Farmer Galen's Transmigration

A bone-deep chill pricked through his thin, coarse hemp jacket like countless needles. He jerked his eyes open. Instead of the energy-saving bulb in his rented room, the sight that greeted him was a dingy thatched roof, its few rotten rafters slanting overhead and cobwebs packed thickly into the corners.

“Shit...” he muttered. He tried to prop himself up, but his arms felt as heavy as lead. The slightest effort brought a sweet, metallic taste surging into his throat. He coughed, spitting up saliva streaked with dark red blood.

This wasn't his body.

Nong Gailun froze. He clearly remembered dozing in the duty room at the company warehouse. It had been the night shift, three in the morning, with trucks coming and going on the security monitors. He'd been planning to redo next month's shifts for the old hands on his team. Being the transport department's personnel manager wasn't easy: he had to keep the drivers from slacking off on the road and stop the loaders from stealing goods. Just last week he'd caught someone stuffing a whole case of drinks into his own tricycle, and he'd been figuring out how to fine him by the book without driving him to quit.

Then what? The duty room's air conditioner must have broken, blowing cold air right down his neck. He'd grabbed a coworker's military coat and thrown it on. And after that... here he was.

He looked down at his hands. They were rough and dark, with thick knuckles, a heavy callus between thumb and forefinger, and an unhealed cut on his palm covered by a blackened scab. These were nothing like his own hands, which had spent years holding pens and tapping keyboards, and at most helped carry boxes of documents.

“Water... water...” A hoarse voice came from beside him, faint as a thread.

Nong Gailun turned his head.