Ascended by Accident: My Luck is a Joke

The "Hellfire Extra-Spicy Ramen" was supposed to be a challenge, not a death sentence.

Dimas Ardhana, a twenty-four-year-old freelance graphic designer whose greatest physical achievement was once walking up three flights of stairs without wheezing, stared at the deep-red bowl. His small Jakarta apartment was humid, the air conditioner hummed a dying tune, and his throat was currently a war zone.

"I can do this," Dimas wheezed, his eyes watering. "It’s just noodles. It’s just... chili. A lot of chili."

He took another massive slurp. His vision blurred. A strange, sharp pain shot from his esophagus directly into his brain. His heart gave a frantic, rhythmic thump-thump-thump and then, quite suddenly, decided it had seen enough of this world.

"Oh... crap," Dimas whispered, the last of the spicy broth dripping from his chin. "Not like this. Not by a three-dollar cup of noodles."

Then, the world went black.

*

Light. Too much light. It wasn't the flickering fluorescent bulb of his studio apartment, but a soft, golden glow that felt expensive. Dimas blinked, his head throbbing with a phantom heat. He expected to see a hospital ceiling or perhaps the Pearly Gates. Instead, he saw silk. Deep, crimson silk draped across a ceiling so high it felt like the sky.

"Is this... Heaven?" Dimas muttered, his voice sounding oddly resonant. "Wait, did they have AC in the afterlife? This breeze is incredible."

"He speaks!" a voice shrieked. "The Great Ancestor has returned from his thousand-year meditation! His first words are a blessing upon our air quality!"

Dimas bolted upright. His head spun. He wasn't in a hospital. He was sitting on a bed the size of a small parking lot, surrounded by men in flowing robes who looked like they’d stepped out of a high-budget wuxia drama.

In the front row, an elderly man with a beard long enough to be a tripping hazard was sobbing tears of pure joy.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dimas yelled, throwing his hands up. "Hang on a second! Who are you? Where am I? Is this a prank show? Where are the cameras?"

The old man prostrated himself, hitting his forehead against the polished jade floor with a terrifying thwack.

"Forgive us, O Great Ancestor!" the old man wailed. "I am Feng, the humble 42nd leader of the Cloud-Step Sect. We knew your meditation would be deep, but we did not expect you to forget the very world you helped create!"

Dimas stared at the man, then at his own hands. They were his hands, but his skin looked... better. Glowing. He looked down at his chest. He was still wearing his favorite pajamas—a cheap, black polyester set with a massive, gaudy golden dragon printed on the front that he’d bought at a night market for fifty thousand rupiah.

Elder Feng followed his gaze and gasped, his eyes wide with awe.

"Look!" Feng pointed a trembling finger at Dimas’s chest. "The Golden Dragon of the Eternal Void! It pulses with a light we cannot even comprehend! Only the True Ancestor could manifest such a terrifyingly realistic divine beast on his very skin!"

Dimas looked at the polyester dragon. It was peeling slightly at the edges.

"This?" Dimas asked, pointing at the dragon. "Dude, this is just a pajama top. I bought it on sale."

"A 'Pa-Ja-Ma'?" Feng whispered the word as if it were a holy mantra. "A garment of the gods! And to call it 'on sale'... truly, the Ancestor’s humility knows no bounds. He speaks of the Divine Realms as if they were a common marketplace!"

"Okay, listen, Mr. Feng," Dimas said, sliding his legs off the bed. His feet hit the cold floor. "There’s been a huge mistake. I’m from Jakarta. I’m a graphic designer. I literally died five minutes ago because of some spicy ramen. I’m not an ancestor. I’m just... a guy."

The room went silent. The dozen or so disciples behind Elder Feng exchanged terrified glances.

"Ancestor," Feng said, his voice trembling. "Please. Do not joke like this. The demonic sects are at our gates. They have sensed that the protective seal on your tomb has broken. If you are not the Ancestor... then we are all dead men by sunset."

