The Sequel to the Southern Song

In Lin'an Prefecture, in the servants' quarters behind the Qiantang County Office, the stench of rot and mildew seeped out from a pile of half-rotten straw in the corner. When Yuan Da'e jolted awake, his forehead struck not the soft safety padding inside his logistics simulator, but a splintery wooden board. He sucked in a sharp breath from the pain. “Damn...” He got halfway through the curse, then abruptly fell silent. His mouth tasted as if he'd swallowed ten jin of moldy sawdust. His throat was so dry it felt ready to catch fire. Stranger still, everything in view was tinged with an old, dusty yellow. Beneath him was a hard wooden bed, and over him lay a coarse hemp blanket patched seven or eight times. The corner held not the familiar tool kit he knew, but a heap of ragged clothes whose original colors were impossible to make out. Beside them stood a chipped clay jar with a few dried reeds stuck inside. This wasn't his simulator.