Dying from Overwork, Reborn into the Martial World

11:00 PM, Earth, an office building in a tech park.

In a cubicle on the seventeenth floor, only the screen in front of Lin Fan was still emitting a harsh, white light. The keyboard clattered as lines of code scrolled by like an endless waterfall. He had been working overtime for forty-three consecutive hours, having only dozed off at his desk twice, for no more than twenty minutes each time.

The final interface debugging... almost there... Lin Fan muttered to himself, his eyes bloodshot and his temples throbbing.

The coffee cup had long been empty, and three instant noodle cups were piled beside it. His phone screen lit up; it was a WeChat message from Mother: "Fanfan, don't stay up too late. I've stewed some soup for you, come home and drink it this weekend."

He glanced at it, a warmth spreading through his chest, and his fingers quickly replied: "Go to sleep first, Mom. I'm almost done, I'll definitely be back this weekend."

He tapped send.

Then, his heart gave a violent squeeze.

It felt as if an invisible hand had grabbed it and twisted it hard.

Lin Fan opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His vision began to blur, and the code on the screen twisted into bizarre patches of color. He tried to reach for the Fast-Acting Heart Pill in his drawer—the doctor had warned him just last month that he couldn't keep pushing himself like this with his congenital arrhythmia.

His fingers were ten centimeters away from the drawer.

The world went black.

His consciousness felt like a stone sinking into the deep sea, falling endlessly.

There was no light, no sound, only a sense of nothingness as if he were being stripped away. Lin Fan wanted to shout, wanted to struggle, but he couldn't even feel the existence of "himself."

He didn't know how long it had been—perhaps an instant, perhaps an eternity—when a point of light suddenly appeared below.

The light expanded rapidly, turning into a vortex that swallowed him whole.

Intense pain.

It wasn't his heart; it was the pain of every bone in his body being dismantled and reassembled. Lin Fan opened his eyes abruptly, gasping for air.

What met his eyes were low, wooden ceiling beams covered in cobwebs. The smell of mold mixed with the bitterness of herbs rushed into his nostrils. He was lying on a hard wooden bed, covered by a thin, patched quilt.

"Where... is this?"

He pushed himself up, his palms touching the rough sheets. He looked down and saw the hands of a teenager—the skin was darker, the knuckles distinct, and there was a thin layer of calluses on his palms. These were definitely not his own slightly chubby hands that had been typing on keyboards for ten years.

Fragments of memory flooded in.

Memories that did not belong to him.

Blue Star. Year 300 of Spiritual Energy Resurgence. Jiangnan City. The slums. Parents deceased. Younger sister Lin Xiaoyu. Martial Arts Academy. Survival...

"Transmigrated?"

Lin Fan clutched his forehead. The memories of a programmer from Earth and the memories of this body's original owner collided, causing a splitting headache. His name was Lin Fan, sixteen years old. His parents had died three years ago in a small-scale Beast Tide, leaving him and his sickly younger sister to rely on each other. Their home was destitute, surviving on the odd jobs the original owner took and a meager relief stipend from the Alliance. His sister suffered from Congenital Pulmonary Cold Syndrome and needed to take a Lung Cleansing Pill regularly to suppress it. A single pill cost 5,000 Credit Points—an astronomical price they could not afford.

"Brother... are you awake?"

A weak, girlish voice came from the bedside.

Lin Fan turned his head and saw a thin, small girl curled up on a straw mat beside the bed, covered by an even thinner, worn-out garment. She was about thirteen or fourteen, her face as pale as paper, her lips devoid of color. Only her large, dark eyes were bright, and at this moment, they were looking at him with concern.

Lin Xiaoyu. His sister.

The most important parts of the original owner's memories surged to the surface—to save up money for his sister's medicine, the original owner had taken on jobs moving cargo and cleaning sewers simultaneously. After three days of high-intensity labor, he had collapsed at the entrance of an alley in the slums yesterday evening and was carried back by a neighbor.

"Xiaoyu..." Lin Fan spoke instinctively, his voice hoarse. "I'm fine."

He lifted the quilt and got out of bed, his footsteps unsteady. The room was tiny, less than ten square meters. Aside from the bed, a broken wooden chest, and an earthen stove, there was almost nothing else. The rice jar was in the corner. He walked over and lifted the lid; only a thin layer of coarse rice remained at the bottom, enough for at most two meals.

The sky outside the window was turning gray—it was the early hours of the morning. Through the tattered window covered in oiled paper, he could see the low, cluttered shanties outside. In the distance, the faint outline of a towering city wall was visible—that was the inner city of Jiangnan City, separated from the slums by two barriers.

A terrifyingly real situation.

Lin Fan walked to a broken bronze mirror hanging on the wall. The surface was blurry, reflecting an unfamiliar face: delicate, yet gaunt from malnutrition. His black hair was messy, and his eyes were sunken from exhaustion, yet they held a calmness that didn't belong to his age.

Sixteen years old. A slum dweller. A terminally ill sister. No money, no influence.

And... the entrance exam for the Jiangnan Martial Arts Academy in one month.

That was the original owner's—and now Lin Fan's—only way out. The Martial Arts Academy waived tuition and provided room and board. If he could pass the assessment and become a martial artist, he could receive Alliance subsidies and be qualified to take on higher-paying missions, giving him a chance to cure his sister's illness.

But the assessment for the Martial Arts Academy was extremely difficult. Out of the hundred thousand youths in the slums, fewer than a hundred passed each year. The original owner had mediocre talent; although he had gritted his teeth and practiced the Basic Fist Technique for two years, he had barely reached the "entry-level" standard, far from the requirements for the exam.

"A hellish start," Lin Fan smiled bitterly.

On Earth, although he was an ordinary person, at least his parents were healthy and he had a stable job. No matter how much pressure he was under, it never reached a life-or-death situation. But here... survival was the raw, primary proposition.

"Brother, there's half a bowl of porridge left in the pot. Heat it up and eat," Lin Xiaoyu said softly, then began to cough, her thin shoulders trembling.

Lin Fan's heart tightened. He hurried over and patted her back. "Don't worry about me. Do you have any medicine left?"

Lin Xiaoyu shook her head, her eyes dimming. "I finished it yesterday. Doctor Wang said... said if I don't take the medicine continuously, the cold will enter my marrow, and then..."

She didn't finish, but Lin Fan understood.

In his memories, a Lung Cleansing Pill had to be taken every month to suppress the cold. If the medicine was interrupted for more than three days, the cold would backlash, leading to paralysis at best, or death at worst.

And they didn't even have the money to buy half a pill.

Lin Fan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Unfamiliar emotions surged in his chest—the lingering unwillingness and anger of the original owner, as well as his own sense of powerlessness at this moment.

"There will be a way," he said, his voice steady. "Brother promises you, I will definitely get the medicine."

Lin Xiaoyu looked up at him, her large eyes shimmering with moisture, but she nodded firmly. "Mm, I believe in Brother."

Faint bell tolls came from outside the window—the morning bells of the inner city. Dawn was approaching.

Lin Fan helped his sister lie down, tucked her worn clothes in tightly, and turned toward the stove. He needed to clear his thoughts, he needed a plan, he needed...