Invincible: I Level Up In My Sleep

A sharp, throbbing pain split Yan Zheng’s skull wide open.

He groaned, blinking against a sudden rush of dim, flickering torchlight. Expecting to see his cluttered desk, dual monitors, and the glowing interface of the strategy game he had been grinding until 4:00 AM, his eyes instead met a vaulted stone ceiling dripping with moisture.

"Your Highness! Please, you must pull yourself together!"

A frantic, desperate voice cut through the heavy fog in his mind.

Yan Zheng sat up abruptly, realizing he wasn't in his comfortable gaming chair. He was draped over a cold, high-backed throne made of rough black stone. He was wearing heavy, fur-lined royal robes that felt three sizes too big for his frail, sickly frame.

Before he could process the sheer absurdity of the room, a massive flood of foreign memories crashed into his brain, forcing a low gasp from his throat.

He hadn't just fainted from sleep deprivation. He had transmigrated.

This world was a brutal, vast continent where powerful martial artists and cultivators could split mountains with a wave of their hands. He was now Prince Yan Zheng, the eldest son of the King of Ironcliff—a barren, freezing border kingdom. His father had been assassinated by a rival nation just three days ago. The kingdom was broke, the army was disheartened, and Yan Zheng was widely known throughout the court as a "trash prince"—frail, sickly, and utterly incapable of cultivating a single drop of Qi.

"Your Highness, the Prime Minister is crossing the courtyard right now with the royal guards," the voice spoke again, trembling with suppressed rage.

Yan Zheng looked down. Standing at the base of the throne steps was a young woman. She wore a suit of battered leather armor over a simple tunic, her long black hair tied back in a high ponytail. A heavy iron sword was gripped tightly in her hand. Despite the dirt smeared on her cheek and the sheer hopelessness of their situation, her sharp, almond-shaped eyes burned with fierce determination.

Fan Changyu.

She was the daughter of the late Grand General of Ironcliff, who had died alongside Yan Zheng’s father. While the rest of the court was packing their bags to flee or plotting their betrayal, she was the only one left standing guard at the throne room doors.

"What is the Prime Minister doing?" Yan Zheng asked, his voice sounding thin and raspy to his own ears.

"He has already signed a treaty of surrender with the invading Iron-Blood Tribe," Fan Changyu spat, her knuckles turning white around her sword hilt. "The enemy vanguard is less than half a day's march from our gates. The Prime Minister intends to bind you in chains and present your head to the enemy commander to secure his own position as a puppet governor. Your Highness... we must leave through the secret passage now. I will hold the doors."

She was planning to sacrifice herself so a "trash prince" could run away.

Before Yan Zheng could respond, the heavy oak doors of the throne room burst open with a loud BANG.

An elderly man in lavish, silk-embroidered robes strode in, flanked by ten heavily armed royal guards. This was Prime Minister Zhao. His face carried a smug, arrogant sneer as he looked at the frail prince on the throne.

"Ah, Your Highness, you are finally awake," Zhao said, his tone dripping with mock reverence. "Good. The Iron-Blood Tribe's vanguard is arriving. For the sake of the citizens of Ironcliff, I must ask you to make the ultimate sacrifice. Yield your crown, surrender peacefully, and perhaps the enemy commander will grant you a quick death."

"Zhao! You treacherous dog!" Fan Changyu stepped forward, her blade ringing as she drew it completely, blocking the path to the throne. "The King treated your family with nothing but honor! How dare you sell out his son!"

"Honor doesn't stop iron blades, brat," Zhao scoffed, waving his hand carelessly to his guards. "The King is dead. This trash prince can't even lift a sword. Ironcliff needs a realist at the helm. Guards, disarm the girl. If she resists, break her legs. Then, bind the Prince."

Two Level 3 Qi Refinement guards stepped forward, their weapons drawn, smiles of cruel amusement on their faces. They easily outmatched Fan Changyu, who was barely fighting off exhaustion from three days of continuous scouting.

Yan Zheng watched it all unfold. His heart hammered in his chest. He had no Qi, no martial arts training, and a body that felt like it would collapse from a strong gust of wind.

Am I really going to die right after transmigrating? he thought bitterly. Where is my cheat code? Where is my system?!

As the guards closed in on Fan Changyu, a sudden, heavy wave of sleepiness washed over Yan Zheng. It wasn't the drowsiness of normal fatigue—it was an intense, supernatural pull, dragging his consciousness downward into a deep abyss. His eyelids grew heavy, completely defying his willpower.

No, no, not now! I can't fall asleep now!

But he couldn't fight it. His eyes slipped shut, his head slumping back against the cold stone of the throne.

To Prime Minister Zhao and the guards, it looked as though the pathetic prince had literally fainted from pure, unadulterated terror. Zhao let out a loud, mocking laugh. "Look at him! Fainting like a frightened maiden. And this is the bloodline of Ironcliff? Pathetic. Take them both!"

But inside Yan Zheng’s mind, the darkness suddenly shattered.

A cold, mechanical, completely emotionless voice echoed through a vast, empty void, ringing with absolute authority:

[Sovereign’s Crucible Interface Syncing... 100%.]

[Host Identity Verified: Yan Zheng.]

[Current Realm: Mortal (No Cultivation).]

[System Status: Activated. Welcome, Sovereign.]

[Notice: The Host has entered the 'Sleep-State'. Transferring consciousness to Dungeon Tier 1: The Desolate Outpost…]