“Wu Dalang, you bastard, get out here!”
A woman's shrill voice, sharp enough to pierce my eardrums, rang out. I bolted upright in bed, my head feeling as if someone had hit it with a hammer. The pain made me grimace. I opened my eyes. Dim light squeezed through the broken window lattice, leaving the room gray and gloomy, like some damn haunted house. A foul smell crept into my nose: burnt flatbread mixed with the damp, musty odor of rotten wood. My stomach lurched so violently I wanted to throw up, but nothing came out.
I struggled to get up, but then, thunk!, my head slammed into the bed frame. The bed was so low it was like a dog's den. I sucked in a sharp breath and cursed, “What kind of heartless bastard made the bed so low? I've got a bump on my head now!” I clutched my forehead and looked down. My hands were short, like tree stumps chopped in half, and rough as old bark. Black grime packed my fingernails, filthy enough to grow crops in. I froze for three seconds, my head buzzing. These damn hands weren't mine!
Just last night, I'd been up late in my rented apartment, binge-reading a novel. The Water Margin fanfic The Rise of Wu Dalang had made me furious. Its protagonist was useless as dog shit and ended up poisoned to death. I'd ranted in the comments: “Has the author lost his mind? This lousy protagonist deserves to be cheated on!” Then I woke up in this godforsaken place?! My heart pounded like a drum. I threw off the covers and climbed out of bed, but as soon as my feet touched the floor, I nearly tripped over a raised floorboard and fell flat on my face. I looked around. Broken pottery jars were piled in a corner, a table with a missing leg wobbled precariously, and a cracked bowl sat on top with half a piece of blackened flatbread inside, looking like a lump of coal. Just looking at it made me want to kick it a few times...
