“Dong—dong—dong—”
The distant bell sounds continuously struck his eardrums, and Zhang Chaohua woke up from a bizarre nightmare, drenched in sweat.
He instinctively called out, “Xiao Ai, turn on the light!”
The room remained as dark as ever, with no response.
“Damn thing, is the internet down again?”
Zhang Chaohua rolled over to feel for his glasses on the nightstand, but his hand met only air.
Only then did he realize he seemed not to need his glasses to vaguely make out his surroundings.
This was an unfamiliar bed, and an unfamiliar room.
Judging from the irregular ceiling shape and the round skylight, it must be an attic room.
Faint morning light was now spilling into the room from the skylight, barely allowing him to make out a desk placed opposite the bed.
On the desk, a quill pen was stuck in an ink bottle, its pure white color particularly eye-catching.
Zhang Chaohua could even see the delicate downy feathers gently trembling in the air—
Memories of a person named Lionel Sorel suddenly surged forth, overwhelming his mind like a tide.
Before Zhang Chaohua fainted, only one thought remained: “Not nearsighted anymore?
That’s great…”
(End of Chapter)