of panic and disbelief, as he prayed to every deity he could think of, and even a few he made up on the spot. "Not like this," he pleaded, "What the actual fuck is even this?" he gasped, his voice cracking as the invisible force dragged him further away from the safety of the street.

In this dire tableau of absurdity, a figure appeared at the alley's entrance—a ray of hope in human form. Jon's eyes widened, a surge of relief momentarily dulling the fear. "You! You there!" he yelled, the relief in his voice tinged with hysteria.

The man, pausing, looked at Jon with wide, fearful eyes."What. The. Fuck." he mused, seemingly not quite believing his eyes, a random guy being manhandled by a giant transparent hand in a dark alley, crying for help. A normal reaction, by all measure.

"No, no, don't be afraid, come on, man, I need help!" Jon implored, face drenched in sweat, the desperation in his voice making him sound like he was negotiating for the last piece of pizza at a party.

But the man, after giving Jon a very familiar look of 'I've seen this movie, and it doesn't end well for the guy who helps,' turned tail and ran, his terror echoing Jon's earlier fears. Jon's heart sank, shouting after the retreating figure, "Hey, don't do that! Listen, I—"

It was too late.

The giant hands pulled with renewed vigor, yanking Jon from his metallic lifeline. As he was momentarily suspended in the air, time slowed, a cruel director drawing out the scene for maximum dramatic effect.

Jon's life, rather than flashing before his eyes, decided to highlight a particularly embarrassing moment from his eighth-grade talent show.

Then, in the absurd theater of his mind, the important thing he had forgotten earlier struck him with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. I needed to call the police for that guy in the alley, he realized, the irony hitting him harder than the realization itself. Now the universe was evening the cosmic score by making him the random alley guy. "Karmaaargh!" Jon's scream was a symphony of rage, tears, fear, and disbelief, a perfect crescendo to the madness unfolding.

As the darkness engulfed him, Jon's desperate eyes caught a glimmer of light, a circular portal from which the gigantic, semi-invisible hand emerged. The light growing increasingly intense, blinding him with its stark, cold brilliance.

His pleas to the unseen force were met with silence, the hand unyielding as it dragged him closer to the circle of light. Jon's tears mingled with the dirt on his cheeks as he begged, his voice cracking, "Please, no!"

Reaching the circle's edge, Jon clung to it with a desperation he hadn't known he possessed, his fingers digging into the unknown material, resisting the inevitable.

In this dire moment, a dog, shubby and indifferent, wandered into the alley, its eyes locking onto Jon's panicked form. With a flicker of hope, Jon called out, "Hey, boy, come here, help me out, you're a good boy, aren't you?" He tried to sweeten the deal with promises of treats, his voice softening, a stark contrast to the looming dread.

The dog tilted its head, considering the man dangling from the cosmic doorway, then, it's eyes meeting jon's with a calmness that belied the chaos of the scene, lifted its leg. What followed was the ultimate act of canine contempt: the dog peed right on Jon, dousing his face in a warm, humiliating stream.

For a few seconds, Jon was stunned into silence, processing the ignominy of his situation.

As the realization sunk in, he got pissed—pun definitely intended. "I see. if I'm going down, you're coming with me, buddy," Jon muttered darkly, the edges of his mouth twitching into a maniacal grin and seizing the dog in a swift chokehold.

The dog yelped and thrashed, its panic setting in too late. Jon's laughter echoed in the alley, a manic sound that danced with the shadows. "Hehe, hehehe, hahaha!" His laughter grew as they both were pulled into the portal, the light swallowing them whole.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the alley was quiet, the portal vanishing as if it had never been. The echoes of Jon's laughter faded, leaving behind an empty space where he and the unsuspecting canine had been just moments before.

Jon and his accidental companion, the stray dog still locked in a chokehold, hurtled through the void, their journey mirroring the psychedelic whirlwind that Doctor Strange endured when that bald woman punched his astral form out of his body. They were swept into a maelic stream of colors and sounds, a torrent of cosmic chaos that defied logic and physics.

The universe unfolded around them in a kaleidoscopic frenzy, portals snapping open and shut like the blinking eyes of a thousand celestial beings. Through each window, snippets of life played out in fast-forward: a woman laughing with tears in her eyes, a child taking his first steps, a galaxy swirling in a dance of creation and destruction.

Voices, a din of distant cries, laughter, and whispers, melded into a symphony of existence. Among the myriad sounds, Jon caught a distinct cry, a man's voice shouting "Adom!" with a desperation that echoed across the cosmic expanse. Each scene, each sound was a fleeting glimpse into a life, a world, a moment in time.

Clutching his best friend tighter, Jon's senses were overwhelmed. Reality stretched and twisted, the boundaries between self and the universe blurring. When did this evil little pee machine become my best friend? he thought absurdly, the dog squirming in his arms now part of this insane journey.

They were not just moving through space, but time as well, witnessing the birth and death of stars, the rise and fall of civilizations in the blink of an eye. The surreal experience disoriented Jon, his mind racing with thoughts, memories, and visions that weren't his own. Time lost meaning, the past, present, and future melding into a single, incomprehensible now.

The maelstrom of cosmic vistas and temporal whirlwinds ceased abruptly, as if a celestial switch had been flipped. Jon, clutching the dog, felt a sudden jolt, a force ejecting them from the astral conveyor belt. Instinctively, he curled around the canine, bracing for impact. They hit the ground with a thud.

He was vaguely aware of the dog growling beside him, but it sounded muffled and distant, as if he were underwater. Jon's lungs strained for air as panic gripped him - his breaths coming in rapid, shuddering gasps. Spots danced across his vision and he felt dizzy, the stone floor tilting queasily beneath him.

This couldn't be happening. One minute he was safe on the road, the next violently tumbling through cosmic horrors and interdimensional chaos utterly beyond his comprehension. The visions, the sounds, the reality-shattering sensations he'd experienced - they rushed back in a suffocating torrent, overwhelming his senses.

Jon doubled over, retching dryly as his body tried in vain to expel the existential overload flooding his mind. He was distantly aware of concerned murmurs rippling through the crowd around him as he shuddered and gasped, cold sweat pouring off his brow. Memories, thoughts, and half-coherent images flashed through his addled psyche in a disorienting blur.

