Chapter 1: A Lonely Shadow on the Island
At the dead end of a street, in a secluded corner, stood a quiet two-story wooden house.
The exterior of the wooden house was thoroughly shabby and weather-beaten. The wooden planks on the walls had long since lost their original color, turning grey and aged, bearing deep and shallow mottled traces as if weathered by countless storms.
Creak, creak—the sound of a squeaking bedboard echoed on the second floor.
"This ceiling... something's not quite right."
Yang Tian opened his eyes, stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, and abruptly sat up.
He remembered arriving at the company early that morning, turning on his computer, and feeling so overwhelmingly sleepy that he had slumped over and fallen asleep.
"Damn it, no way, my head hurts. Am I sprouting a brain or something?" After a wave of sharp pain struck, he lay back down.
Inhaling a sharp breath of cold air, he reached out to massage his temples, opened his eyes, and stared blankly at the ceiling.
The ceiling was made of wood, yellowish-black, looking dim and dreary, with a few spiderwebs hanging in the corners.
"Doglat Solon, 10 years old, from the East Blue. His father was in the Navy, killed in action fighting pirates years ago, and his mother followed him just seven days ago due to overwhelming grief. Until just now, this poor kid suddenly drank poison..."
A string of unfamiliar memories surfaced in Yang Tian's mind.
"You've got to be kidding me, this dream feels way too real."
Yang Tian recalled the memories that had suddenly flooded into his mind, feeling as though he had merely had a dream.
"This is killing me. Looks like I won't dare pull ten days of continuous overtime again, let alone stick around to entertain clients for the boss. After all, work belongs to everyone, but your body belongs to yourself."
Yang Tian reflected on how he had worked ten days of overtime right up until yesterday, only to be dragged off to entertain the boss's clients, where he had forcefully downed two bottles of clear liquor and god knows how many beers.
Yet, upon second thought, having been a corporate workhorse for three years with a salary barely clearing 3,000, if he didn't show some hustle, what else could he do?
"Rough times." Giving a bitter smile, he tremblingly sat up and looked around.
The walls were nailed together from wooden planks without any decoration; in some places, the planks looked loose, letting faint rays of white light filter through the gaps.
Filled with doubt, he got out of bed and slowly walked over to the door, which had a mirror hanging on it.
"Crap, you've got to be kidding me. Did I really cross over?"
Yang Tian looked at the unfamiliar, youthful face in the mirror, his eyes filled with astonishment.
He reached out to wave in front of the mirror, pinched his own cheeks, opened his mouth, widened his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and whistled—until, *slap*, he violently smacked himself across the face.
"Hiss."
Yang Tian looked at his frowning self in the mirror, his left cheek slowly turning red, along with the pain transmitted back to his brain. All of these clearly told him that everything was real.
"No way, you've got to be kidding. I literally just finished my project! Seeing as I was about to get a promotion, a raise, and a bonus next month, I cross over right now? Out of nowhere? Couldn't you have done this ten days ago..."
"Looks like the me in that world probably kicked the bucket too. But fortunately, since it happened at the company, it counts as a work-related injury, so there should be a hefty compensation payout—enough to support my parents in their old age. I just hope they won't be too heartbroken..."
"According to my memories, this kid Doglat Solon died from drinking poison. Since I just crossed over into his body, won't I kick the bucket immediately too? Oh crap."
At this thought, Yang Tian immediately crouched down and shoved his fingers down his throat. After a fit of dry heaving, aside from saliva, there was nothing.
After another round of checks and prodding, Yang Tian carefully sensed his current body. Aside from his head still feeling a bit swollen, there was no discomfort anywhere else.
On the contrary, it felt vastly superior to his previous body.
He clenched his fists and was surprised to feel that the strength of a ten-year-old child was actually greater than the physical strength of his twenty-eight-year-old body.
Even though he used to work from 6 AM to 9 PM, six days a week, he would still occasionally go to the gym just to fool himself.
"1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6... 47, 48, 49, 50."
He did fifty push-ups in one breath before a familiar soreness naturally arose.
"Damn it, it really is great to be young. Not a single workhorse chronic illness, and this body is ridiculously tough." Yang Tian stood up, looked at his clenched fists, and sighed with emotion.
As for why he had clearly drunk poison in his memories yet was completely fine now, Yang Tian couldn't figure it out and decided not to dwell on it anymore.
His mind was currently a mess, half-joyful and half-worried, with all sorts of thoughts rushing into his head.
He turned and slowly walked to the bed. The bedding on the board looked like it hadn't been washed in ages and emitted a faint, indefinable odor. Yang Tian reached out, threw it onto the floor, and lay down on the bed.
The stiff wooden board didn't cause him any discomfort. He glanced at the ceiling and closed his eyes.
In his mind, a story centered around Solon's perspective slowly unfolded...
His early memories were rather vague and no longer clear.
He only distinctly remembered that one day, several people wearing white robes and hats had visited his mother, after which his mother had cried for a long time.
Ever since then, Solon never saw his mother smile again.
"I hate people who wear hats and white robes."
It also seemed to be after those people visited that his father never came home again.
He remembered that before, every time his dad came home, he would bring Solon delicious treats.
Lollipops, little bear biscuits, cheese cake, and his absolute favorite, milk pudding.
Solon's favorite thing was to sit on his dad's shoulders just as the sun was setting, and gallop all the way home from the Ziluoflower fields behind the mountain.
Every time, he would spread his arms wide, feeling as though he had caught the wind and was flying.
After that, whenever Solon asked his mother, "Where did Dad go? When is he coming home?"
His mother would always knit her brows, her eyes dimming, and choke out: "Your father went to a very far place, and it will be a long time before he comes back!"
Later on, whenever he missed his dad, Solon would go to the stone pillars at the shore's pier and look out at the sea.
Always imagining that perhaps the very next moment, the ship carrying his father would appear.
One year, two years, three years—the trips to the stone pillars at the pier grew fewer, and his father's figure blurred in his memory.
Solon knew that Dad was never coming back.
"Liars! I hate Dad."
Later, his mother fell ill. She lay in bed, as thin as a stalk of a Ziluoflower—slender and fragile.
Grandpa Roger, the village chief, brought over a doctor, a man in a white lab coat.
Grandpa Roger said to Solon, "Little Solon, only a doctor can treat your mother so she can get better."
Solon watched the doctor walk into the house, sit by the bedside, and after merely looking at his mother for a moment, stand up and walk out.
The doctor sighed, shook his head at the village chief, muttered, "I'm sorry, I couldn't save her," and left.
"I hate people in white lab coats."
On the bed, his mother softly called Solon's name.
Walking to the bedside, Solon grasped his mother's withered hand.
His mother slowly raised her head to look at him. In her sunken eye sockets, a pair of turbid eyes were now brimming with tears.
Pain, attachment, guilt, helplessness, relief—endless sorrow permeated her gaze.
"I'm sorry, Solon. Mommy is going to find Daddy. Mommy is too tired. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
His mother murmured, slowly closing her eyes.
Tears slipped down, leaving shallow tracks behind.
She smiled.