Ascended by Accident: My Luck is a Joke

Chapter 10

The walk back to the Cloud-Step Sect was, for lack of a better word, a parade of unintentional agony.

Every step Dimas took triggered another round of rhythmic, neon-blue flashing from his footwear, illuminating the dark, winding mountain path with the frantic intensity of a disco ball trapped in a dungeon.

Mei Lin walked several paces ahead, her spine as rigid as a steel rod, never once looking back to see if her companion was keeping pace.

Dimas, meanwhile, was engaged in a desperate, silent battle against his own anatomy.

The polyester material of his "divine" pajamas, which he had been forced to wear since his sudden arrival in this world, was proving to be a catastrophic choice for mountain travel.

The humid night air had turned the synthetic fabric into a clinging, non-breathable shroud that clung to his skin with the persistence of a leech.

By the time the familiar stone gates of the Cloud-Step Sect came into view, the lower half of his body was burning.

A severe, blistering heat rash had erupted across his legs, transforming every movement into a delicate, agonizing exercise in endurance.

"We have returned!" Mei Lin shouted, her voice ringing out across the quiet courtyard.

Within seconds, the sect’s gates groaned open, revealing Elder Feng, who looked as if he hadn't slept for a week.

He had clearly been expecting the worst, his hands trembling as he clutched a string of protective beads.

Upon seeing them, his eyes widened, and he let out a gasp that sounded like a dry leaf skittering across stone.

"You… you have returned!" the elder cried, scurrying forward to kneel in the dirt. "The Black Vulture Sect, their reputation for brutality—what became of them?"

Dimas tried to stand tall, to project the image of a calm, collected ancestor, but his legs twitched violently.

He shifted his weight, trying to find a position that didn't feel like he was being scrubbed with sandpaper.

"They have been… handled," Dimas muttered, his teeth gritted.

He shifted again, his body twisting in a series of sharp, jerky movements as he tried to alleviate the stinging sensation beneath his pants.

To the watching disciples, who had gathered in the courtyard with lanterns held high, this was not a man suffering from poor fabric choices.

They saw the way he shifted his hips, the way his shoulders rolled, and the strange, erratic tension in his gait.

"Look at the Ancestor’s footwork!" one of the younger disciples whispered, clutching his chest in awe.

"He is practicing the Serpent-Winding Stance," another whispered back, his face pale with reverence. "I have never seen such fluid, restless aggression."

Dimas, oblivious to the praise, was currently focused entirely on not screaming.

The itch had reached a crescendo, a maddening, fiery pressure that made him want to rip his pants off and sprint headfirst into the nearest frozen pond.

"He is still in the heat of battle," Elder Feng noted, observing Dimas’s continuous, restless squirming with wide, appreciative eyes. "He is channeling the lingering energy of his duel."

Dimas finally reached the safety of the main hall stairs and slumped down onto the cool stone, desperate for relief.

The neon-blue lights of his sneakers, however, were still active, casting a bright, strobing glow against the temple walls.

"Ancestor!" Elder Feng exclaimed, bowing low. "We have prepared a victory feast, though it is humble."

"I... thank you," Dimas choked out, his voice thin. "I simply require, er, seclusion."

He stood up again, his legs performing a strange, twitchy dance as he tried to keep the fabric from irritating the raw skin.

Every time he jerked his leg, the disciples gasped, imagining he was parrying invisible blows from a spectral enemy.

Mei Lin stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she watched his increasingly frantic movements.

She sensed something was off, but she could not discern whether it was madness, exhaustion, or something far more tactical.

"The Ancestor is clearly restless," Mei Lin stated, her tone flat. "He has reached a state of perpetual combat-readiness."

The disciples nodded in total, terrified agreement.

Dimas, meanwhile, was currently picturing a bathtub filled with soothing aloe vera and talcum powder.

He realized with a sinking heart that he was effectively trapped in a performative prison of his own making.

If he stopped moving, the itch would consume him; if he continued to move, he would continue to be hailed as a master of the Serpent-Winding Stance.

"You have all done well to gather," Dimas said, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Go, return to your studies. The… the path of the serpent requires no audience."

The disciples scattered instantly, terrified of being caught in the radius of his invisible, restless energy.

Elder Feng lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on Dimas’s twitching, glowing feet.

"A magnificent technique, Ancestor," the old man said, his voice thick with emotion. "To maintain such high-frequency vibration even after a victory… it is truly the mark of a master."

