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Chapter 1 - A new world

The sharp crack of what sounded like a gunshot echoed through the afternoon air, instantly followed by the high-pitched shriek of tires fighting against the rough asphalt. The sound ripped through the ordinary hum of traffic, a sudden, violent interruption. Then, a child's cry pierced the chaos—a high, thin wail that abruptly cut off, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.

The world was suddenly illuminated by a blinding glare of headlights, two powerful beams that felt like the judgment of some ancient, unforgiving deity, slicing through the ordinary daylight with terrifying intensity.

And then, his focus narrowed to the figure in the road. A little girl, barely old enough to start school, stood frozen in the center of the blacktop, her small form trembling. A bright crimson rubber ball slipped from her numb fingers, bouncing once before rolling away, forgotten in the face of imminent danger.

For Wang Hao, the world seemed to compress into a single, terrifying image: the massive truck, a metal behemoth with a roaring engine, bearing down on the child with relentless speed; the rapidly shrinking distance between them; and the chilling, creeping sense of inevitability that tightened like a fist in his chest.

Without a second thought, without any conscious calculation, Wang Hao ran. It wasn't a decision; it was pure, unadulterated instinct, as sharp and clear as shattered glass, that propelled him forward.

He reached her in what felt like an eternity and no time at all. With a desperate surge of strength, he shoved her small body forward, away from the path of destruction.

Then came the sound,a sickening thud, followed by a series of sharp, tearing crunches.

Impact.

A shattering. Bone, metal, time itself seemed to fracture in that instant.

And finally..... an all-encompassing, suffocating darkness swallowed him whole.

He awoke with a sudden, ragged gasp, his body arching off the cold, hard surface beneath him as if jolted by an electric current. His lungs screamed for air, pulling in a stale, heavy draft that tasted of dust and something else… something metallic. Every muscle in his body seemed to throb in protest, as if startled by its own unexpected return to existence.

A dull, persistent ache bloomed behind his eyes, a rhythmic throbbing that echoed with the frantic pounding of his own heart. He instinctively pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, his fingers encountering rough, unfamiliar skin.

"Ah… damn…"

The voice that escaped his lips was not his own. It felt thin, reedy. Slightly higher in pitch, lacking the familiar resonance and weight he had always known. It was like hearing a distorted echo of himself.

The ceiling above was a patchwork of darkened timber, the planks warped and uneven with the passage of time. Ugly, discolored blotches, the tell-tale signs of ancient water damage, bloomed across the aged wood like grotesque flowers. In the corner of the room, a lone oil lamp flickered weakly, its tiny flame a fragile, desperate dance against the encroaching darkness, uncertain of its own precarious hold on existence.

This… isn't my room, the thought echoed in his mind, a cold wave of disorientation washing over him. There was no sterile scent of antiseptic, no crispness of clean white sheets, no soft, reassuring hum of machinery, nor the ever-present, muffled murmur of city life that usually drifted through his apartment window.

Only an oppressive silence.

And the scent,a cloying mixture of damp rot, something vaguely metallic like old blood, and the earthy, musty odor of decay. It was a smell that spoke of age and neglect.

He tried to push himself up into a sitting position.

His arms obeyed sluggishly, moving with the stiff reluctance of waterlogged wood. As he attempted to swing his legs over the side of whatever he was lying on, they betrayed him entirely, offering no support.

Thud.

The unexpected impact of his body hitting the coarse, uneven floor sent a jolt of pain shooting up his spine, forcing a choked gasp from his lips. Cold. So terribly cold. And undeniably, painfully real.

"Ugh…"

He looked down at his hands, his breath catching in his throat.

They were not his hands.

They were smaller, the bones beneath the pale, bruised skin jutting out like frail, brittle branches. A network of angry bruises marred the pallor, and the slender fingers trembled uncontrollably, as if remembering a pain that was not his own.

This isn't my body.

The thought dropped into his mind like a heavy stone into a still pond, the ripples of disbelief spreading outwards, chilling him to the core.

Panic did not come immediately. Not quite. Instead, a dull, growing awareness slithered in, insidious and cold: this place, this stale, heavy air, this unfamiliar self,it was all profoundly, fundamentally wrong. The angles of the room were alien. The pervasive scent of oil and iron clung to the air like a persistent, unwelcome ghost. Everything looked… ancient.

Dead.

Did I… die? The question hung in the silence, heavy with unspoken dread.

The door to the room, a rough-hewn slab of wood, groaned open with a long, mournful creak.

A girl, no older than twelve, stumbled into the room, her breathing ragged and shallow, her young face pale and streaked with tears. Her eyes, wide and filled with a barely-contained torrent of emotion, darted around the room before locking onto him. She clutched a small, stoppered vial in her hand, the liquid inside catching the weak, flickering lamplight,a viscous fluid the color of dark, clotted red.

"Shi Yao! You're awake!" she breathed, her voice a strained whisper of disbelief and overwhelming relief.

The name struck him like a physical blow, a foreign sound that somehow resonated deep within him, like a pebble striking the still surface of a forgotten well. Shi Yao? Who was Shi Yao?

She dropped to her knees beside him, her movements frantic yet strangely practiced, born of worry and perhaps previous experience. Her small hand reached out, her touch surprisingly firm as she gently took his arm. Her voice, when she spoke again, was soft, almost a plea, threaded with profound relief.

"Here, drink this. It'll help you."

She lifted his head with both hands, her grip stronger than her fragile appearance suggested, and carefully tipped the open vial to his dry, cracked lips.

The liquid within was intensely bitter, with a sharp, metallic tang that coated his tongue like old blood. It felt heavy, almost viscous, as it slid down his throat.

"Brother," she whispered, her eyes searching his with an almost desperate intensity, "you scared me so… Please, just rest now. Don't try to move too fast."

Brother? The unfamiliar term hung in the air, adding another layer to the growing confusion that swirled within him.

He stared at her, his mind reeling. She offered a small, hesitant smile, her relief evident in the slight trembling of her lips.

And somewhere deep inside the recesses of his mind, the fragmented memories and consciousness of Wang Hao began to rattle against the unyielding walls of a mind that was not wholly his own.

Who was Shi Yao?

Why did this name feel like it somehow belonged to him now, echoing in the empty chambers of his memory?

And why,despite the warmth of the girl's touch on his arm and the fragile light of the flickering flame,did the air around him feel so terribly, inexplicably cold?

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