Li Wei's last conscious thought on Earth was not one of profound regret or unfulfilled dreams. It was a string of expletives aimed at the driver of the absurdly large, anime-style truck that had just vaulted him through the air like a ragdoll.
"Seriously? A freaking isekai truck? Couldn't I have just won the lottery?"
The darkness that swallowed him was warm and surprisingly brief. There was no pearly gate, no river Styx—just a dizzying, nauseating sensation of being stuffed through a keyhole. Then, sound rushed in. A cacophony of frantic whispers, choked sobs, and the rustle of heavy silk.
He forced his eyes open. The ceiling above him was not the familiar, cracked plaster of his studio apartment but a magnificent panel of intricate wooden beams, painted in vermillion and gold, depicting coiling dragons. The air smelled of sandalwood and a faint, cloying medicinal scent.
"Your Majesty! The Heavens be praised! You've awakened!" a reedy voice cried out.
Li Wei turned his head, a painful throb echoing in his skull. A man with a wispy beard and wearing elaborate robes was kowtowing by his bedside. Around him, a dozen or so similarly dressed men and women in gorgeous silks prostrated themselves, their foreheads touching the polished floor.
Your Majesty?
A flood of memories, not his own, crashed into his mind. Zhu Haolang, the sixteenth emperor of the Ming Dynasty. A young man who had ascended the throne a year ago and whose primary interests were in his vast collection of ceramics, the composition of poetry, and avoiding state affairs like the plague. He'd apparently taken a nasty fall from his palanquin while being carried to yet another banquet.
He, Li Wei, a 30-year-old underpaid agricultural data analyst with a passion for lazy Sundays and historical web novels, was now Emperor Zhu Haolang. And from the feel of the silk sheets and the sheer number of people bowing, he was an incredibly wealthy one.
A slow grin spread across his new face. Maybe Truck-kun had done him a solid after all.