A hoarse, trembling moan escaped Jon's lips as his head swam dizzily. He needed to vomit - purge this overwhelming, debilitating experience from his mind and body. But he couldn't, simply dry heaving helplessly as his world fragmented into terrifying delirium. Was this real? Some horrific waking nightmare?

The tremors wracking Jon's body intensified as he crouched on the stone floor, eyes squeezed shut against the encroaching delusions. He clung to the corporeal - digging his nails into his clammy palms, the sharp pain a tether to reality amidst the untethered chaos of his mind.

Focus on your breathing. Jon's own mental voice cut through the overwhelming torrent, a lifeline in the sea of madness. He latched onto it desperately. In through the nose, out through the mouth - a learned technique from dealing with past panic attacks. Slowly, laboriously, he willed his ragged gasps to level out into a calmer rhythm.

As his breathing steadied, Jon became hyper-aware of his other senses in heightened clarity. The firm ground beneath him, cool against his skin. The soft material of his clothes clinging with sweat. The jumbled sounds and odd smells filling the chamber. It was all viscerally, undoubtedly real.

Tentatively uncurling, Jon dragged the back of a trembling hand across his damp brow, blinking around at his surroundings with new lucidity. People - dozens of them in strange robes and garments - watched him with mixtures of concern, curiosity, even wariness.

A sharp pinch on the soft underside of his forearm made Jon's teeth grit, but brought his consciousness into fully grounded focus. This was really happening. He had been violently ripped from his world and flung into...into what? Where the hell was this place?

Glancing down at the dog by his side - his erstwhile nemesis now the sole, gnarled thread still tying him to a sense of familiarity - Jon took a fortifying breath. Okay, get it together. Don't lose your shit. Not yet, at least.

Positive thoughts. Happy memories to cling to. His favorite comic books as a kid, reading for hours in his treehouse hideaway. That ratty old plush pig he'd had since birth that always made him smile when he was scared or upset. His late grandma's legendary chili recipe and how the whole family would come together on holidays, laughing and joking around her rickety dining room table.

As visceral anchors to happier times steadied Jon's addled mind, he cautiously rose into a crouch, scanning his bizarre surroundings with new intentions. People in robes and tunics with wide belts...ornamental swords and talismans...a strange yet tangible power suffusing the air...

"Oh, you gotta be shitting me," Jon muttered under his breath, realization dawning. He knew these aesthetics, had seen them portrayed countless times in the xianxia novels and shows that had fired his imagination since childhood. The tropes, the archetypes - they were unmistakable.

Which meant...he had been isekai'd. Displaced from his own world into the realm of cultivators and celestial energies. A realm of kung-fu sorcerers and mythical adventures.

The dog growled again, as if sensing Jon's swirling mix of disbelief, fear, and slowly building resignation. This was really, truly happening. No matter how unbelievable, how earth-shatteringly surreal, he could no longer deny the evidence of his senses.

Jon wiped a sleeve across his damp face, exhaling a shuddering breath as he attempted to steady his nerves. Okay, stay calm. Don't panic. Just...just figure out what fresh hell you've stumbled into first, then go from there.

The dog, ruffled but resilient, gave a soft "arf", as if acknowledging their shared ordeal.

The chamber was lit by fire torches set into sconces along the walls, casting a warm, flickering light that danced across the faces of the onlookers and the ornate writings that decorated the walls.

Turning to the dog, Jon sighed, "Looks like we've been isekai'd, buddy." The dog responded with a growl, its eyes fixed on the gathering crowd, visibly not happy about this predicament.

"Hey, don't be mad at me," Jon whispered to the dog. "You're the one who peed on me, remember?" Another growl from the dog, and Jon scoffed, his external calm a stark contrast to the whirlwind of thoughts inside him.

What in the world was happening? "I was in my room this morning, and now..." he muttered under his breath, his gaze scanning the room filled with what he suspected to be actual cultivators.

From the throng emerged a wizened elder, hobbling forth with exaggerated feebleness while leaning heavily upon an ornate cane. The old man's eyes were almost comically narrowed to mere slits, giving him the air of a confused gremlin who'd gotten loose from the nursing home.

As the stooped figure approached, the murmurs and whispers among the gathered cultivators subsided in thick, expectant silence. Jon felt like a zoo animal being observed with equal parts fascination and vague pity by its zookeepers.

When the ancient one at last stood before him, he straightened with surprising vigor, fixing Jon with an intense, appraising look that seemed jarringly at odds with his decrepit facade. Then, he spoke - and Jon startled at the sound of archaic, heavily accented Mandarin.

"It has worked, indeed," the old man proclaimed, his reedy voice carrying weird ceremonial weight. "The lord will be satisfied."

What the...? Jon's brow furrowed, his mind instinctively grasping at the linguistic familiarity like a lifeline, trying to anchor himself. Okay, Mandarin...that's something, at least. Coherent language in a sea of crazy.

Scrambling mental files pulled from his xianxia novel obsession prompted Jon to respond with the typical polite greeting - bringing his fist to his opposite palm and bowing slightly.

"Greetings, venerable cultivators," he said, proud of how impressively level his voice remained despite the storm of what the actualfuckery raging within. "This humble one is honored to be in the presence of such esteemed... gentlemen."

The formal phrasing felt unnatural spilling from his mouth, like one of those black-and-white karate movie translations. But he hoped it conveyed the appropriate respect their apparent status demanded.

"May I inquire as to where I have been brought?" Jon continued, fighting to keep his accented Mandarin clear and audible across the chamber. Might as well go full Orientalist while stuck in the role.

The old man's remaining eyebrow arched quizzically at Jon's linguistic prowess. "How come you speak our tongue, summoned one?"

Jon glanced sidelong at the dog still growling at his feet, as if the mangy beast could offer sage counsel. Redirecting his gaze to the old man and assembled cultivators, he replied, "In my world, your language is one I have studied."

A civilized way to phrase the implausible reality that he'd absorbed their language via fantasy novels and TV shows, he figured. No point blazing a trail of honesty here that would just lead to awkward conversations.

The people around him started murmuring again, probably not expecting that.

