Eleven at night in Shenzhen.
At the Shenzhen branch building of Gengxin Technology, only a single workstation remained lit.
The pale LED tube reflected off pale walls, and the low hum of the computer case was the sole background noise in this tiny space, stubbornly fighting against the deep night outside.
Limeng stared at the somewhat falsely gorgeous Sumeru City on his screen, his character moving fluidly through the intricate three-dimensional streets, the frame rate holding steadily at the limit of the screen's refresh rate.
The test subject was the slightly warm "brick" on his desk—the company's newest flagship graphics card, the CTX9080Ti. The cooling fans roared dutifully, holding the core temperature steady at 78 degrees Celsius. It was a decent enough number to write into tomorrow's test report; the bunch of drivers guys in the next project group ought to be satisfied.
"Not bad. The 'Farm Company's' card didn't drop the ball this time, at least." Limeng picked up the coffee mug on his desk, which had gone cold long ago, and gave it a shake—only a ring of dark brown stain remained at the bottom. He gave a self-deprecating pull at the corner of his mouth. Inside the company, calling them the "Farm Company" wasn't meant as a derogatory term; it carried a bit of self-deprecating geek humor and a twisted sort of affection for their own products.
In the corner, the chibi Keqing figure held her sword, her purple eyes shining excessively in the screen's micro-glow, as if silently supervising the quality of his overtime work. His exhausted nerves seemed to be gently smoothed out by that splash of purple—one of the few things that could brighten his mood during long stretches of overtime.
The report data was fully entered. The final thought flashed through his mind: tomorrow, he had to dump this thing right on time onto those urging taskmasters in the next group. His eyelids felt like they were filled with lead, and his consciousness quickly blurred and sank amidst the hum of the graphics card fans and the floating light and shadow of Sumeru City.
Darkness. Viscous darkness.
Then, his consciousness seemed to be pulled by an invisible force, abruptly soaring and detaching. His field of vision suddenly widened, yet became distorted and unreal. He found himself suspended in a chaotic void, a sea of clouds churning with purple-black electric light beneath his feet—cold, violent. An instinct-driven impulse seized him, and his right hand lifted uncontrollably, curling into a loose fist, clumsily mimicking the iconic action he had witnessed countless times in games and replayed endlessly in videos: the Raiden Shogun, the Musou no Hitotachi, drawing the blade!
The very instant his dream intent reached the point of "drawing," what closed into his palm was not a cold hilt, but a scorching, hard object! Looking down, where was there any Plane of Euthymia? It was clearly the CTX9080Ti graphics card he had just tested! At that moment, the metal backplate of the graphics card lit up with lava-like crimson light patterns, the cooling fins glowing like a red-hot iron, emitting a suffocating high heat that distorted the surrounding air.
As if the fragile boundary where dream and reality overlapped were torn apart by this abnormal heat and energy, the instant the graphics card was "ripped" away by this dreamed motion, an indescribable, violent energy exploded at the center of the graphics card with a deafening roar! Space let out an unbearable groan, and his field of vision was completely torn apart and distorted.
Countless bizarre, fractured scenes rushed madly like a breached levee into his rapidly disintegrating perception:
The towering Inazuma Grand Narukami Shrine—its massive crimson torii gate let out a piercing groan, and under the pull of an invisible, immense force, it tilted and collapsed at a speed visible to the naked eye, rubble tumbling down amidst purple lightning; Sumeru Akademiya's magnificent Dome of Knowledge, the ultimate sanctuary symbolizing wisdom, now saw giant, spiderweb-like cracks greedily spreading, emitting a crisp sound like shattering glass, and beneath the dome lay the endless void... Landmarks of the Seven Nations, scenes symbolizing the very foundations of the Teyvat world, shattered and perished one after another before his eyes.
A cold and despairing realization, like a final brand, smashed fiercely into his chaotic consciousness: the entirety of Teyvat was collapsing!
"Ugh—!"
A suppressed groan of pain squeezed out from the depths of his throat. Limeng snapped his eyes open, his heart pounding as if it would shatter his ribs.
Before him was neither the familiar pale ceiling of an office cubicle nor the warm dome light of his home bedroom. Instead, there were low, rough log beams, covered all over with dark mold spots and small wormholes left by time. An unfamiliar scent—never smelled before, mixing dry dirt, a certain bitter herbal medicine, and a faint moldy smell—imperiously drilled into his nasal cavity, irritating his sensitive nerves.
The wooden bed beneath him was hard enough to ache against, and he was covered by a thin, old cotton quilt that likewise gave off an earthy and herbal stench.
Where was this? Did the server room blow up? A fire scene? The thought barely formed before being dismissed. A server room wouldn't have such primitive beams and the smell of dirt. He instinctively wanted to prop his body up, but the moment his arm moved, it felt unusually light. Wrong! He abruptly lowered his head to look at his hands.
These were not his hands!
That pair of hands belonging to a thirty-five-year-old coder in his memory—knuckles slightly enlarged from years of hitting the keyboard, the skin on the back of his hands loose, bearing the pallor of long-term staying up late and a few faint keyboard indentations. Yet what lay spread out before him now was a pair of youthful hands. The skin was firm, knuckles distinct, and the palms covered with a thin layer of calluses, though not the kind worn down by a keyboard; it looked more like... the marks left by long-term handling of some farming tool? His fingers were slender and strong, exuding the vitality belonging to a young man.