Dimas froze. "Demonic sects? Like, guys with skulls and spikes who kill people?"

"Exactly that, Great One," Feng sobbed. "They wish to feast on our souls and turn our disciples into thralls. But now that you’ve awakened, wearing the Raiment of the Golden Dragon, they will surely flee in terror!"

Dimas looked at the desperate faces around him. He looked at the silk, the jade, and the sheer amount of gold in the room. He also noticed a very sharp-looking sword leaning against the wall.

If I tell them I’m a fraud, Dimas thought, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck, they’re probably going to kill me before the demons even get here. Or worse, they’ll throw me out there to get eaten.

He cleared his throat, trying to channel every "cool boss" vibe he’d ever seen in a movie.

"Right. Yeah," Dimas said, his voice cracking slightly. "I was just... testing you. To see if your faith was strong. Good job, Feng. You passed."

The collective sigh of relief was so powerful it literally blew the curtains back.

"I knew it!" one of the younger disciples whispered. "His aura is so suppressed it feels like he's a regular human. That’s the peak of cultivation! He’s so strong he’s actually weak!"

"Totally," Dimas said, nodding solemnly. "I’m so strong I’m basically a zero. Don't even try to sense my power. It'll, uh, break your brain."

Elder Feng stood up, wiping his eyes. "We are unworthy, Ancestor. Truly. Please, allow us to prepare a feast! A thousand-year-old spirit wine and the heart of a Frost Tiger!"

Dimas’s stomach did a nervous flip. "Can we skip the tiger heart? Maybe just some... I don't know, fried rice? Or anything that isn't spicy? I have a very sensitive... divine core."

"Of course! The Ancestor's tastes are refined and mysterious!" Feng turned to the disciples. "Go! Prepare the blandest, most divine grains for our Lord!"

As the disciples scrambled out, Dimas slumped back onto the bed. He felt like he was playing a high-stakes game of poker with a hand made of Uno cards.

"Hey, Feng," Dimas called out.

The old man stopped at the door, bowing so low he was practically a human 'L' shape. "Yes, Great One?"

"How long have I been... out?"

"One thousand years, Ancestor," Feng replied. "The sect has fallen on hard times. We are but a shadow of the glory you left behind."

"Right. One thousand years. A lot changes," Dimas muttered. "Does anyone else in this place... you know... question who I am? Or are they all as convinced as you?"

Feng looked thoughtful. "Most are believers. But... some of the younger generation are skeptical. They have never seen a True Immortal. They think the legends are just stories to keep them disciplined."

"Great," Dimas sighed. "Skeptics. Just what I need."

"There is one in particular," Feng added, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The Head of our Martial Hall. She is... formidable. And very protective of the sect's resources. She insisted on seeing you the moment you woke."

Dimas felt a prickle of genuine dread. "She? Is she friendly?"

"Mei Lin Tan?" Feng chuckled nervously. "She is a genius of the sword. She is as beautiful as a winter moon and just as cold. She said if the Ancestor turned out to be a fake, she would personally ensure his soul was ground into dust to save us the embarrassment."

Dimas’s heart, which had only recently started beating again, skipped a beat for an entirely different reason. "She said that? Out loud?"

"In front of the whole council, Ancestor," Feng confirmed with a helpful smile. "But worry not! Once she sees your Dragon Pa-Ja-Ma, she will surely realize her folly."

"Yeah," Dimas whispered, looking at the peeling polyester. "I’m sure she’ll be thrilled."

Feng bowed one last time and exited, leaving Dimas alone in the cavernous room. Dimas immediately stood up and began pacing the jade floor.

"Okay, Dimas, think," he hissed to himself. "You’re in a cultivation world. You have zero powers. Your only defense is a $5 shirt and a bunch of confused old men. If I try to run, I’ll get lost in some forbidden forest and eaten by a giant spider. If I stay, I have to deal with a sword-wielding genius who wants to turn my soul into dust."

He stopped in front of a polished bronze mirror. He looked the same—same messy hair, same slightly-too-thin frame—but there was a clarity in his eyes he’d never seen before.