The old man's voice echoed with ceremonial gravity. "Is that so? How...interesting. You stand in the sacred Sun Moon Divine Cult, a place of power and learning revered by all in the Jianghu."

Jon felt his heart plummet into his stomach, a queasiness gripping his gut. He knew that name. He knew it very well from the xianxia stories that had been a beloved escape for years. The Sun Moon Divine Cult...better known as the Demonic Cult. One of the most nefarious, depraved villains across countless tales of cultivation.

As the old man's words became a dull droning in his ears, Jon's gaze flitted across the assembled group with new, unsettled scrutiny. The archaic swords and blades. Bizarre totems hanging from their belts. An undercurrent of simmering power that set his nerves edging.

Somehow, some literally inconceivable way, he had been dumped into the heart of darkness for this whole demented fantasy realm. A cold sweat broke out across his skin as his mind whirled.

"Well..." Jon muttered under his shuddering breath, trying to reconcile the insanity. "Shit."

Chapter 03

Shit Means Nice

The old man, perplexed by Jon's expletive, tilted his head slightly, a wrinkle of confusion etched between his brows. "Shit?" he echoed, the word foreign and rough on his tongue.

With a straight face, Jon replied in Mandarin, "Oh, it's nothing really, esteemed elder." But the old man, his interest piqued, wasn't ready to let it go.

"What does that word signify?" he asked again, his tone insistent, as if the word held the key to some profound universal truth.

Thinking fast, Jon affected his best impassive diplomat mask. "It's simply a term of admiration where I'm from," he lied smoothly. "It means 'nice' or 'impressive.' Your sect's name struck me as truly formidable, which is why I said it."

The old man stroked his wispy beard contemplatively, considering this new data point with utmost solemnity. "Ah...'shit'..." he mused, savoring the flavor of the uncouth syllables. "Shit, is it?"

Then, with a nod of approval and turning to Jon with a smile, he declared, "You are 'shit'."

Every ounce of Jon's being strained to maintain a politely bemused expression rather than bursting into hysterical, anxiety-laden laughter.

"Why thank you, venerable elder," he replied, the very image of graciousness as he returned the absurd smile. "You are equally...shit, as well."

The surrounding cultivators, witnessing this exchange, began to murmur "shit", nodding to each other in apparent satisfaction, convinced they had grasped a compliment of the highest order from another realm. The word echoed through the chamber, a bizarre mantra of cross-cultural connection.

It was incredibly childish of him, and Jon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from visibly cracking as the assembled mystics congratulated each other on being so delightfully "shit."

As the discordant chorus began to ebb, Jon seized the opportunity to steer the conversation toward his more pressing existential burden.

"Esteemed elder, please forgive my boldness," he interjected with the perfect blend of polite deference. "But may I ask the reason for my being summoned to your hallowed sect?"

He allowed just a hint of underlying concern to bleed into his tone, skirting the line between respect and cautious worry like a tightrope. Three distinct clues had cemented Jon's suspicion that this was no chance displacement:

First, the old man's initial greeting of 'summoned one' was a dead giveaway. Duh, Jon mused sarcastically within the safe confines of his mind.

Second, the intricate patterns etched into the ground where he had first materialized. The designs were elaborate, traced in a substance that was unmistakably red—blood, he hoped not of a human variety. Definitely some freaky ritual shit.

And third, well...this whole situation reeked of a "summoning from another world" premise straight out of the novels he used to read. Like, zero percent chance this was a delightful meet-cute.

As Jon contemplated this, the old man's voice cut through his thoughts. "You shall have the honor of contributing to our heavenly leader's ascent to the next cultivation realm , the great Chun Shian," he declared, his eyes gleaming with pride and anticipation.

The word 'contributing' rang alarm bells in Jon's head. Ooookay, where is this going...? he thought. What did he mean by "contributing" to ascend to immortality? Surely he didn't mean...

As if on cue, the old man, perhaps perceiving the flicker of doubt in Jon's body language, clarified, "Your otherworldly blood shall be used in service of the greatest of causes."

Oh no, Jon realized internally, his fears confirmed. It was exactly what he thought. The bottom dropped out of his stomach as the grotesque reality crystallized. Of course - these lunatic cultivators thought his interdimensional essence would be the key ingredient to their big bad's power up brew.

Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.

The realization set Jon's mind racing, searching for an escape or a retort that might diffuse the situation. He had to think fast, lest he become an unwilling martyr in a ritual he had no desire to partake in.

He lifted his gaze, confronting the old man and his entourage. While some smiled, their eyes twinkling with the thrill of the forthcoming ritual, others regarded him with a cold, calculating stare. Jon's palms were clammy, his stomach twisting into knots, the raw edge of fear sharpening his senses.

Attempting to negotiate his way out, Jon stammered, "Venerable elder, pardon my straightforwardness, but I- I think that would be a mist-" His plea was abruptly cut short. A man in the crowd, previously unnoticed, suddenly up against him, made swift, precise gestures, his hands blurring in motion. Jon couldn't fully comprehend the actions, his mind racing with alarm.

The man, having completed his rapid assessment, turned to the elder and his peers, stating matter-of-factly, "The 'window' was almost closed."

The window? What the fuck, dude? You just touch people randomly like that? Who raised these guys?he thought, bewildered by the man's cryptic movements.

But before Jon could grasp the gravity of those words, he felt sharp stings where the man had seemingly touched him. A wave of excruciating pain followed, paralyzing him in an instant. He tried to speak, to move, to do anything, but his body refused to obey. Powerless, he crumpled to the ground, his world contracting to the throbbing of his own heartbeat and the distant sound of the dog barking furiously at the men.

As his vision tunneled, the last thing Jon saw were the blurred faces of the cultivators looming over him, their expressions a blend of curiosity and triumph. They seemed to be congratulating the old man. The sounds around him began to fade, as if he were sinking into deep water, and his consciousness wavered on the brink of oblivion.

Then, darkness swallowed him whole, the pain and fear ebbing away as he succumbed to the forced stupor. This was peaceful, all things considered.

*****

Jon slowly awakened, his eyes opening to a blurred ceiling above. As his vision gradually cleared, distinct scents filled his nostrils—the aroma of tea, the earthiness of the soil, and the metallic tinge of blood overshadowed by a nauseating stench reminiscent of a decaying body.

