At last, the day he had long awaited arrived—the day the dimensional gate would open once more.
Lang Lin was in unusually good spirits. With water and electricity now restored to the house, life had become so much easier. He could finally sleep soundly through the night, without the trouble of kindling fires to cook his meals. Rested and refreshed, he felt lighter, more energetic, and eager for the mysterious journey ahead.
Before him, the dimensional gate shimmered into existence.
It yawned open like a silent invitation, beckoning him to step into a wondrous and unknown land.
Meanwhile, the little rabbit had retreated to a corner, refusing to go near. Its ears twitched, its round eyes wary. To the rabbit, the gate radiated something sinister, a dark aura it wanted nothing to do with.
"Well then… I wonder where I'll end up today."
As always, Lang Lin reached for the rusty kitchen knife. It was small, dull, and unimpressive, yet it remained the only weapon he could rely on. Even such a meager blade could take a life if struck with force. That thought alone gave him a sliver of courage.
He tightened his grip on the handle and stepped forward.
And then he vanished into the portal.
Another Dimension
Star Tower.
A colossal building piercing the heavens, rising fifty thousand meters into the sky. It was the tallest structure in this city of millions—a dazzling metropolis, home to wealth, splendor, and the leisure of the highborn.
On the twentieth floor of the Star Tower was a vast library filled with books of every kind. Ancient tomes, rare volumes, stories long forgotten—everything had a place here.
In the section dedicated to novels, a young woman stood reading, her delicate face framed by a gentle smile. The book in her hands bore the title Throne of Blood.
It was not her first time with this story. She had read it countless times before, yet it never grew dull. Every reread felt as if the tale had changed, as though the novel itself carried some secret enchantment.
Her smile wavered, and tears welled in her eyes. Droplets slipped down her cheeks, but they could not diminish her beauty.
She had reached the scene where the Emperor's concubine was flogged for her secret affair with the Ninth Prince. By any measure, the concubine was a wicked woman—but the young lady found herself weeping for her nonetheless. Perhaps because she adored the villainess, or perhaps because the Emperor, despite catching her betrayal, could not bring himself to kill her. Love had clouded his judgment, dragging the tale into chaos.
"Are you all right?"
A voice startled her, and she hurriedly wiped her tears away. Turning, she found herself looking at a young man with one crippled leg.
He was disabled? Yet her eyes held no scorn, no contempt. Even his cheap clothes did not draw mockery from her gaze. Instead, she looked at him with quiet calm—proof that she judged not by appearances.
The man before her was none other than Lang Lin.
Moments earlier, he had stepped out of the dimensional gate. Luckily, the place he arrived at was empty; otherwise, someone might have seen the impossible portal appear.
What greeted him here had stunned him: a world vastly more advanced than his own. Outside the great windows, the skies swarmed with flying vehicles, sleek crafts propelled not by wheels but by glowing thrusters. The city glittered with extravagance, a futuristic splendor far beyond Earth's capabilities. By Lang Lin's reckoning, his own world would need at least a hundred years to catch up to such civilization.
The people here were dressed in lavish, fanciful attire—garments reminiscent of masquerades and aristocratic banquets. Yet this was no special occasion. Such extravagant clothing seemed to be the norm.
And so, clad in his plain, shabby clothes, Lang Lin looked like a clown among nobles. Limping awkwardly, he slipped away to the library's novel section… where he encountered the young woman.
"My apologies," Lang Lin said with a polite bow. "I didn't mean to disturb your reading."
To his relief, she seemed to understand his words. She could speak Chinese. That alone lifted his heart, making him feel less like a stranger in this foreign world.
"It's all right," she replied with a smile. "I've read this book many times already. But no matter how often I read it, I always end up caught in its spell. It's like magic—the story pulls me into the emotions of the characters every single time."
Her voice was warm, and her smile sincere. She wasn't angry in the least.
Lang Lin nodded. "If it can move you so deeply, then the author must be extraordinary. To create characters that feel alive… that's no simple feat."
Though poor, Lang Lin had once loved reading. Back in school, he had spent hours in the library, poring over tattered novels long forgotten. The joy of those stories had stayed with him, etched into his memory like treasures of the heart.
"He is extraordinary," she said, her eyes gleaming with admiration. "He's been writing for ten years now. That may not sound like long, but in that time he's built a towering reputation. His works are reprinted countless times, adapted into hit films and dramas, and beloved everywhere."
She hugged the book to her chest, her face radiant with joy—as though she were praising a god she worshiped.
"And what is his name?" Lang Lin asked, a peculiar thought flickering through his mind.
This wasn't his world. No one in his world would know this author. If he were to bring these works back to Earth and claim them as his own… wouldn't he become famous overnight?
No one could ever trace them. After all, they were written in another dimension.
"Qing Wei," she answered softly. "His name is Qing Wei. He has five works in total, and every single one is a masterpiece. For example…" She held up the book in her hands. "This is Throne of Blood. It was his debut novel—and still my favorite. Only three volumes long, concise yet brimming with tension. Once you start, you simply can't put it down."
Her admiration was obvious. With a bright smile, she offered the book to him.
Lang Lin accepted it. The cover gleamed crimson like fresh blood, the spine embossed with golden letters. It was a striking piece, elegant enough to be a collector's item. Flipping through the pages, he found it written in Chinese—words he could read without issue.
The synopsis read:
A heartless Emperor. A tyrant whose soul had been frozen by betrayal. Once, he had loved a concubine of unparalleled beauty, granting her every wish. But when he discovered her affair with his younger brother, the Ninth Prince, his love turned to ice. From then on, he was merciless. Yet the tale begins not with her, but with a common palace maid—plain of face, unremarkable in every way—whose life becomes entangled with the cold-hearted Emperor.
On the surface, it sounded like an ordinary palace drama: the struggles of a humble maid against the cruelty of the Emperor, and her battle to win his heart. Nothing unusual. The title even seemed ill-suited to the story.
But the ending—tragic and heavy—was what gave it the name Throne of Blood.
It was the kind of novel targeted at women. Predictable tropes, familiar plots—but always popular. Such stories never lost their market. Women devoured them eagerly, ensuring their place among bestsellers.
"How interesting," Lang Lin murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "I've been looking for something good to read. Perhaps you could recommend me a few more?"
In truth, he had no intention of wasting time reading here. His plan was simple: gather information, steal the stories, and bring them back to Earth. Morally wrong? Perhaps. But no one could ever accuse him—not when the works came from another world entirely.
Her face lit up. "Of course. I thought you might like them." She led him to a nearby shelf where rows of bestsellers were displayed—reprinted editions, award-winning works, beloved by countless readers.
And among them, every single one of Qing Wei's novels.
To Lang Lin, the sight was dazzling. His heart raced. This… this is a treasure trove. If I take these back, I'll be rich beyond measure!
He almost burst out laughing, but he bit it back, keeping his thoughts to himself.