This Hedonistic Young Master

Chapter 3: Young Master Wastrel

Yu Cheng awoke cocooned in a silken embrace, the remnants of a forgotten dream clinging to the edges of his awareness. Warmth seeped into his limbs, a sensation foreign and yet strangely familiar. The bed beneath him was far too soft, an opulent comfort that starkly contrasted with the rough cot of his previous existence. His senses stirred reluctantly, drawn into this new world of rich textures and muted light.

He opened his eyes. A golden haze bathed the chamber, sunlight filtering through intricately woven curtains. His gaze traveled across the room—every surface seemed to shimmer with wealth. Silks, crimson like fresh blood, draped across the bed, and the walls bore ornate carvings of mythical beasts and celestial figures, the gold and jade intricacies blurring into one another. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of incense, layered with the sharper tang of spilled wine.

A jolt of confusion rippled through him. Yu Cheng moved to sit up, but his limbs resisted, sluggish and uncoordinated. His muscles ached, as if they hadn't been used properly in years. Slowly, he raised his hands—slender, pale, adorned with jade and gold rings that caught the dim light. He flexed his fingers experimentally, the jade rings clinking together, their weight foreign against his skin. These hands weren't his.

Panic flared, tightening like ice around his heart. Where was he? Who was he?

The answer came with a sudden, overwhelming flood of memories—visions of excess and indulgence crashing over him in vivid, chaotic waves. He saw himself—or rather, the body he now inhabited, Tian Hao—laughing amid lavish banquets, surrounded by fawning admirers and swirling cups of wine. The scent of perfume, the sound of raucous laughter, the weight of a life lived in the lap of luxury.

The Skyward Lotus Sect—those words surfaced in his mind, accompanied by images of the sprawling sect grounds, majestic pavilions nestled among the peaks, and disciples clad in azure robes practicing their arts in courtyards. He saw the imposing main hall, carved from mountain stone and adorned with symbols of the lotus flower.

His memories shifted to his father, Tian Shou—an intimidating figure, clad in robes of deep blue embroidered with silver, his presence commanding and his eyes often narrowed in disapproval. Tian Shou, the Sect Master, whose ambitions for the Skyward Lotus Sect ran deep, had always seen Tian Hao as a potential successor—though one plagued with squandered potential.

The sect's power was not just in wealth, but in the art of cultivation. His memories brought flashes of disciples seated cross-legged in meditation, absorbing the very essence of the heavens and earth into their cores. Cultivation wasn't just about power—it was about transcending mortal limits. Yet, in his past life, such ideas would have been laughable, confined to the fantasy novels he barely glanced at during breaks.

More scenes flashed through his mind—training sessions in which he, Tian Hao, stood reluctantly before a stern instructor, his stance lazy and his attention often wandering. Flashes of the judgmental stares of fellow disciples, those who had worked tirelessly to earn their place, watching with barely concealed disdain as Tian Hao treated his privileged status like a game. Tian Hao had been eating his laurels—chi laoben (吃老本), his father might say—with an insatiable appetite. While others broke their backs for a sliver of respect, he had drifted through life on the strength of his lineage, squandering every opportunity that came with it. He remembered the hushed conversations, the whispers behind his back, those who spoke of him as a disgrace to the Tian Clan and a burden to his father.

In this world, power wasn't measured by money or status symbols—it was measured by the strength of one's Qi, the level of one's cultivation, and the ability to defy death itself. Yu Cheng, now Tian Hao struggled to wrap his mind around it, but the memories pressing into him painted a clear picture.