Lin Bei was woken up by a basin of cold water.
The cold liquid flowed down his cheeks. He opened his eyes suddenly and saw a gray ceiling. The incandescent lamp above his head flickered on and off, making a "sizzling" sound of electricity. The air was filled with the smell of rust and blood, and there was a faint rustling sound of something crawling on the wall in the distance.
"Newcomer, don't pretend to be dead when you wake up."
A hoarse voice came from the side. Lin Bei turned his head and looked, and saw a bald man with a sinewy face squatting not far away, holding an empty iron basin in his hand, grinning at him, "Congratulations, you have been selected."
Lin Bei's brain felt a twinge of pain, and countless images flooded in - he remembered.
In his previous life, he was a street writer. He wrote a novel about doomsday ghost stories, which was so bad that his mother didn't even recognize it. His subscription was so poor that he couldn't even afford instant noodles. He stayed up late and wrote three million words, and finally died of exhaustion in front of the keyboard. But now, he has traveled through time and into the broken book he wrote.