Dimas simply nodded, his face turning a shade of red that had nothing to do with cultivation.

"I just need… a bit of time alone," Dimas whispered, his voice cracking. "The, ah, the cosmic burden is quite heavy tonight."

Elder Feng bowed deeply once more and retreated, leaving Dimas alone in the flickering blue light of the courtyard.

As soon as the coast was clear, Dimas collapsed into a heap against a support pillar.

He scrambled to pull his pant legs up, revealing the angry, red welts that now covered his shins.

"Stupid, cheap polyester," he hissed to himself, his fingers digging into his pockets to see if he had anything, anything that might help.

He found nothing but a plastic wrapper from the canteen and a very crumpled, very useless napkin.

The Customer Support screen flickered into existence, hovering in the air before his eyes.

Survey Request: Please rate your footwear performance.

Dimas glared at the holographic text, his breathing ragged.

"Rate this?" he muttered, his voice dripping with venom. "I’ll give you a one-star review, you piece of junk!"

The screen pulsed a soft, warning crimson, and a small message appeared in the corner: Warning: Low satisfaction ratings may result in immediate product decommissioning.

Dimas froze, his hand hovering inches from the screen.

If the shoes were "decommissioned," would they explode while he was wearing them?

He thought about the blast radius of a 1995 light-up sneaker and decided that was a risk he was not currently prepared to take.

He groaned, resting his head back against the cold, hard wood of the pillar.

"Fine," he grumbled, his voice barely a whisper in the silent night. "Five stars. Just… just leave me alone."

A chime sounded in the air, crisp and triumphant.

Thank you for your feedback! A Mystery Reward has been processed for your account.

Dimas didn't even look up to see what it was.

He was too busy trying to keep his legs from touching each other, the friction becoming an increasingly unbearable torture.

Behind him, the soft glow of his sneakers continued to pulse, a beacon of light in the darkness of the mountain.

It was supposed to be the sign of a legend, a testament to his power and his divine origins.

To Dimas, it was just the visual representation of his current, miserable existence.

He closed his eyes, praying for the sunrise and a pair of loose-fitting cotton pants.

He knew that if he could just survive the next few hours, he might be able to maintain the ruse.

He had to be the Ancestor, he had to be the legend, and most importantly, he had to stop scratching his legs in front of the local martial artists.

The wind picked up, swirling the fallen leaves around his feet, making the neon-blue flashes seem even more erratic and menacing.

Mei Lin appeared at the corner of the hall, her silhouette sharp against the moonlight.

She watched him for a long moment, her expression unreadable, before she turned and disappeared back into the darkness.

She had seen enough to know that he was dangerous, but even she couldn't have guessed that his "Serpent-Winding Stance" was actually a battle against a case of chronic prickly heat.

Dimas shivered, pulling his knees up toward his chest to create a barrier against the air.

He looked up at the stars, wondering if any of them were looking back at a man in dragon-print pajamas who was arguably the most famous failure in the history of the sect.

He wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry, so he did neither.

He just sat there, waiting for the itch to subside, waiting for his life to become less of a living, neon-lit hell.

The sect was quiet, save for the rhythmic, pulsing thwip-thwip of his shoes, a heartbeat of blue light that echoed through the valley.

It was the heartbeat of a hero, or so they said.

To Dimas, it sounded like the ticking of a time bomb, and he had no idea when, or how, it would eventually go off.

He could only hope that when it did, he would at least be wearing better pants.

The night wore on, the air grew colder, and the neon lights continued to strobe, casting their eerie, artificial glow over the ancient, wooden architecture.

Dimas finally drifted into a light, uncomfortable sleep, his legs curled tightly against his chest.

He dreamed of cotton fabrics, of cool breezes, and of a world where his footwear didn't have an opinions-based rating system.

When he woke up, the sun would be rising, and the cycle would begin again.

He would have to walk, he would have to speak, and he would have to keep up the appearance of the most powerful, most bizarre martial artist the Cloud-Step Sect had ever known.

It was a daunting task, but as he looked at the glowing blue soles of his sneakers, he felt a strange, flickering sense of determination.

If he could survive the Black Vulture Sect, he could survive a heat rash.

Probably.

Hopefully.

He sighed, shifted his weight one last time, and let the rhythmic strobing of his shoes lull him back into the fitful, dreaming silence of the mountain peak.