Remarkably, he could more or less pinpoint the origin of each smell, their individual trails as clear as if they were colored strings in the air. The horrible odor being the closest, am I near a corpse? He thought. Then, all his sensory systems, as if they had been dull his whole life, awakened in a way that was purely and simply brutal.

This overwhelming tidal wave of stimulus crashing over Jon was distinctly not a panic attack - he knew the familiar grip of anxiety all too well from his past struggles. No, this was something entirely different...something he had never experienced before.

It felt like every one of his five senses had been abruptly sharpened to nuclear levels, cranked up to suicidal volumes with no filter or dimmer switch. The ordinary sights, smells, textures and sounds of the world were now battering him in vivid high-definition, as if his entire perception had been muted in a dreary black-and-white fog his whole life until this moment.

Jon's nostrils flared with each breath, recoiling from the intense bouquets of scent data viciously assaulting his olfactory receptors. His eyes darted around frantically, struggling to focus despite the disorienting hyper-clarity of detail jumping into stark resolution all around him.

Even the routine whisper of air across his skin felt like a coarse scouring grit, each microscopic texture magnified into harsh, abrasive realism. The cacophonous symphony of ambient noises swelled into an overwhelming tangle of white noise, crashing like an overpowering tidal wave of deafening static. It was utterly disorienting, disjointing...like someone had peeled off his personal reality filter and shoved him headfirst into a bombarding multi-sensory rave he could neither process nor escape.

And the nauseating reek of decay that cloyed the air around him...Jon was amazed his sensitive taste buds didn't disintegrate from the putrid, concentrated notes of rot and death coating his abused senses.

But most disorienting of all was the utterly foreign - yet intrinsically familiar - sensation pulsing within him. A warm, soothing flow of... energy? Yes, that was the best way to put it, it emanated from Jon's abdomen, head and most intensely, his chest. It didn't hurt, but it also felt unmistakably unnatural...yet at the same time, the potent inner energy surged through his meridians with an indescribable cohesion, as if it had always been an innate part of him that he was only now capable of perceiving.

Phantom tingles skittering across nerve endings from head to toe.

It was all just...too much. Too viscerally intense and REAL in a way the world had never been before. If this was his new existence, some cosmic prank or trial by fire, Jon wasn't sure his psyche could withstand long against such an onslaught...

What the fuck is happening to me? His heart pounded as reality seemed to warp around him in lurid hyper-clarity.

But just then, Jon recalled the words of Dr. Harris, his psychiatrist from years ago. When panic attacks threatened to overwhelm him, she had advised, "Breathe in, breathe out. Clear your mind. Don't dwell on your father...on that state he was in. Remember the joy instead, Jon. The happier memories."

Heeding this advice again, Jon took deep, controlled breaths, pushing his mind towards comforting thoughts—his parents in a time of joy, before the tragic event he referred to as the 'Batman incident.' Calm down, calm down...

This mental shift seemed almost magical, as his heightened senses gradually recalibrated to a bearable level. The pounding of his heart and the heavy pumping of his lungs started to recede, and a semblance of peace enveloped him as his senses stabilized.

Jon eventually subdued the tumult within, his senses now sharpened beyond their prior limits yet no longer overwhelming. As he gingerly opened his eyes, he became acutely aware of his physical state. Initially, he thought he had been sweating profusely, but a closer inspection revealed something startling.

"Oh, God." The fluid coating his skin was light brown, oozing from his pores with an atrocious odor. "That reek was me?" he whispered in self-disgust, recoiling at the realization.

His attention then shifted to something peculiar on his body. Scattered across his skin were acupuncture needles, aligned with unnerving symmetry. As he traced their placement, a surge of anger flashed through him. They were positioned exactly where that damned cultivator had struck him earlier. "Son of a bitch..." he cursed under his breath, resentment boiling at the thought of the cultivator's calculated precision.

Struggling to his feet, Jon grappled with the new, intense sensations coursing through him. The needles, he now understood, weren't just randomly placed; they were deliberately aligned with the tender spots left by the cultivator's touch, suggesting a method to the apparent madness.

Jon's sudden alertness was triggered not by the physical changes he observed, but by the unfamiliar sensation within him—a warm, soothing energy, akin to a gentle fire, radiating from his abdomen, head, and most intensely, his chest. This energy pulsed through his veins.

As unsettling as the experience was, it didn't feel overtly unpleasant either. More...natural than anything, despite its foreign origins. Like the extension of some innate ability he'd been blind to until now.

As he rose, his hands clutched the edges of the wooden table he had been laid upon, only for it to snap effortlessly under his grip. Jon's initial thought was to blame the poor quality of the wood, but a spark of realization hit him.

The peculiar stench, the acute senses, and the warm internal energy mirrored the tales of 'body transformation' he had read in countless xianxia novels. In these stories, the protagonist often awakens post-cultivation to find themselves enhanced, possessing heightened senses and almost superhuman strength. The effortless destruction of the wooden table seemed to confirm his suspicion.

To test his budding theory, Jon turned his attention to a metal chair nearby. With curiosity and disbelief, he gripped it and applied pressure. To his astonishment, the metal yielded to his touch, bending as if it were made of clay.

A sardonic smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Well, fuck me sideways..." he muttered to himself in disbelieving awe. "Guess I'm cultivating now."

Still grappling with the reality of his situation, he looked upwards, half-expecting some divine or cosmic entity to provide answers. "So what - I'm the main character of my own personal xianxia now? Is this some kind of sick meta joke I'm being subjected to?" he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief.

As he plucked the acupuncture needles from his skin, a cool draft caressed his bare skin, prompting a startled realization. Jon was naked. His eyes darted around, half-expecting to find some celestial audience amused by his predicament.

Sitting back on the remains of the wooden table, Jon pondered over the surreal sequence of events.

"Okay...let's recap," he began in a low murmur, still trying to wrap his head around everything. "I get effortlessly snatched by a giant disembodied hand along with Evil Incarnate - the dog, that is - just to preface how utterly fucking insane this day decided to be..."

His eyes scanned the modest, threadbare furnishings of the unadorned chambers - little more than the destroyed table, a couple of simple metal chairs. Well, one chair and the mangled husk of another that was currently impressing him.

