The dragon and phoenix candles on the table exploded into lanterns.
Zhou Zhen opened his eyes.
The first thing his eyes met was the edge of the red hijab embroidered with golden phoenix, and then downwards, a pair of hands folded on his knees. The fingers are long and slender, with distinct joints. There is an old pale white scar on the tiger's mouth of the left hand, as if it had been scratched by some sharp weapon. These are not his hands.
Or rather, not entirely.
The memories belonging to "Zhou Town" are like sand at the bottom of the water, slowly rising and tumbling as consciousness awakens. At the age of twenty-two, the third son of Zhou Zhengqian, Minister of the Ministry of War, was incompetent in literature and martial arts. The only thing worthy of praise was the face that was said to resemble his biological mother, a singer who died young. Three months ago, the empress Yun Jinghuang gave an order to select a son-in-law, and the horoscopes divined by the Qintian Prison matched him perfectly. As a result, he became the first emperor's son-in-law in the three hundred years since the founding of the Yan Dynasty.
Son-in-law.
The memory of "Zhou Zhen" stops here, with a certain blankness of fear.
But now occupying this body is another soul. From another world, another time. There, his name was Zhou Lin, a thirty-four-year-old commander of a special force. His last memory was the dazzling flames of explosions in the depths of the desert, and the hoarse command to "ensure destruction" on the radio.
Time travel? Rebirth? It took him about three breaths to accept the fact. It's faster than being briefed on an infiltration mission behind enemy lines, and slower than watching your teammates fall next to you.
There was the sound of more drums outside the window.
