He always wakes up in strange times.
This time, he was Gu Hanguang, a young instructor at the Tianjin Naval Academy. He opened his eyes from a high fever. There were incomprehensible mechanical drawings on his pillow, and a whistle he had never heard before sounded outside the window. However, the memory still remains of the beacon fire in Haojing eight hundred years ago, and the feeling of the historian's carving knife cutting through the bamboo slips.
This isn't the first time. He remembered too much but couldn't change anything. He remembered the signs before the fall of the dynasty, but could only watch history repeat itself; he recognized the trajectory of the stars, but could not predict when and where he would wake up next; he was familiar with the handwriting of his friends three hundred years ago, but could only remain silent to their descendants.
But he can't do anything, he doesn't belong to this era.
