"I'm ruined… all ruined… or going to be ruined again."
The whisper escaped him like a curse, shaky and hoarse, as if his soul had barely clawed its way back into his body.
His gaze locked onto a cracked mirror hanging askew on a splintered beam. The face that stared back at him was striking in the most unsettling way—golden eyes, unnervingly sharp, but hollow, stripped of any warmth. Not bad-looking, no. Just... haunting. The kind of beauty that made people uncomfortable. That lingered.
Olive green hair clung damply to his neck and jaw, tangled and slightly crusted in places. Bits of it curled like vines behind his ears. The strands glistened with sweat and clung stubbornly, framing a pale face drawn tight with fever.
And the scent.
The bitter-sweet stench of old wine clung to his hair more than to the sea of empty bottles scattered across the floor like corpses. A wave of revulsion slammed into his gut.
"That guy… seems dirty too," he muttered under his breath, narrowing his golden eyes at the reflection. Not just filthy. Drenched in someone else's life.
And what a mess it was.
His bare chest, collar, arms—even his lips—were marked, smeared, and bruised. Lipstick stains bled across his skin in faded red and bright fuchsia, layered like some broken mosaic. Love bites and swollen nibbles dotted him carelessly, like someone had claimed him over and over without ever looking at his face.
"Egh! Disgusting! Yuck!" He gagged into his hand. "Oh—someone kill me again, please!"
Slapping a hand over his mouth, he rubbed furiously at his lips with the back of his sleeve. The silk was soft, but everything about it felt used. Like it had clung to too many people too many nights.
His robe—thin, loose, sky-blue with white and silver embroidery along the sleeves—was open too far at the chest. The hem dragged, rumpled and stained in places he didn't want to examine. It smelled faintly of incense and perfumed skin.
"What's this guy's name, anyway?" he asked no one, heart pounding in annoyance. "At least give me a name so I can curse him properly… Where even am I? What year is this?!"
His feet slid on the polished floor as he staggered toward a long, cluttered table. Scrolls lay open and half-read across the surface, covered in thick, spidery ink. A golden ink pot had tipped, staining a poetry book like spilled blood.
As he reached out, the heavy cane in his hand—black wood inlaid with jade—nearly slipped with a clatter. He cursed under his breath and caught it just in time, heart jumping into his throat.
The floor swayed beneath him. He scrambled forward, slamming a palm down on the tabletop for balance. The sharp edge dug into his skin, but he spread his fingers wide and held on like a man about to fall into a storm.
"I feel like a toddler," he hissed through gritted teeth.
His legs throbbed, still burning with deep, gnawing pain that hadn't faded since waking. Muscles weak. Bones too heavy. The heat in his body wasn't just from the fever—there was something wrong. Something still damaged from… before.
His breathing grew fast. Shallow. Panicked.
And then—
Voices.
Muffled, but clear. They filtered through the rice paper door, accompanied by two shadows—one large and tense, the other tall and composed.
The first voice barked, gruff and furious.
"When the hell is he going to wake up and give me back my money?! He's been asleep for two damn months already! Does he think silver grows on plum trees?!"
He froze.
Somehow, instinctively, he knew the angry voice wasn't talking about a stranger. It was talking about him. Or... the him he now was.
The second voice replied smoothly, respectful and quiet.
"I understand, Master Jin. But our young master is still quite ill. His condition worsened. The physicians suspect fever and melancholia—he won't be able to see anyone for a few more days."
The angry man huffed. His sleeve snapped as he turned sharply.
"If he's bluffing, I'll kill him like a dog next month."
He stomped away with loud, deliberate steps.
The second man bowed again. "Thank you for your understanding."
Inside, the boy let out a sharp, uneven breath. His hand trembled as he leaned on the table. The room spun again.
He looked around, this time with new eyes.
The walls were paneled in faded dark wood, carved with designs of bamboo and phoenix feathers, but cracked in places. One screen had been punched through—likely by someone drunk. A teacup lay shattered by the leg of a tattered chaise. Everything looked expensive once, but abandoned. Like its master had given up pretending to be noble.
The air was stifling. Thick with incense and dust and secrets.
He touched his temple and grimaced at the heat still radiating off his skin. His fingers trembled.
"So this guy… this body… he owes money. He's got fever. He's… whatever this is—" He motioned vaguely at the mess of bites and stains on his skin. "Is this even a sickroom or a brothel?"
He pushed his hair back again, sighing, voice flat with disgust.
"And if I can't even find out his name… then how will I ever find mine?"
Something glimmered at the corner of his eye.
A scroll, partially hidden beneath the inked papers. The edge curled and yellowed, but the top bore a faded seal.
He picked it up, hands still unsteady. The wax cracked.
A date was scrawled across the bottom in elegant brush strokes.
His eyes locked on the characters. His throat closed up.
He stood completely still.
Then: A sharp gasp. His hands flew to his mouth, and he backed away, eyes wide and wild.
"No… No no no. This can't be. FIVE HUNDRED YEARS?! It's been five hundred years since I—?"
His knees hit the edge of the table.
He stumbled. A golden model ship crashed to the ground, spinning once before landing in a clatter. Scrolls rained down with a loud hiss of parchment, several landing in his lap.
He collapsed backward, robes twisted beneath him. His left sleeve tore slightly. His chest heaved.
Too loud.
He jerked his head up to the rice-paper window—eyes wide, terrified. The silhouette beyond had frozen at the sound.
No. Not now. Not like this.
Not when he didn't know the rules.
Not when he didn't even know his own name.
He bit his lip hard, trembling, heart racing as the shadow moved.
Then: A soft knock.
And a voice.
Gentle. Low.
"Childe Qi Lanhua? Are you alright?"
His breath hitched.
He couldn't speak. Couldn't run. Couldn't lie.
Not without knowing who he was pretending to be.
The only thing separating him from the world outside was a thin sheet of paper— and a name that didn't even belong to him.