WBICDPH Chapter 84

Chapter 84 — A Second Path

Han Ao had loved superheroes since he was little. Whether in cartoons, movies, TV shows, or novels, he was always captivated by those larger-than-life figures who saved the world single-handedly.

As a child, he loved playing king of the kids—waving a paper sword, tying a red jacket around his shoulders like a cape, pretending to be a legendary hero who would defeat villains and save the world’s people from disaster.

He’d been following the novel Records of the Arrogant Immortal since middle school. He adored its male lead—brave, decisive, ruthless when needed—a true peerless immortal.

Han Ao had always felt he shared a special connection with Han Ao. Their names were so similar; surely their lives would share similarities too.

When schoolwork crushed him to the point he could barely breathe, he often wished he were Han Ao. He didn’t want homework or exams. He wanted to be a wandering hero, sword in hand, living freely and boldly—and he wanted to meet the girl described in the story, the one who embodied all the beauty in the world.

So one day, when he fell asleep at his computer while pulling an all-nighter building a 3D model—and woke up in a completely unfamiliar world—excitement outweighed fear.

He’d transmigrated into a novel.
And he was the protagonist.
Just like in the stories.

He had become the very Han Ao who’d accompanied him for years. His childhood dream had come true—he was a hero, a legendary swordsman.

Back then, Han Ao was naïve. He was genuinely thrilled. Before coming here, he’d pulled multiple all-nighters, drowning in assignments and had just argued with his mom hours earlier. He was exhausted in body and mind. All he’d wanted was an escape—and he got one.

He treated it like a miracle, an adventure, an experience. At first, he truly enjoyed everything.

This world felt endlessly novel—strange spirit beasts, magical plants, people flying through the sky with spells. He even knew the plot in advance. Quietly following the protagonist’s path, he entered Misty Rain Mountain—and was lucky enough to meet a fellow transmigrator.

He worked hard to follow Han Ao’s life trajectory. Though there were small deviations, they led him to meet the girl he’d loved since childhood.

Seeing someone who once existed only in text appear before him was indescribable. She was just as wonderful as he’d imagined—so pure, kind, and loving. To him, she was the perfect image of an ideal partner.

At first, everything matched his childhood fantasies.

But as time passed and the novelty faded, the grind of daily cultivation wore on him.

The protagonist’s life wasn’t as glamorous as he’d imagined. Training was exhausting. Endless minor antagonists were mentally draining.

He started missing home.

His unfinished models.
His mom, who’d argued with him and never gotten his apology.
His dorm mates.
Basketball.
Gundam kits.
Sneakers.
His phone.
Games.
He missed everything.

Could he still go back?
If he did, would he even fit into society anymore?

In this world, the only person he could truly open up to was Lin Jin. Seeing Lin Jin reminded him he still had a home.

But at some point, Han Ao noticed something unsettling—

Lin Jin seemed to be growing more immersed here. More emotionally invested.

Maybe it was when everyone gathered in his courtyard, laughing over roast chicken.
Maybe when he and Hua Nanzhi joked around.
Maybe when he got injured, a crowd of “paper characters” surrounded him with genuine concern.

Han Ao was afraid.

Afraid Lin Jin would fall in love with this world.
Afraid he wouldn’t want to leave.

But these people were just characters in a book.
They weren’t real. They weren’t family.

How could they stay here?

He remembered when they first met. Lin Jin had once said he didn’t like it here—it was too dangerous. He preferred a lawful society where life was protected.

Back then, Han Ao had laughed and told him to relax. Since we’re here, make the best of it. It’s exciting, magical—fun. You’ll get used to it.

Yet a year later, their mindsets had strangely reversed.

Lin Jin never mentioned going back anymore. He studied talismans and formations diligently and treated everyone around him with sincerity.

But Han Ao grew more anxious. He wanted to go home.

That anxiety peaked during his solo year-end mission.

No matter how much he told himself this isn’t real, it’s just a book, the sensation of a blade piercing flesh was terrifyingly real. The smell of blood, the warmth splashing onto his face and body—

He was terrified. So terrified, he could barely hold his sword.

But ghost infants kept crawling toward him. Dropping his sword meant death. So he could only keep swinging on instinct.

He’d helped slaughter livestock before. He’d killed countless spirit beasts.

But he’d never killed a person.
Never killed children.

He could feel it clearly—
A human life ending at his hand.

The ghost infants were worse. They looked and sounded just like real children. When pierced, they wailed in agony, their cries weakening until they vanished.

