My last memory was gloriously mundane. I was arguing with the cashier at the 7-Eleven about the merits of a "Buy One Get One Free" deal on off-brand energy drinks. I was convinced they should stack. She was not.
Then the door slammed open.
Two men stormed in, faces hidden under black ski masks. One had a shotgun, the other a pistol. Shouts echoed through the store—"Hands up! Nobody move!" A clerk screamed. Someone dropped a basket. People froze, eyes wide with disbelief and fear.
I ducked behind an aisle for a moment, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. But then I saw her.
A little girl, couldn't have been more than seven, hiding under a candy shelf—alone, trembling. Her mother had been yanked away toward the registers, hands raised, eyes darting around, frantic.
I didn't think. I just moved.
I crawled low, keeping my eyes on the guy with the pistol. He was yelling at the clerk now, waving the gun in all directions, totally out of control. I reached the girl and whispered, "It's okay. I've got you." She looked at me, and for a moment, I saw trust flicker in her eyes.
That's when the guy with the shotgun saw us.
He shouted something—sounded like "Stop!"—but I was already moving, lifting her up, shielding her with my body, trying to push her toward the back exit near the cold drinks.
Then the shot rang out.
It felt like the world slowed down. A force hit my back like a train, knocking the wind out of me. My knees buckled, but I didn't let her fall. I kept my arms around her, kept moving, until another customer grabbed her and pulled her the rest of the way out.
I hit the floor.
Everything was dimming, the shouting growing distant. But I saw her—safe, alive. The little girl turned around, tears streaking her cheeks, calling out to me. I wanted to tell her it was going to be okay. That she was going to be okay.
And maybe, in the end, that's all that mattered.
I thought atleast in my life I did something that will be remembered by some people and I waited for the darkness and nothingness that people tell will come after death.
Instead of the sweet embrace of oblivion, I was assaulted by colors I couldn't name, smells that made my eyes water, and a sensation of… well, soggy impotence. I blinked, tried to sit up, and promptly face-planted into something suspiciously resembling chicken broth.
Okay, maybe oblivion had a quirky sense of humor.
It took a few disoriented minutes to piece together my new reality. I was a baby. A very small baby. And, based on the snippets of overheard conversations swirling around me in a language that sounded like a cat gargling gravel, I was in some kind of fantasy world.
Later, once I'd mastered the intricate art of drooling on demand, I learned more. This wasn't just any fantasy world. This was a cultivation world. The kind you read about in badly translated web novels. You know, the ones with ridiculously overpowered protagonists, face-slapping youngsters, and enough mystical herbs to give a botanist a nervous breakdown.
Based on the opulent surroundings, the embroidered silk blankets, and the way everyone treated me like a porcelain doll filled with liquid gold, I was born into a pretty powerful family. Score!
I mentally patted myself on the back. Reincarnation? Check. Cultivation world? Check. Ridiculously powerful family? Triple check! I was practically guaranteed to become a legendary cultivator, conquer ancient ruins, woo a harem of breathtaking beauties, and ascend to immortality!
My name, I eventually learned, was Lan Zhu. 'Blue Pearl.' Dramatic, I thought, but I'd take it.
This was going to be epic.