"I mean, I look like an immortal," he whispered, striking a pose. "Maybe? If you squint? If the lighting is bad?"

Suddenly, the massive oak doors at the end of the hall didn't just open—they exploded inward. A gust of cold, sharp wind swept through the room, carrying the scent of crushed snow and expensive tea.

A woman stepped through the debris.

She was wearing silver-and-white robes that fit her like a second skin, her long black hair tied back in a high ponytail that swayed like a whip. Her eyes were a piercing, icy blue, and the sword at her hip seemed to hum with a predatory hunger.

She didn't bow. She didn't prostrate. She just marched right up to Dimas until she was inches away from his face. She was slightly taller than him, which didn't help his confidence.

Dimas swallowed hard. "Uh... hey there. You must be the Martial Hall lady."

Mei Lin Tan narrowed her eyes. She leaned in, her nose almost touching his, sniffing the air around him.

"You don't smell like an immortal," she said, her voice like a blade sliding over silk. "You smell like... cheap flour and something burnt."

Dimas took a half-step back, nearly tripping over his own silk sheets. "That’s... uh... that’s the scent of the Void. It’s very complex. You wouldn’t get it."

Mei Lin’s hand moved faster than Dimas’s eyes could follow. In a heartbeat, the tip of a cold, steel blade was resting right against the center of the golden dragon’s head on his chest.

"I’ve spent twenty years studying the aura of our lineage," she whispered, her gaze boring into his soul. "I don't care what Elder Feng says. I don't care about your strange clothes. If you're a fraud, I'm going to find out right now."

Dimas looked down at the sword, then back up at her. Her face was breathtakingly beautiful, but her expression was that of a woman who had forgotten how to smile.

"Listen, Mei," Dimas said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the fact that his knees were shaking. "Can I call you Mei? You’re being really intense right now. How about we put the sword down and talk about this over some of that bland rice?"

Mei Lin’s eyes flickered with a hint of confusion, then hardened again. "You dare use my given name so casually? You truly have no fear of death, do you?"

"I've already died once today," Dimas said, a sudden spark of genuine annoyance cutting through his fear. "Honestly? It was a bit of a letdown. So if you’re gonna stab me, just do it. But if you don't, maybe you could show me where the bathroom is?"

Mei Lin stared at him. The tip of her sword trembled—not from weakness, but from the sheer shock of his response. Nobody spoke to her like that. Nobody.

She looked at his face, searching for a hint of a lie, but all she saw was a man who looked profoundly tired and slightly hungry.

"The Ancestor would be a master of all elements," she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum. "Prove it. Show me even a spark of your 'divine' power, or this blade goes through the dragon and into your heart."

Dimas looked at the dragon. He looked at Mei Lin. He thought of the spicy noodles.

"Fine," Dimas said, closing his eyes and praying to whatever gods were listening. "You want to see a spark? I'll show you a spark."

He reached out, his hand trembling, and placed a finger on the flat of her blade.

At that exact moment, a massive boom shook the entire mountain. The sky outside the window turned a sickly shade of purple, and a roar that sounded like a thousand dying lions echoed through the hall.

"The demonic sect!" Mei Lin hissed, her attention momentarily diverted. "They're attacking the main gate!"

Dimas didn't waste a second. "See?" he shouted, pointing dramatically at the window. "I told you! My power is... uh... synchronized with the cosmos! I summoned that distraction! I mean, that attack!"

Mei Lin looked from the window back to Dimas, her eyes wide with a mix of suspicion and genuine doubt.

"We'll see," she said, sheathing her sword in one fluid motion. "If you're the Ancestor, you'll lead us to the front lines. If you're not... I'll leave your body for the demons to finish."

She turned and marched out, her white robes fluttering like a battle flag.

Dimas stood alone in the center of the room, his legs finally giving out. He sank to the jade floor, clutching his chest.

"I hate this," he whispered to the empty room. "I really, really hate spicy food."