Bang.
A screech of rubber peeling from asphalt.
A child's cry—high, sharp, unfinished.
The glare of headlights, a pale god's judgment.
Then—
A girl, no more than six, stood paralyzed in the middle of the road, the crimson rubber ball slipping from her fingers. The world shrank to a single frame: the speeding truck, unrelenting; the distance closing; the inevitability crawling.
Wang Hao ran.
There was no calculation—only instinct, pure and sharp as glass.
He reached her. Shoved.
Her body flew.
Then came the sound—
Impact.
A shattering. Bone, metal, time.
And finally—
Darkness.
---
He awoke with a sudden, choking gasp. His lungs pulled in stale, heavy air, and his body convulsed as if startled by its own existence.
Pain bloomed behind his eyes, a dull, rhythmic throb that echoed with each heartbeat. He pressed a hand to his forehead.
"Ah… damn…"
The voice that escaped him was not quite his own. It felt thin. Slightly higher. Lacking the weight of familiarity.
The ceiling above was of darkened timber, warped with age and blotched by the bloom of ancient water stains. A lone oil lamp flickered weakly in the corner—its flame thin, desperate, uncertain of its place in the world.
This… isn't my room.
There was no antiseptic tang. No clean white sheets. No soft hum of machines or the ever-present murmur of city life just outside.
Only silence.
And the scent—damp rot, blood, earth.
He tried to sit up.
His arms obeyed sluggishly, like wood soaked in water. As he attempted to rise, his legs betrayed him entirely.
Thud.
The impact with the floor sent a jolt up his spine, forcing a gasp from his lips. Cold. Coarse. Real.
"Ugh…"
He looked down.
His hands—
They were not his.
They were smaller. The bones beneath the skin jutted like frail branches. Bruises marred the pallor, and the fingers trembled as if remembering pain.
This isn't my body.
The thought fell into his mind like a drop of ink in clear water. Ripples followed.
Panic did not come immediately. Not quite. Instead, a dull, growing awareness slithered in: this place, this air, this self—it was all wrong. The angles of the room were unfamiliar. The scent of oil and iron clung to the air like a persistent ghost. Everything looked—ancient.
Dead.
Did I… die?
---
The door creaked.
A girl no older than twelve burst in, her breathing ragged, eyes wide with barely-contained emotion. She clutched a small vial, filled with a liquid that caught the lamplight—a dark, clotted red.
"Shi Yao! You're awake!" she breathed.
The name hit him like a pebble striking still water. Shi Yao?
She dropped to her knees beside him, her movements frantic, practiced. Her voice was soft, threaded with relief.
"Here, drink this. It'll help."
She lifted his head with both hands—stronger than she looked—and tipped the vial to his lips.
The liquid was bitter, metallic. It clung to his tongue like old blood.
"Brother," she whispered, "you scared me… Please, rest. Don't move too fast."
Brother?
He stared at her. She smiled.
And somewhere deep inside, the fragments of Wang Hao's consciousness began to rattle against the walls of a mind not wholly his.
Who was Shi Yao?
Why did this name feel like it belonged to him now?
And why—despite the warmth of the girl's touch and the light of the flame—did the air around him feel so terribly cold?