Chaotic memory fragments pierced his temples like icicles. Unfamiliar scenes surged in: terrace fields under the scorching sun, heavy ears of rice; muddy earth, a rough wooden-handled hoe in his hand; notebooks densely recording plant growth data under the dim oil lamp; unpretentious, weather-beaten peasant faces, wearing grateful smiles, handing over fresh melons and fruits... and a name echoing repeatedly—Limeng. A young agricultural expert under the Liyue Harbor Department of Agriculture, specializing in the research of disease-resistant and lodging-resistant corn varieties, enjoying a small reputation in the remote mountain areas of Liyue...
Limeng? Is that me?
A fierce wave of dizziness struck, accompanied by intense nausea. Two completely different life trajectories, knowledge systems, and bodily memories collided and tore at each other wildly within his cranial cavity. One was a senior technical support manager at a multinational semiconductor enterprise—logic, code, graphics card performance optimization; the other was a young agricultural expert in Liyue, Teyvat—soil, seeds, pest control. Who am I? A thirty-five-year-old coder? Or a twenty-two-year-old agronomist? A massive, dizzying gulf lay between soul and body.
Amidst the chaos, his hand unconsciously probed into the pocket of the oddly styled, coarse-cloth-sewn robe he wore. His fingertips brushed against a small sack sewn from coarse cloth, inside of which were many hard, smooth little particles that made a faint rustling noise as his fingers brushed them. He instinctively pulled it out.
A palm-sized coarse-cloth bag, its opening tied with a thin straw rope. Untying the knot, aided by the weak morning light filtering through the gaps in the crude wooden window (was it early morning?), he saw clearly what was inside: over twenty corn seeds. The grains were plump, their color a deep and uniform golden-red, like congealed twilight, faintly shimmering with a gentle luster in the dim light. They lay quietly on the coarse cloth, carrying the dusty scent of the earth, yet possessing an indescribable vitality. A name naturally surfaced in his chaotic mind—"Chisui Double-Resistant No. 3." Pest resistant, lodging resistant, massive yield potential... seemingly connected to the distant Natlan volcanic region?
The moment he gazed at these seeds, his deep mind felt as though a giant boulder had been dropped into it! A tsunami-like stream of information erupted without warning! Precise soil pH testing methods, complex nitrogen-phosphorus-potassium ratio formulas, structural diagrams of mechanical irrigation devices never seen before... Countless modern agricultural knowledge fragments belonging to another world, another dimension, carrying a cold, inhuman logic, aggressively washed over his already chaotic consciousness. Excruciating pain! It felt as though countless needles were stirring his brain matter simultaneously. He let out a muffled groan, his vision going black, cold sweat instantly beading on his temples as his grip on the cloth bag tightened fiercely, his knuckles turning white from the force.
What is this again?!
"Cough... *cough cough*..." A fit of heart-wrenching coughing came from next door, interrupting his nearly out-of-control consciousness. That cough sounded old and hollow, as if coughing up the lungs themselves.
Limeng barely suppressed his dizziness and nausea, looking toward the source. This seemed to be a crude temporary infirmary. A few similarly crude wooden plank beds were lined up, the patients lying upon them mostly sallow-faced and with turbid eyes, exuding deep exhaustion. The herbal scent permeating the air grew heavier. An old woman wearing a washed-out, patched coarse-cloth garment shakily carried a bowl of murky, faintly steaming medicinal soup to the bedside of the old man who had just coughed.
"...Spare it, Granny," the old man wheezed, his voice hoarse, "this bit of medicinal dregs is just hanging on to life... save it... for the kids..." His turbid eyes swept over a small bed in the corner, where a thin, frail figure was curled up, far too quiet.
"Nonsense! Drink it!" The old woman's voice carried an unquestionable firmness, though she could not hide the hoarseness and trembling in it, "The people from the relief department said, today... today there might be another batch of newcomers... rations... rations will be tighter..." Her subsequent words trailed off, turning into a heavy sigh.
Rations tight? Limeng's heart sank. He quietly observed his surroundings. The furnishings were primitive to the extreme, the thin quilts covering the patients, the bowl of thin medicinal soup in the old woman's hands, and the lingering, oppressive atmosphere of long-term malnutrition and illness in the air. Everything pointed to a cold fact: here, supplies were extremely scarce. Survival was a Damocles sword hanging over everyone's head.
The Abyss... the barrier unstable... In his chaotic memory fragments, some even more terrifying words seemed to flash past, like the lingering deep night outside, carrying ominous portents, pressing down so hard one could hardly breathe.
Limeng leaned against the cold mud wall, the rough surface pressing against his back. He opened his palm, and the twenty-three golden-red corn seeds lay quietly in his palm, hard, slightly cool, carrying a strange vitality. The modern soul oscillated within the unfamiliar shell, knowledge belonging to the agricultural expert surged in his mind, and those inexplicable modern agricultural knowledge fragments, like a curse or a gift, brought tearing dizziness from time to time.
Survive.
This most primitive, most naked thought, like a spark suddenly igniting in the darkness, instantly overwhelmed all philosophical questioning and chaotic dizziness regarding "Who am I," "Where is this," and "Why."
No matter whose body this was, no matter whether this world was a game or hell. No matter where this knowledge came from.
Survive. With these hands, with this bag of seeds, with everything usable in his brain.
He slowly tightened his fingers, feeling the hard shells of the seeds pressing painfully against his palm. This pain was so real.
Survive.