Lin Xiao felt as if his head was stuffed into a high-speed drum washing machine, and as if it was repeatedly hit by an invisible sledgehammer. Every shock in his skull was accompanied by tearing pain and overwhelming nausea.
The consciousness was ups and downs, and the last memory fragments were the dense historical documents of the Ming Dynasty on the computer screen, the serious face of the instructor who kept asking for "further deepening and further innovation", and the boundless darkness and suffocation caused by the sudden contraction of the heart.
"Fuck... It's too much..." This was the last remaining cry of his modern thinking.
Immediately afterwards, more fragments poured in arrogantly, and the memories that did not belong to him were like a flood that burst a bank, washing away his nerves that were almost torn apart.
Hongwu... Seven years?
Lin Xiao, Lin Zizhan?
A poor scholar?
Both parents died and the family was devastated?
The epidemic... Waiting to die?
"Wait! What the hell?"