"Then I get dragged off to meet the weirdos and their immortality-obsessed cult leader who literally wants to sacrifice me - the Isekai'd rando - to ascend to some next level shit," he continued.

The distant, tinny sound of a dog barking suddenly registered, momentarily derailing his train of thought as a fleeting pang of guilt lanced through him.

"Ah shit, Evil Mutt back there...I hope Cujo's alright at least," he muttered, pushing the thought aside as he refocused. "Anyway, yeah...then their sketchy Number Two dude goes all Drunken Boxer Viper Strike on me from outta nowhere and everything goes black."

"Seems about right." he concluded. "What a splendid day!"

Jon, now fully aware of the stakes, shifted his thoughts toward escape. "No chance of negotiating my way out of this," he mused, his mind racing through potential strategies. The fact that he was left unbound and alone in the room hinted at the cult's overconfidence—or perhaps underestimation of him.

"Ah, the perks of main character plot armor," he chuckled to himself. It seemed that, just like in the novels, the antagonists possessed a certain lack of foresight, failing to take essential precautions.

Jon almost chuckled, contemplating the oversight of his captors. "They really don't think things through, do they? I'm guessing these mouth-breathers didn't exactly plan for their ritual lamb to wake up with super powers pre-slaughter..." He shook his head in amused disbelief. "Well, their lack of strategic planning could be my ticket out of here."

As Jon scoured the confines of the small room, his observations confirmed that escape routes were limited: just one door and a window. His newly amplified hearing subtly picked up the murmur of voices nearby, indicating that the door was not a viable option without risking immediate capture. The window, then, was his best bet for escape.

Approaching the window, Jon gauged its height. While it was certainly high, his supposed enhanced physical abilities reassured him that the jump was within his capabilities. The real challenge lay in the stealth required for his escape. Being butt naked would make it difficult to go unnoticed.

Jon couldn't help but grimace at the irony of his predicament. Of all the times to have a naturist adventure, it has to be when I'm breaking out of a cult's stronghold, he thought wryly. Despite the ludicrousness of his situation, the gravity of his circumstances wasn't lost on him. Naked or not, his life depended on a successful escape.

Chapter 04

Leap Of Faith, Or Not

Jon paced the length of the sparse room, the weight of his predicament pressing heavily on his shoulders. The window, a narrow slit high up on the stone wall, taunted him with its promise of freedom and its threat of peril. "That's a good sixty meters at least," he muttered, eyeing the drop. "That's like jumping off a 20-story building. Only lunatics and base jumpers would consider that a fun time."

He paused, taking stock of his newly enhanced physique. While the idea of testing his limits had a certain appeal, the reality of a 60-meter free fall was far from enticing. His mind raced, analyzing the risks. Even with his body's apparent transformation, the laws of physics remained unforgiving. Enhanced strength or not, gravity doesn't play favorites, Jon reasoned, his gaze flickering between the window and the door.

Moreover, the uncertainty of what awaited him below added another layer of risk. The courtyard could be teeming with the sect's disciples or, worse, its fearsome masters. Great, I escape the frying pan just to dive into the fire, he mused.

But it was the final point, one he admitted only to himself in the silent recesses of his mind, that held him back the most: Jon was scared of heights. Not just the mild discomfort that some might feel but a deep-seated fear that turned his legs to jelly and filled his chest with lead. He could face down a boardroom of hostile executives or stare into the barrel of a gun with a smirk, but the thought of dangling from a cliff edge or, in this case, leaping from a high window was his undoing.

He approached the window again, peering down at the shadowy ground below. The height made his head swim, and a cold sweat broke out across his brow. "Nope," he muttered, backing away. "There's got to be another way."

His mind began to churn through possibilities. Escape plans danced through his thoughts like scenes from a heist movie. Disguises, distractions, even the old 'hide in the laundry cart' trope played out in his imagination. Each idea was quickly evaluated and dismissed for its impracticality or sheer lunacy.

Jon stopped his pacing, a new thought dawning. "Wait a minute. I'm in a world where people can fly, shoot fireballs, and who knows what else. And I'm trying to escape like I'm in a prison movie?" He shook his head, a wry smile forming. "Jon, you're thinking too small."

He sat down, cross-legged, recalling the descriptions of cultivation he'd read in the novels of his youth. "If those old kung fu masters can levitate or hop around like gravity's just a suggestion, why can't I?" He considered the notion, his fear of heights battling with the practicality of using this world's rules to his advantage.

Closing his eyes, Jon attempted to sense the famous mystical energy found in the xianxia stories, the 'Qi' within him, the life force that those in this world manipulated to perform feats of martial prowess and mystical ability. Probably the new energy he is still feeling within him. He tried to remember the meditative techniques described in the stories, focusing on his breathing and seeking the center of power within him, the dantian.

At first, he felt nothing but the rapid beat of his heart and the dull ache of his muscles from his earlier physical exertions. But slowly, a warmth began to build in his lower abdomen, a gentle, swirling sensation that grew more distinct with each breath. "Is this... Qi?" he wondered, a mix of skepticism and excitement building within him.

Time slipped by as Jon focused inward, the fear and urgency of his situation fading to the background. The warmth expanded, flowing through his meridians like a slow stream becoming a river. The sensation was soothing, yet beneath it lay a potent force, an energy that whispered promises of power and freedom.

Jon felt the energy coursing through him. Yet, there he remained, solidly grounded, his butt as firmly planted on the stone floor as ever. "Great, I'm all charged up with no place to go," he muttered, his frustration mounting. "So much for being the protagonist in a xianxia saga. What kind of cheap plot armor is this?"

He stood up, the lingering buzz of Qi within him a stark contrast to his helplessness. "I'm like a battery-powered superhero without the instruction manual," Jon quipped, trying to lighten the mood in the absence of actual levitation or, frankly, any superpowers.

The gravity of his situation quickly reclaimed his focus. Time was a luxury he didn't have. Someone could barge in at any moment, and Jon's newfound Qi sensitivity told him that silence was as much a shield as any weapon. He strained his ears, listening to the faint murmur of voices beyond the walls, a reminder of the ever-present danger lurking outside.

