Seven hours later.
"Huff… huff… huff…" Meng Han leaned against the crumbling wall, gasping for breath. It took him ages to recover.
Fresh off the plane, he’d been utterly clueless—couldn’t even read the Hindi signs. Dazed, he’d just followed the crowd. At the airport exit, a pitiful-looking old woman begged for alms. Though down on his luck himself, Meng Han kindly gave her ten rupees. Instantly, a swarm of people lunged for his wallet.
His impression of India plummeted. With no idea how to find local police, he’d fled. After finally shaking off those thief-like beggars, he stumbled upon what looked like a temple.
An atheist, Meng Han rarely worshipped deities. He wasn’t even sure if the three-headed, six-armed stone statue before him was divine—probably some local Indian god. The temple itself lay in ruins, overgrown with moss and crumbling walls. No incense smoke curled in the air; no worshippers lingered.
Its sole advantage? Seclusion. Deep in a small forest, connected to the outside world only by a broken dirt path, it offered Meng Han—a man still trembling from shock—a place to catch his breath.
But what now?
Just hours ago, he’d been the #1 gaming streamer across all platforms, adored by legions of fans. The platform had offered him a near-legendary signing bonus and salary. Almost there. He’d been moments away from claiming that fortune, strutting home to dump a suitcase full of cash at his father’s feet—the same father who’d disowned him over his dropping out of school. He’d make the old man gape in awe.
He’d send his chronically ill sister to America’s finest hospital for expensive targeted therapy. His family’s grudges would dissolve. They’d move into a sparkling new house, finally happy and whole again…
But that dream had vanished like a popped bubble.
Now, he was a cheat-code streamer despised by millions. His channel was banned. All gifts from fans? Confiscated by the platform. All he had left was 7,000 rupees in his wallet—and the stench of infamy clinging to him like a plague rat’s shadow.
Life’s irony cut deep: heaven one second, hell the next.
Grief-stricken, Meng Han stared at the three-headed idol. A wild thought surfaced. He’d never believed in gods, but if millions prayed… maybe there was truth in it? Cornered and desperate, he might as well beg this unknown Indian deity. Perhaps a miracle awaited.
He knelt respectfully before the statue, palms pressed together, head bowed. "Great god," he whispered, "I don’t know who you are or if you understand Chinese. But please—bless an innocent, kind soul. Clear my name. Restore me as the top streamer. And expose Liang Sheng’s ugly lies to the world!"
After praying, Meng Han sat back up and scoffed at himself. *What a fool. Praying to some random god? Of course it won’t work.*
*Ugh… so tired…*
The long flight and frantic running had drained him. June’s warm Indian air meant no blanket was needed. He gathered some broken straw from the temple floor and collapsed onto it.
What Meng Han didn’t know: moments after he fell asleep, the three-headed idol’s eyes flickered with blue light. A beam shot from its mouth, engulfing his entire body. Slowly, uncanny changes began within the glow…
---
Meng Han didn’t know how long he’d slept, but he woke razor-sharp, exhaustion gone.
Yet as he stood, his body felt… wrong. His T-shirt hung loose. His once-skinny jeans sagged, the cuffs nearly swallowing his shoes, held up only by his belt.
And what was that strange bulge on his chest?
He yanked his collar down. Where his flat chest should be, two small, delicate breasts now sat—pale, shy, undeniably feminine.
*If only they weren’t on my body.*
*Could it be…?*
Trembling, Meng Han reached into his pants. After frantic confirmation, a desperate wail tore from his throat: "AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
*Why is my manhood gone?!*
Refusing to believe it, he checked again and again. The small but sensitive breasts. The smooth, hairless triangle between his legs. The truth crashed over him: he’d become a girl.
The double blow shattered him. Strength drained from his limbs. He crumpled to the ground like a limp worm.
He’d thought he’d hit rock bottom: from top streamer to fugitive, fleeing overseas to escape mobs. He’d believed nothing could be worse.
But as the ancients said: *There’s no worst—only worse.* Now even his dick and balls were stolen by fate.
Meng Han had hated crying since childhood. His father’s words echoed: *"Real men don’t cry easily. Only cowards weep."*
Two years ago, his middle-school sister was diagnosed with Ai Mei’s muscular dystrophy. She’d left school for a hospital bed, her beautiful long hair thinning from treatment. That day, watching her sob over a clump of fallen hair, Meng Han had turned away silently. Only a trace of dampness lingered at his eyes.
A year ago, he’d dropped out of high school. As he walked out the door with his backpack, his father’s roar chased him: *"Step outside, and you’re no son of mine!"*
Meng Han kept walking. Again, no tears—just damp corners of his eyes.
But this time? Tears streamed down his face, salty and warm. The second time since he could remember.
---
After who knew how long, Meng Han stood again. Hollow-eyed, he left the temple, wandering blindly through the woods until a wide river blocked his path. A cold wind whipped his tangled hair.
*Am I a total failure?*
As a son: I dropped out, cut ties with my father, stayed silent for a whole year.
As a brother: I can’t afford my sister’s surgery, watching her fade away.
As a streamer: I’m trash. Everyone spits on my name.
As a man: I’ve lost my dick and balls.
*Should someone this broken even live?*
*Better to jump in. Become fish food. At least I’ll give back to the earth…*
He stepped into the river. Deeper. Deeper. Until the current swallowed his head, dragging him toward the center.
Meng Han had never learned to swim. Not once set foot in a pool. His body thrashed instinctively, but he couldn’t surface. Consciousness blurred.
*Mom… I’m coming to see you…*
