[Damn, this is more exhausting than working overtime for seventy-two hours straight... It feels just like being forced to boot up after a hangover...]
Fighting off dizziness and nausea, he began sorting through the fragments of memories that weren't his.
This was Qin.
Not the mighty empire he'd read about in history books, the one that united the six states and standardized writing and axle widths. It seemed to be even earlier? The original owner's memories offered no clear idea of which Qin king was on the throne. For a low-ranking clerk like him, whether he could get enough to eat that day mattered far more than who sat on it.
The person whose body he had transmigrated into was also called Qin Feng? Or at least, the name sounded similar. He was the lowest-ranking “scribe” in a county office somewhere in the State of Qin, responsible for copying documents, organizing records, and doing other odd jobs. He had a humble status and a meager salary, barely enough to get by.
And that “three-day deadline”... His memories were especially vague on this point. All he could recall was an intense anxiety and fear that the deadline was drawing near. The details of the task itself were hidden behind a thick veil, impossible to remember.
“So... have I... transmigrated? Or has my soul transmigrated?” Qin Feng, or rather the modern soul now possessing Qin Feng's memories and consciousness, murmured to himself. He raised his hands and saw a pair utterly unlike the well-cared-for hands he'd once had, with neatly trimmed nails. These fingers were rough, black grime was packed beneath the nails, and thin calluses covered his palms from years of gripping a knife and carving characters.