The window was still a no-go. Even with the Qi thrumming within him, leaping out was tantamount to suicide, especially for someone who'd rather face a boardroom brawl than the dizzying heights of a third-floor balcony.

Then there was the door. The more conventional exit, yet potentially teeming with risks. It could open up to a hallway patrolled by the sect's disciples or, worse, lead him straight into the arms of an enemy adept in the martial arts Jon had only read about in fiction.

Jon paced, his mind a battlefield of indecision. The window represented a literal leap of faith, one he was ill-prepared to take. The door was the path of potential confrontations, a gamble on his ability to outwit or outrun his captors.

"In every xianxia story, there's always a way out," Jon mused, his frustration brewing. "A secret passage, a hidden tunnel, a disguise... Hell, even a convenient case of amnesia to get escorted out would do." He cursed at the absurdity of his thoughts, yet the seed of an idea began to take root.

With cautious steps, Jon approached the wall adjacent to the door, his fingers tracing its cold, rough surface, feeling for anomalies or hidden mechanisms. "If I were a sneaky xianxia sect with a penchant for dramatics, where would I put my secret escape route?" he pondered aloud.

His search yielded nothing but the confirmation of solid, uncompromising stone. "Figures," he sighed, "it's never that easy unless you're the chosen one, and my luck's never been that good."

He retreated to the center of the room, eyes flickering between the door and the window, his mind teetering on the edge of despair. Then, a faint click sounded from the door, subtle but sharp in the silence of the room.

Jon froze, every muscle tensed, as the sound heralded the approach of someone—or something—on the other side. The murmurs grew louder, the indistinct chatter hinting at the imminent entrance of his adversaries.

"Window or door, Jon?" he whispered to himself, the Qi within him flaring as if in response to his rising panic. "Looks like it's decision time."

*****

Outside Jon's temporary prison, two disciples from the Sun Moon Divine Cult whispered in hushed tones...

"The ceremony preparations are almost ready, Senior Brother," the first disciple, a robust man with a scar running down his cheek, informed. "We managed to open the summoned's dantian forcefully and stabilized him for now. The great physician said he will survive at least two days, since he's quite well built. And the lord will come out of seclusion tomorrow, just in time. This is the heaven's will!"

The other, a taller figure with an air of authority, furrowed his brows in concern. "That was a risky action, Brother Zhen Xi," he replied, his voice tinged with reproof. "We could have immediately lost the only summoned that old man managed to bring."

"Yes, Senior Brother," Zhen Xi agreed, nodding solemnly. "But we had no choice. His window of potential was almost closed when he arrived. Brother Sung Wang had to do it."

"I understand, Junior Brother," the taller warrior sighed. "Well, shall we see what a human from another realm looks like?"

Zhen Xi, with a hint of excitement, responded, "I saw him already, Senior Brother. He is just like us." moving to open the door.

As they entered the room, their confident strides halted abruptly, their eyes widening in disbelief. The room was empty, save for the needles scattered on the ground, remnants of a broken table, and one and a half chairs. "H-he's gone...!" Zhen Xi gasped, his voice one of shock and fear.

"Impossible!" the senior brother exclaimed, stepping forward to inspect the scene. The disarray told a story they couldn't immediately comprehend. The needles, the broken furniture, and the absence of the most important person in their current scheme painted a picture of an escape that should have been unattainable.

The two men scanned the room, their minds grappling with the impossibility of the situation. "There was nowhere to go out, and he would have been seen if he had gone out from the door," the senior brother muttered, his voice a mix of confusion and alarm. "The only way out was the window then."

As the realization dawned, he turned sharply to Zhen Xi. "Did you not say you forcefully opened his dantian?!" he demanded, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Yes! By the Sun God! I saw it myself!" Zhen Xi affirmed, his own hand touching his forehead in bewilderment.

The senior brother approached the window, his steps measured and tense. He peered out, expecting to see... what? Certainly not what greeted his eyes. He halted abruptly, his body rigid, as if he had turned to stone.

Zhen Xi, puzzled by his senior's reaction, hastened to his side. "Brother Liang Shen, what is the matt- Ah!" His words transformed into a sharp scream, echoing his senior brother's shock. There, outside the window, in a display as bewildering as it was audacious, was Jon. Naked as the day he was born, he was scaling down the tower with an expression of concentrated fear, his fingers somehow piercing the wooden walls to secure his descent.

For a moment, both warriors stood in stunned silence, their minds trying to reconcile the sight with their understanding of reality. Then, as if breaking from a spell, Liang Shen yelled out, his voice a blend of anger and incredulity, "Hey you there! What are you doing?!"

Jon, his eyes snapping open in alarm, looked up, his face one of of terror and surprise.

In a display of confusion and frustration, Liang Shen bellowed, "Come back here!" His voice reverberated off the stone walls, but Jon only responded with a puzzled, "Huh?" as if the words were foreign to his ears.

Liang Shen whirled to Zhen Xi, his eyes blazing with irritation. "Did you not say he could speak our language?" he hissed, barely containing his fury.

"Yes, I saw him talk. It's not exactly like us, but he can understand!" Zhen Xi insisted, his brows furrowed in confusion at Jon's apparent ignorance.

Liang Shen, not convinced, shouted up again, "Are you feigning not understanding me?! I told you to come back here!"

But Jon, hanging precariously from the tower, only repeated his befuddled response, "Hah?"

Liang Shen's face turned crimson with rage, his hand gripping the sword's hilt so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He unsheathed his weapon, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light.

"Calm down, Senior Brother," Zhen Xi interjected hastily, placing a restraining hand on Liang Shen's arm. "We cannot kill him. The sect leader will not be happy about this."

Exhaling sharply, Liang Shen sheathed his sword reluctantly and tried a different approach. "I know you can understand me," he said, more calmly this time, trying to mask his frustration. "Come back up. This is dangerous for you. We will take good care of you."

Jon, hanging from the side of the building, gave another vacant look and uttered, "Huh?" as if his mind were leagues away.

"You scoundrel!" Liang Shen exploded, his attempt at composure shattered. Zhen Xi quickly intervened, placing a calming hand on his senior's shoulder, trying to soothe the tempest of his anger.

