Yu Daoyi

Nanshan Realm, Qingshan Town.

Three years later.

July 23rd.

Summer—blazing sun scorched the land, its searing rays streaming through the leaves. Cicadas droned listlessly, their voices a weary chorus.

A three-year-old child sat alone in the pavilion of his family’s small courtyard, his gaze fixed intently on a little house not far away. In those clear, luminous eyes shone a depth of contemplation far beyond his tender age.

Ha, this is a script, a setup—no doubt about it. Am I the protagonist that I need to transmigrate to another world?

The first time this child opened his eyes, he did not cry, nor did he make any fuss or extraneous movement. He simply stared unblinkingly at the ornate wooden ceiling of the ancient-style room, his tiny mind whirring with unknown thoughts. Nearby, a young couple whispered to each other.

“Dear, look at this little outfit, isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it adorable?” The woman’s eyes sparkled with a light all her own, her excitement plain to see.

“My dear wife, much as I hate to say it, I must remind you once again—our child is a boy!” The man looked helplessly at the pretty little dress in his wife’s hands.

“I see,” the woman replied, but she did not avert her gaze from the dress. If anything, her eyes shone brighter.

“Dear, look at this little outfit, isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it adorable?” She clearly paid his words no heed.

The man could only look on, speechless, at his lovely, delicate-featured wife. Ah, women...

“My wife truly has exquisite taste. The more I look at this little dress, the more delighted I am. I daresay our child will love it, too.” Once again, the man chose to capitulate.

A sensible choice, wasn’t it?

Hearing this exchange, the child shivered involuntarily.

Hey, aren’t you going to ask my opinion? Oh, right—I’m just a newborn, so my opinion hardly matters...

Twenty years. This child had lived twenty years in another world. Born an orphan, he never knew his parents or why they abandoned him.

He grew up in an orphanage—poor, bare-bones, held together only by the old director’s tireless care. That kindly old man raised their generation with backbreaking effort.

He remembered the director’s ever-present smile, his unflagging optimism. Word was, he’d once been a teacher—a true scholar—before circumstances led him to run the orphanage.

From a young age, the boy had been guided—no, lovingly disciplined!—by the director. Even as the orphanage fell on hard times, and even when it finally closed, the director ensured those few children finished university.

The story should have progressed thus: Thank you for your hard work, my dear old father! I’ll repay you, care for you in your old age, just as it ought to be.

But in the end, it all came to nothing. After decades of toil, the old director passed away just as his orphans grew up.

His last memory was of a runaway truck rampaging down a busy street, causing chaos. In the midst of it, a little girl—around seven or eight, though her face was now a blur—sat on the curb, crying her heart out. Silly, yet so like the children in the orphanage who called him big brother.

Was he brave, or just reckless? Before the truck hit, he marveled at his own sudden burst of speed.

The orphanage had never had much; that he survived to adulthood was a miracle—never mind being strong and sturdy. Physical weakness was always his flaw, but in that moment, he reached his life’s peak.

At least, he thought, the little girl must have been saved. His death was not in vain.

Wait—if he transmigrated, he technically didn’t die, right? But to be forced into a dress? He would rather have died.

Thankfully, in the three years since, apart from some initial memories he’d rather not recall, his parents eventually recognized that their child was a boy—a boy destined to move mountains!

Dresses? Cross-dressing? No such thing! Best to selectively forget that memory.

Three years passed. He watched as this sometimes scatterbrained, big-hearted couple showered him with constant affection. It was a warmth, a true familial love, he’d never known.

He’d been an orphan in his past life, even with the old director’s care, he was mostly alone. In this life, he had a pair of lively parents. Heaven had not treated him too unfairly.

Thinking thus, he could almost forget the whole dress incident...

The child’s thoughtful look faded, replaced by the warm, genuine smile of youth.

His new sibling—brother or sister, he didn’t know—had been in the womb for three years and was only now about to be born. What was this, a Nezha legend? He’d complained about it often, but given both his parents were cultivators, a three-year pregnancy wasn’t so hard to accept.

Yes, the first time he saw his father casually display world-bending magic in front of him, he realized—he was the son of cultivators. He made up his mind: When he grew up, he too would be powerful and awe-inspiring! He’d be able to defeat the Nanshan Old Folk’s Home with his fists and kick the Beihai Kindergarten with his feet!

He watched the maids bustle in and out of the distant little house, urgency in every step.

He felt a bit sorry for the poor, much-abused wooden door.

He hadn’t realized yet that, soon enough, he’d be the truly pitiful one...

Seeing his father pacing anxiously outside, the boy felt he should be at his side. He scampered over on his little legs.

“Father, Father, why hasn’t my little brother or sister come out yet? Why has Mother been inside for so long?” His eyes were full of confusion, his little head brimming with questions.

So many questions, little one...

“Xiaocai, when you hear your little brother or sister crying, that means they’ve come into the world,” Yu Moryuan replied, deciding it wasn’t time to explain the facts of life just yet. His son was still a child. But in time, he’d grow up to be as handsome and charming as his old man, beloved by thousands! Then, as head of the household, he’d teach him properly.

Xiaocai?! The boy’s little face darkened.

His father’s name was Yu Moryuan, his mother’s was An Yirou—unusual names, both. As for his own, they’d named him Yu Daoyi, which sounded impressive enough. His father hoped he would walk his own unique path.

Yet one evening at dinner, the cook served pickled fish—sour, bland, and utterly uninspired. His father eyed the dish, a strange gleam in his gaze, as if struck by a bolt of lightning.

Pickled fish? Pickled fish? Yu Daoyi!

With a great sigh, his father spoke. “Wife, have we given our child a nickname yet?”

“No, why do you ask?” his mother replied, puzzled.

“Well, we have one now! Your husband is truly a man of talent—how lucky you are to have married me!” He ignored his wife’s amused, faintly mocking look.

“Oh? Perhaps I’m not worthy of you! Truly, marrying you is my good fortune,” she replied, her expression sly.

“Ahem—flowers, swans, and cabbages, you do jest! Without your patient teaching, I’d be a brute who couldn’t read a word!” Sensing a dangerous aura, the man’s survival instinct kicked in.

“Our child’s nickname will be Xiaocai!” he declared, hastily changing the subject.

At that, little Yu Daoyi—just old enough to sit at the table—nearly dropped his little fish stick in shock. His parents’ banter was nothing new, but his father’s survival instincts often made him collateral damage.

When he learned his nickname simply reversed his given name, he still refused to accept it. Yet, as a child, his opinion counted for nothing! Even his mother, for once, did not object—leaving him to silently endure this humiliation.

Suddenly, a baby’s cry rang out from within the house—loud, clear, and powerful. He doubted he’d ever cried so lustily, in this life or the last. Judging by the sound, it was almost certainly a boy!

His father spun around and dashed into the room, so fast the boy’s little eyes could barely follow.

And sure enough—the wailing only grew louder.

Oh, my foolish little brother! Can you sense it? Yes! No doubt about it! You’ve been born into the wrong family!

These two truly have no self-awareness at all!