His final moments of consciousness sank into the city's cold shadows.
Qiao Mo was a street punk scraping by in the cracks between alleyways. Warm blood from a split opened by a steel pipe trickled down his temple as he slumped beside a stinking trash can. He'd been in fights and seen blood, but usually it was no worse than a busted head and a bloody face. He'd lost his turf and taken a beating, abandoned like a stray dog. As his consciousness slipped away, all he hoped was that his rivals or the cops wouldn't find him, and that he could catch his breath in this filthy corner.
Pain and cold were his final sensations of that world.
And then...
An even fiercer, more brutal, more unfamiliar pain, like a red-hot branding iron, suddenly seared itself deep into his soul! Along with it came a deafening roar that felt ready to burst his skull, and a stench beyond description!
After dying, he transmigrates into the body of a low-ranking soldier on an ancient battlefield. A truly catastrophic start.