Chapter 05

The Man Bound In Chains

Jon's mind was a chaotic mess of curses and frantic thoughts as he clung to the side of the building. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he chanted internally, a mantra of despair. The door was no longer an option; the window, his chosen route of escape, now seemed like a vertical highway to hell.

His situation was the stuff of nightmares—literally. There he was, butt naked, scaling the side of a cultivator sect's tower like a low-budget Spider-Man, his bare skin against the rough wood. How humiliating, Jon thought, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips at the absurdity of his predicament. This was, without a doubt, the worst scenario he could have imagined.

Below, Liang Shen and Zhen Xi's voices rose in a din of demands and incredulity, slicing through Jon's attempts to strategize. "Come back here!" Liang Shen's voice boomed again, tinged with a mix of anger and bewilderment.

What do you mean, 'come back', you fucker? So you can sacrifice me? Are you mental? Jon retorted silently, his fear of looking down paralyzing any thought of descent. His only solace was in feigning ignorance, repeating "Huh?" every time Liang Shen addressed him, buying precious time to think.

His fingers ached as he gripped the wooden facade, the adrenaline rush doing little to quell the terror of his acrophobia. Every shout from the window above felt like a bell tolling his impending doom, hastening the arrival of others who might haul him back to a fate worse than a naked escapade on the sect's walls.

The options were slim and grim. Jumping was out of the question; the ground was a distant death sentence. Climbing back up was equally untenable, a direct return to his captors' clutches. His only choice was to keep moving sideways, hoping against hope to find a ledge, a balcony, or any architectural feature that could offer a respite or a hiding spot.

The barrage of shouts dwindled until only one voice remained, the man named Liang Shen, who now watched Jon with a tender, mocking smile, as if the earlier display of anger had been a mere performance. "Proceed as you want," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "There is no route of escape anyway. You are in one of the deepest parts of the sect, surrounded by our seniors, who will have no trouble catching you wherever you go. So, why don't you just give up?"

Jon's grip on the building's side tightened, his anger flaring at the taunt. The man was clearly mocking him, savoring the perceived inevitability of Jon's capture. Yet, Jon couldn't deny the truth in his words. Even if he managed to reach the ground, he was ensnared in the bowels of the sect, a lamb amidst wolves.

But Jon's pride bristled at the cultivator's smugness. To needle Liang Shen further, he replied with a deliberately obtuse, "Hah?" watching as the man's forced calm crumbled, his face reddening once more.

"You son of a whore," Liang Shen hissed, the smile falling away to reveal a snarl. "I know you can understand me. I'll ask to personally slit your throat when the moment comes."

Jon, undeterred and more amused than afraid, echoed, "Huh?" His feigned ignorance was a small, petty revenge against the cultivator's arrogance.

Silence followed, Liang Shen's frustration palpable even from above. Jon, seizing the moment, continued his precarious descent, his body moving with a cautious rhythm born of necessity and defiance.

Then, as fate would have it, Jon's slowly roving eyes caught sight of another window just below, a potential passage that stirred a spark of hope in his chest. As he reached for it, Liang Shen's voice shattered the silence, "Hey, no! Don't go in there!"

Looking up, Jon flashed a bright, provocative smile at Liang Shen, his eyes twinkling with mischief and satisfaction. His acute vision caught the cultivator biting his lip in frustration.

With a last glance at the fuming Liang Shen, Jon whipped out his middle finger in a grand "fuck you" flourish and swung himself into the newfound opening, disappearing from view.

"What was that?! You insulted me, didn't you? You Insulted me?!" Liang Chen kept screaming.

What a diva, Jon thought as he shattered the metal window with surprising ease while ignoring the hysteric man, he tumbled into a new room, his senses immediately on high alert. The space was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of mold and neglect. His eyes quickly adjusted, scanning his surroundings for immediate threats or opportunities.

That's when he spotted him: a man bound tightly, immobilized in a manner that was excessively thorough, with ropes and chains constraining every limb, a heavy boulder strapped to his back, rendering him as helpless as Tai Lung in "Kung Fu Panda." Jon couldn't help but draw the parallel, even in his precarious situation.

The man's wide eyes met Jon's, shock and confusion painting his features. His gaze traveled up and down Jon's naked form, prompting a swift, embarrassed reaction from Jon, who covered his privates with his hands and chuckled nervously.

"Haha...ha, hey there, big guy. Don't mind me, just...hanging out," Jon managed to say, standing awkwardly, feeling absurdly like a stripper.

The man, still in disbelief, struggled against his bonds, his eyes asking the questions his mouth couldn't. Jon, now somewhat resigned to his nudity and the bizarre turn of events, gave a resigned smile and shrugged, as if to say, Long story.

He assessed the bound man before him, considering the implications of his captivity. The logical leap was swift in his mind: if this man was a prisoner of the sect, then perhaps he was an adversary to them as well. And in the twisted logic of enemy alliances, that made him a potential ally to Jon.

As Jon stepped closer, the man's eyes widened in alarm, and he began to protest through the gag in his mouth, his muffled sounds a mix of fear and confusion.

Holding up a hand in a calming gesture, Jon tried to reassure him. "Hey, hey, buddy, I'm not weird, I promise," he said, an awkward chuckle escaping him. "I was just as surprised as you. They made me sleep against my will, and next thing I know, I was naked in a room. I'm a victim too."

The man seemed to relax slightly, although his eyes still darted nervously. Jon, now just a step away, whispered soothingly, "Shh, let me take this off of you." He reached for the gag, gently pulling at the bindings.

As he did so, Jon realized how bizarre and potentially incriminating his words might sound out of context.

With a firm tug, Jon removed the gag, and the man immediately began to retch, expelling whatever had been forced into his throat. Jon recoiled in horror as he realized just how deep the gag had been inserted, a brutal and invasive method that spoke volumes of the sect's cruelty.Man, these cultivators have some serious issues, Jon thought.

After the man finished coughing and catching his breath, he looked up at Jon with wary eyes. "And who might you be... kind sir?"

"I'm Jon, Jon Lee," Jon replied, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy in the bizarre situation.

"Jon... Li? I have never heard of a family named 'Jon' before..." The man sounded puzzled, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"No, Jon's my first name, Lee's the last name. You know, like...okay nevermind," Jon waved it off, feeling a bit absurd having to explain the conventions of his own world here.