Those cries haunted him day and night. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw that blood-soaked cave and corpses everywhere.

That was when he truly realized—

He wasn’t the protagonist.
Han Ao wasn’t Han Ao.

In the original story, Han Ao wiped out the evil cultivators without blinking, even calmly cleaning his sword on their corpses. His cold resolve moved the spirit of the Boundarybreaker sword.

Han Ao couldn’t do that.

He couldn’t be the protagonist.

If that was what being the protagonist meant, he’d never manage it.

He nearly broke down. He replayed memories of his old life, calculating every possible way home—but found none.

He felt like he was losing his mind. Sometimes he even doubted whether his old world had been real—until he saw Lin Jin, until he held someone from the same home. Only then could he breathe.

He poured out his confusion and fear, crying harder than he ever had as an adult.

He didn’t remember how long he cried—only that he eventually fell asleep. When he woke, he was back in his own courtyard.

Though martial cultivators had limited space, he was still a sect leader’s direct disciple and had his own yard. Smaller than Lin Jin’s, but neater. Wooden practice swords and manuals lay scattered around—familiar, yet not home.

Han Ao sat on his bed in a daze. Then he sniffed. A familiar aroma drifted in.

He looked toward the door.

Lin Jin nudged it open with his back, carrying a small white pot. The puppy trotted in behind him and hopped onto Han Ao’s table like it owned the place.

“Yo, you’re awake?”

Lin Jin hurried over, setting the pot down and rubbing his ears with heat-reddened fingers.

“Yeah… what did you make?”

Han Ao stared at the pot, a guess forming.

Lin Jin lifted the lid.
“Didn’t you say you wanted pork tripe chicken soup? I made some. The chicken’s a Red-Silk Mountain hen. As for pork tripe… couldn’t find any, so I borrowed a golden-hide piglet from my master. Hope it tastes close enough.”

“Lin Lin…”

Han Ao was deeply moved and quickly pulled up a chair.
“You’re seriously the best.”

“It’s nothing. Just doing what I can.”

Lin Jin lowered his eyes, grabbed three bowls, and served Han Ao first, then the puppy.

When he reached the third bowl, he hesitated.

“Ah Han.”

“Mm?”

Han Ao looked up mid-gulp.

Lin Jin met his gaze and smiled gently.
“I was thinking… maybe we should stop following the plot.”

“… ” Han Ao swallowed slowly.

“Han Ao’s life is too dangerous for Han Ao. This incident is only the start. We both know worse things are coming. If our goal is to go home, protecting our lives comes first. You don’t have to walk the overpowered protagonist path. Stay at Misty Rain Mountain as an ordinary direct disciple. That way, if we ever get home, you’ll still be yourself. You’ll still fit into the real world.”

“But…”

Han Ao had considered it.

No one said he had to be the protagonist. But the story’s later events were massive. Without the protagonist, the cultivation world’s balance could collapse. Disasters would come. No one could stay untouched.

Lin Jin knew his concern. Even if Han Ao couldn’t accept it yet, Lin Jin felt he had to say it:

“Ah Han, remember? I told you this world isn’t limited to text. Everyone here is real and complete. So I suspect the protagonist’s life won’t unfold exactly like the book—maybe there’s no ‘protagonist’ at all. Fortune belongs to everyone. If danger comes, we face it—not one chosen person.”

“How’s that possible?” Han Ao frowned.
“The original plot still matches event by event.”

“Exactly.”

Lin Jin looked straight into his eyes.
“That’s the problem. We’re part of it now. We’re inside the story. We can’t blindly trust the original text. Who says it’s objective truth? These people are real, not flat characters. We walk our own path. Some choices need our judgment, not a scripted route. Otherwise, the ‘god’s-eye view’ we rely on will become chains that bind us. Do you understand?”

Han Ao fell silent, then lowered his head.
“Not really.”

Lin Jin sighed softly. He’d rushed it.

“It’s okay. If you still want to try, just be careful. If you don’t want that path, don’t take it. I’ll do everything I can to protect you—to protect all of us. Even without a ‘protagonist,’ I won’t let everything fall apart.”

“Then you…”

Han Ao hesitated. Lin Jin seemed to be choosing a far more dangerous road.
“What will you do?”

Lin Jin spoke gently, but his eyes were unwavering.
“If I’m counting right, the next major event is the Hundred Sects Sword Trial.”

“Before that—”

“I’m going into seclusion.”