“Dong—dong—dong—”
The distant chimes struck his eardrums repeatedly, and Zhang Chaohua woke up from a bizarre nightmare, drenched in sweat.
He instinctively called out, “Xiao Ai, turn on the light!”
The room remained dark, with no response.
“Useless thing, is the internet down again?”
Zhang Chaohua turned over to grope for his glasses on the nightstand, but found nothing.
Only then did he realize that he seemed to be able to vaguely see his surroundings without the aid of glasses.
This was an unfamiliar bed, and an unfamiliar room.
Judging by the irregular shape of the ceiling and the circular skylight, it appeared to be an attic.
At this moment, faint morning light was streaming into the room from the skylight, barely illuminating a desk opposite the bed.
On the desk, a quill pen was stuck in an inkwell, its pristine white color particularly striking; Zhang Chaohua could even see the delicate downy feathers trembling slightly in the air—
Memories belonging to Lionel Sorel suddenly flooded in, engulfing his mind like a tide.
Before losing consciousness, Zhang Chaohua had only one thought: “No longer nearsighted? That’s great…”