The moment I regained consciousness, I felt a biting coldness.
From ankle to wrist, heavy iron chains locked me to the cold stone pillar. The tattered palace clothes I wore could not block the cold air of the dungeon. Rats scurried around my feet, and the air was filled with the smell of mold and blood.
"Click."
The cell door was pushed open from the outside.
I looked up and saw a man walking in against the light.
He was very tall, with cascading black hair, and a pair of blood-red eyes that were frighteningly bright in the dim light. His facial features were as cold and hard as an axe, and the corners of his mouth were curved with a hint of a smile. He was wearing a black brocade robe embroidered with dark golden dragon patterns, and a long sword without a scabbard hung on his waist.
"Are you awake?"
His voice was low, with careless teasing: "I woke up faster than I thought."
I don't know who he is, but there are still fragments of memories left in my mind.
My name is Shen Qingyi, a modern social worker, 23 years old. I stayed up late yesterday to read a novel called "The Demon King's Prisoner", and then died suddenly in front of the computer because I had worked overtime for seven consecutive days.
Totally dead.
Then I slipped into this novel.