"How strange..." the man murmured, his expression thoughtful.

"Yeah, I'm not from around," Jon admitted, glancing towards the door, his senses sharpened for any sign of incoming danger. He quickly turned back to the man, urgency lacing his voice. "Listen, I don't have much time. I just have one question: why are you here?"

The man's expression turned reflective, and a shadow of sorrow crossed his face. "Four years ago, I—"

Jon swiftly cut him off. "Whoa, whoa, listen man, sorry, no time for long backstories. Are you an enemy of the Sun Moon Sect?"

The man's eyes hardened, and his voice carried a primal rage as he answered, "They are my sworn enemies."

A smile spread across Jon's face. "My man," he said, feeling a kinship with the stranger born of their mutual enmity towards the sect. Without further ado, he set about freeing the man from his binds, his enhanced strength allowing him to break the chains with surprising ease.

The ropes required more precision than brute strength, Jon's hands moved with purpose, unraveling the complex network binding the man. The meticulousness of the binds struck him as both impressive and disturbing. That's some fifty shades shit right there, he thought with a grimace. Phew, these guys are real freaks. Kinky bastards.

As he worked, the man looked at him, confusion etched on his face. "What are you doing?" he asked, as if the answer wasn't blatantly obvious.

"Getting you out of here, obviously," Jon replied without missing a beat, his fingers deftly untying a knot.

"...Why?" The man's question was loaded with a resignation that gave Jon pause.

Jon stopped and looked at him, puzzled. "Do you not wanna get out of here?" he asked, genuinely surprised by the man's demeanor.

The man lowered his head, his voice tinged with despair. "There is no use... I have lost my purpose as a warrior. I—"

Jon cut him off, not out of indifference but practicality. "Yeah, yeah, you'll tell me about your life story later. Let's get out of here first. Surely, you know a way to do so, right?"

The man seemed taken aback by Jon's brisk manner but then nodded slowly, a flicker of resolve lighting his eyes. "...Fine."

"Attaboy," Jon said with a nod, satisfied with the response.

Once the last of the bindings fell away, the man stood, towering over the 194cm Jon. He stretched, his joints cracking loudly in the silent room, his stature impressive and his physique bearing the marks of battle. Yup, that's a cultivator for you, Jon mused internally, noting the man's build and the scars that laced his skin.

He was tall and slender, but clearly, he used to be much more imposing since he still had some muscle remaining despite the clear signs of malnutrition. If he wasn't just dangling in BDSM purgatory, this guy could easily play Kratos in the next God of War game, Jon thought.

Turning to the newly freed man, Jon asked, "So, big guy, what's the plan here? How do we get out of this place?"

The man fixed Jon with a somber gaze, then exhaled a heavy sigh of relief and gratitude. "Thank you for setting me free, friend," he said, his voice resonating with a deep timbre. "My name is Huo Zheng, from Shaolin." He brought his fist to an open palm, bowing slightly to Jon in a traditional gesture of respect.

Jon, somewhat taken aback by the formal introduction and the man's dignified bearing, nodded in acknowledgment. "Nice to meet you, Huo Zheng. Now, about escaping this hellhole—any ideas?" Jon's voice was eager, his mind already racing with plans and possibilities, hoping that Huo Zheng's knowledge of the sect and its stronghold could provide them with a much-needed advantage.

Huo Zheng pondered for a moment, his expression grave, before stating flatly, "It would be impossible."

Jon's patience frayed at the edges. After a brief silence, he replied with a hint of frustration, "...Listen, bud, we're really, and I mean, really, short on time here. The guy from above saw me entering here, and frankly, I'm surprised they haven't already barged in. I don't know this place, I'm naked, and very traumatized by the day's events. So, please, don't tell me this kind of shit. Do you know this place or not?"

Huo Zheng, unperturbed by Jon's outburst, responded calmly, "I know escape routes, but... my dantian has been shattered, and from what I see, you are at the 'Dawn stage'. We will be noticed before we can go far."

Jon, latching onto the sliver of hope, pressed on, "Okay, okay, but you DO know some escape routes then, right? That's the important part here."

The man sighed, a look of resignation crossing his features. "Have you not listened to what I said, or have you only retained what you wanted to hear?"

"Yeah, I'm hearing you loud and clear. Low cultivation, slim chances of success, yadda yadda yadda. Now, about those escape routes," Jon persisted, unwilling to let the opportunity slip through his fingers. "How do we reach them, can you lead the way?"

Huo Zheng observed Jon intently before finally nodding. "...Very well, I shall lead the way. That is the least I can do for my benefactor," he declared, his tone carrying a hint of resigned determination.

Jon's spirits lifted. "There we go! So, where to?" he asked, ready to follow Huo Zheng's lead.

Huo Zheng pointed towards the door. "Can you open this door?" he inquired, his eyes assessing the sturdy barrier.

"Yes, sir!" Jon responded with a mix of eagerness and bravado. He approached the door and broke it open as quietly as he could manage.

"Now what?" Jon whispered, peering through the cracked doorway, alert for any sign of guards or disciples.

Huo Zheng, stepping closer, laid out his plan, his voice low and serious. "We must navigate through the shadows and avoid the main corridors at all costs. The sect's stronghold is vast, with many hidden passages known only to a few. I am familiar with some of these routes from my time as a captive. Our escape will be perilous and will require us to traverse through the Lesser Hall of Ordeals, a place used for punishing errant disciples."

Jon listened intently, nodding. Huo Zheng continued, "The Lesser Hall of Ordeals is perilous, filled with traps and guards, but it's also the least expected route for an escape. It's our best chance to avoid the main force of the sect."

"The key lies in timing and stealth. We must move quickly yet cautiously, using the cover of darkness to our advantage. Once past the Lesser Hall, we'll reach the outer gardens. They are less guarded at night, but we must still be wary of patrolling disciples."

Huo Zheng paused, his expression grim. "It's a risky path, fraught with danger at every turn. If we are caught, we won't get another chance. Are you prepared for this?"

Jon met Huo Zheng's gaze, a fierce determination in his eyes. "Lead the way, Huo Zheng. I've had enough of being a prisoner today."