Zou Gailun's Transmigration

When he opened his eyes again, his nostrils were no longer filled with the mixed smell of petroleum and diesel. Instead, there was the damp, earthy stench of soil, mingled with a faint, sweet odor, like the rotting roots of some plant.

Zou Gailun moved his fingers and felt the cold, hard ground beneath them. Its rough surface scraped his fingertips until they tingled. He struggled to prop himself up and looked around. His heart clenched.

There was no burning platform, no shouts from his coworkers, and even the sky looked nothing like the one he knew. A gray-blue sky screen hung low overhead, the clouds like cotton wads kneaded by a giant hand, their edges glowing with an odd, pale-gold light. Beneath him ran a dirt road, its deep ruts carved by wheels. Dense, almost primeval woods lined either side, their trunks so thick it would take two people to wrap their arms around them. Through the interlaced branches, he could make out distant, rolling mountains, more rugged and steep than any range he had ever seen, as though their silhouettes had been inked across the heavens.

"Where... am I?" he whispered. His throat was so dry it hurt. His work clothes had been torn in several places and were caked with mud and dark-red stains. The wound at his temple...