Zhong Cang's eyesight went dark.
When I opened my eyes again, the room was full of paper figures.
The pale face, scarlet cheeks, and empty eyes stared straight at him. The air smelled of inferior paste and bamboo strips.
"Are you awake?" A hoarse voice came from the corner.
Zhong Cangxu sat up suddenly and found himself lying on a broken straw mat. My whole body ached, and my brain felt like it was stuffed with a ball of paste—these are the sequelae of working overtime for seventy-two consecutive hours.
Wrong.
He clearly remembered falling on the keyboard, and the severe pain of cardiac arrest still remained in his memory.
"I... Am not dead?"
"Death?" The old man in the corner sneered, bamboo strips flying in his hand, "You have a good idea. You fainted at the door of the City God's Temple yesterday, and it was the old man who picked you up."
Zhong Cangxu looked down at his hands.
Rough, calloused, with black mud stuck between the nails. These are not the hands that have been typing code for ten years.
A strange memory flooded into my mind.
