02:17 AM Zhuzhu jolted awake.
Her breath caught in her throat, as if she had just been pulled up from deep water.
Her chest heaved.
Cold sweat soaked her nightclothes.
Again.
That dream — again.
For seven years now.
Ever since she turned eighteen, this same dream has haunted her.
Sometimes once a week.
Sometimes three nights in a row.
Until she began to fear falling asleep.
The vision is always the same: A dark sky.
Pouring rain.
Muddy ground.
She lies collapsed, her body cold and soaked through with blood.
Before her stands a young woman — long flowing hair, dressed in a crimson hanfu.
Her face is blurred… but those eyes.
Those eyes burn with hatred.
And what terrifies Zhuzhu most of all: In the woman’s hands rests a sword — a sword that pierces straight through her chest.
Zhuzhu wakes with a stifled scream.
She stumbles into the kitchen, her hands trembling as she pours herself a glass of water.
One swallow.
Then another.
But the cold clinging to her bones will not go away.
How many doctors has she visited now?
General practitioners, psychologists, even spiritual healers.
The answer is always the same: “You are under too much stress.
It is only a dream.
Try to forget it.” Forget?
How can you forget a dream in which you watch yourself die… Killed by a girl who lived a thousand years ago?
Zhuzhu gazes out the window.
The world outside is still dark.
Tomorrow she will go to work as usual.
She will smile as usual.
Yet deep inside her mind, the figure in red hanfu has never left.
This dream is no accident.
I know it.
But who is she… and why me?