Hu Long

It was high noon, and the scorching sun hung suspended in the sky.

On the southern outskirts of Huanyang City.

The lake surface shimmered with ripples, surging like molten gold, as tranquil as a frozen landscape painting.

--Chirp!

Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the silence!

High above, a grey bird tucked its wings and dove, fast as an arrow released from a bow, plunging headlong into the lake.

Splash!

Its sharp talons precisely broke the surface, kicking up a fleeting spray of water.

When it beat its wings to soar back into the air, a small, frantically wriggling white fish was clutched in its claws.

The silvery-white scales reflected a blinding, cold light under the intense sun, and the tiny body struggled violently.

It wanted to break free from the grip of the talons and return to the water.

However, that hope was ultimately nothing more than a pipe dream.

The bird's claws, gripping it like cold iron hoops, rendered all its resistance futile and weak.

At the same time.

Without hesitation, the grey bird flapped its wings, creating a dull sound of wind as it carried its prey skyward.

As it rapidly ascended and moved, the tiny shadow cast by the sunlight.

Briefly swept over the only complex of grey-white buildings on the island in the center of the lake below.

On the roof of one of the buildings, several bold red characters were particularly eye-catching.

--Morning Light Psychiatric Rehabilitation Center.

Of course, the locals were more accustomed to calling it Morning Light Psychiatric Hospital.

It sat silently, reflected in the mirror-like center of the lake, its grey-white walls exuding an air of solemnity that felt entirely out of place with the beautiful scenery surrounding it.

At this moment, in one of the inpatient buildings.

Looking from the outside, the metal railings on all the balconies were designed as fine, dense grids, resembling a giant birdcage that trapped the people within.

Patients in hospital gowns wandered about, performing strange movements or standing still and talking to themselves.

Just then.

Inside an isolated ward on the third floor, the air was permeated with the pungent, chemical smell unique to disinfectant.

The midday sun, pale and scorching, pierced through the grid-fencing and glass of a side window, casting fragmented, sharp-edged patches of light onto the white floor.

A gaunt figure stood amidst the interlacing shards of light and shadow.

The blue and white striped hospital gown he wore appeared somewhat oversized.

The "301" printed on his chest was particularly glaring and conspicuous under the light.

The figure was a young man in his twenties, currently sitting on the bed, his face tilted upward, his neck stretched at a stiff, nearly broken angle as he gazed at the sky outside the window.

Beneath his pale skin, the blue-grey veins were clearly visible.

His cheeks were sunken and displayed that deathly white of someone completely drained of vitality, devoid of any sign of life.

The pale flesh clung tightly to his bones, outlining a gaunt, skeletal frame.

The entire person looked just like a desiccated corpse drained of its spirit.

Only the slight, intermittent rise and fall of his chest proved that he still maintained the vital signs of life.

At this moment.

His gaze, deep within sunken sockets, was hollow, staring blankly through the glass at the vast, boundless expanse of blue water and sky, lost in thought.

As time passed, no one knew how long it had been.

Deep within the young man's somewhat hollow, bewildered eyes, something seemed to be quietly stirred, bit by bit, like mist dispersed by the wind, slowly settling and condensing until it finally transformed into a glimmer of clarity.

Then, the young man slowly turned his neck, his gaze sweeping across the room inch by inch.

The room was very empty.

Apart from the low iron bed he sat on, there was nothing else.

The walls, the corners of the bed, and the ceiling—all edges were wrapped in thick, soft material, erasing any potentially sharp corners.

Finally, his gaze rested on a corner of the ceiling.

A hemispherical surveillance camera was embedded there, pointed directly at him, its dark red light blinking rhythmically.

Seeing this, the young man withdrew his gaze without a change in expression and let his head drop, his eyes falling upon the grey-washed hospital gown he wore.

The movement brought the rough sensation of the fabric rubbing against his skin—it felt very real.

Seeing this scene, his chapped lips twitched slightly before he clamped them shut.

"How... could such a thing happen?"

Hu Long was not the original owner of this body.

He was a soul from another world who, for reasons unknown, had quietly taken over this vessel not long ago.

This situation was not unfamiliar to him, having seen it in the movies and novels he used to consume.

It had a more widely known name:

Transmigration.

Transmigration is generally divided into two types: physical transmigration and soul transmigration.

Physical transmigration is when one's flesh and blood crosses over, landing in another world exactly as one is.

Soul transmigration, however, usually involves a soul crossing boundaries to inhabit a different human skin.

Thinking of this, he raised his hand and held it before his eyes.

What met his gaze was a ghastly pale palm; under the sunlight, thin skin clung tightly to the bones, with veins faintly visible beneath, like a pale specimen draped in human skin.

This was not his own body, which had been riddled with tubes.

He had transmigrated, entering this completely unfamiliar shell; clearly, he belonged to the soul transmigration category.

If an ordinary person were to encounter such a turn of events, they would likely have already fallen into panic and bewilderment.

Just leaving one's hometown to work in another city is enough to cause anxiety, let alone completely changing worlds and bodies.

But Hu Long was different.

There was not a shred of confusion or fear in his eyes; instead, they seeped with a trace of indescribable... ecstasy.

Of course, this was not because he had superior mental fortitude or was unburdened by attachments.

The reason for this was simply that in his past life, he had become a vegetable due to an accident.

Ten whole years.

His consciousness was clear, yet he could only lie in a hospital bed, unable to even lift his eyelids.

His sense of hearing was the only channel connecting him to the outside world, but in a sense, it had also become an eternal cage that imprisoned him.

He couldn't even end his own life; that kind of despair soaked his soul day and night like ice water.

And now...

He gently curled his fingers.

His withered joints emitted a faint, crisp sound.

This body was alive.

He could move, he could breathe, he could touch his surroundings.

Even if this body was incredibly weak, even if there were some hidden dangers.

But to Hu Long, this was already an extremely fortunate thing.

Thinking of this, a faint arc appeared at the corners of his mouth.

It was like someone who had stayed in the darkness for too long finally touching a glimmer of light.

He closed his eyes slightly, feeling the warmth of the sunlight from outside the window shining upon him.

This was a sensation he hadn't experienced in far too long.

At the same time, fragmented memories of this body surfaced in his mind.

The original owner shared his name.

That wasn't the point; the point was that the original owner was mentally ill—no, to be more precise, he suffered from persecutory delusions.

This belonged to a type of delusional disorder.

According to the severity, it could be divided into three levels.

Mild: Minimal impact on daily life, perhaps only manifesting as vigilance or avoiding specific situations.

Moderate: Suspecting others will harm oneself, cutting off all social interaction, frequently calling the police or filing complaints.

Severe: Dangerous behaviors emerge, such as potentially attacking others or engaging in suicide or self-harm; such individuals cannot maintain a normal life and require emergency intervention.

The original owner was a severe case of persecutory delusions and could not take care of himself at all.

He had attempted suicide no fewer than ten times.

His arms and neck were covered in many healed scars.

Even here, undergoing drug intervention and treatment, there had been no improvement; instead, his mental state had only grown more severe.

That was why they had locked him in here, keeping him under twenty-four-hour surveillance to prevent any untoward incidents.

Of course, this was how the outside world perceived the original owner.

Having inherited the original owner's memories, Hu Long knew that things were not as they seemed.

The original owner was perfectly normal and suffered from no mental illness; the reason he had ended up like this was due to other factors.

At this thought.

Hu Long opened his eyes.

His gaze drifted slowly around the ward, finally coming to rest on the explosion-proof glass window to one side.