Dr. Qin Shan was no stranger to pressure. At just twenty-five, he had already earned a reputation as one of the country’s finest cardiologists, celebrated for his steady hands and unshakable composure in high-stakes surgeries. To his peers, he was a prodigy, a rising star whose skill in the operating room seemed almost superhuman. But today, an unfamiliar unease settled in his chest—a gnawing intuition that he couldn’t quite explain.

  The sterile white of the operating room surrounded him, the hum of machines a familiar symphony. Under the intense surgical lights lay his patient, a five-year-old girl named Lian. Her tiny chest was opened to expose her fragile heart, a defect in its delicate structure threatening her life. Qin Shan’s gloved hands moved with practiced precision as his team worked in silence, the air thick with focus.

  “Scalpel,” he said calmly.

  The nurse handed him the instrument, her movements quick and efficient. The team was used to working with him, trusting in his unerring judgment. Qin barely noticed the beads of sweat forming on his brow; his attention was wholly fixed on Lian’s heart, every stitch, every incision, a matter of life and death.

  But then, it began.

  At first, it was subtle—a faint tremor underfoot that caused the instruments on the tray to rattle ever so slightly. Qin dismissed it as his imagination. After all, they were in a hospital, a fortress of stability. Yet, the tremor grew stronger, the vibrations escalating until the entire room seemed to sway. A tremor became a quake, and then a violent roar.

  “Earthquake!” someone shouted, panic cutting through the steady rhythm of the operating room.

  The words hit Qin like a jolt of electricity. His heart pounded as the walls groaned, cracks spreading across the ceiling with an ominous crunch. The overhead lights flickered wildly, casting long, eerie shadows across the room. Alarms blared throughout the hospital, a cacophony of warnings as the quake shook the very foundation of the building.

  “Protect the patient!” Qin barked, his voice rising above the chaos. “Hold the monitors steady—don’t let anything touch her!”

  The staff scrambled to comply, though their movements were erratic, their fear palpable. Qin gritted his teeth, struggling to keep his focus on the surgery. Lian’s heart lay exposed, her survival balanced on a knife’s edge. He couldn’t abandon her—not now, not when she needed him most.

  But fate had other plans.

  With a deafening crack, the ceiling above them buckled. Qin looked up just in time to see a massive beam break loose. It plummeted downward, striking him across the shoulders. Pain exploded through his body, and the world tilted as he fell, his vision darkening. The last thing he heard was the panicked cries of his team before silence claimed him.

  When Qin awoke, his first thought was that he had survived. The ache in his body was sharp and unrelenting, his head pounding with a dull, rhythmic throb. Slowly, he opened his eyes, expecting to see the familiar white of a hospital ceiling or the concerned faces of his colleagues. Instead, he was met with something entirely different.

  Low wooden beams crisscrossed above him, their surface aged and darkened with time. Intricate carvings adorned the ceiling, dragons and clouds spiraling in graceful arcs. The light in the room was dim, filtered through heavy silk curtains that fluttered softly in a breeze he couldn’t feel.

  What the…? Qin’s mind raced, struggling to process what he was seeing. This wasn’t the hospital. This wasn’t anywhere he recognized. Panic surged through him as he tried to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. A sharp, unfamiliar ache radiated through his chest, forcing him to stay still.

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  A sound broke the silence—a soft, mournful wail.

  “Young master… young master, you’re awake!”

  The voice came from beside him. Turning his head with great effort, Qin saw a young man kneeling at his bedside. The man was dressed in flowing robes of muted blue, his hair neatly tied back in the style of ancient Chinese dramas. His face was sharp and angular, tears streaming freely as he clasped Qin’s hand with trembling fingers.

  “Young master, you’ve returned to us!” the man cried, his voice choked with emotion. “The heavens have answered our prayers.”

  Young master? Qin’s heart raced, confusion swirling in his mind. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his voice barely a rasp. “Where… am I?”

  The man’s face crumpled with worry. “Young master, you’re in the Li manor. This is your chamber. Do you not recognize it?” His voice dropped, thick with concern. “Has the accident affected your memory?”

  Li Manor? Qin repeated the words in his mind, but they meant nothing to him. His last memory was the earthquake, the operating room, the ceiling collapsing—and then… nothing. A deep sense of dread crept over him as he realized the impossibility of his situation. This couldn’t be real.

  “I… I don’t understand,” Qin croaked. “Who… are you?”

  The man’s eyes widened in shock. “Young master, it’s me—Lu Ying, your servant. Don’t you recognize me?” His voice trembled with disbelief. “You’ve been unconscious for days after the accident. We thought we’d lost you.”

  Qin opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, the door to the chamber burst open. A large man stormed in, his footsteps shaking the floor. He was rotund, with a ruddy complexion and a beard that jutted out like a lion’s mane. His lavish robes shimmered with embroidery, the intricate patterns catching the golden light.

  “Yun’er!” the man bellowed, his voice booming with equal parts relief and anguish. “My son!”

  Before Qin could react, the man rushed to his side and pulled him into a crushing embrace. The sheer force of it knocked the breath out of him, and he struggled weakly against the man’s iron grip.

  “Who… are you?” Qin gasped, his voice muffled against the man’s chest.

  The man froze, his arms loosening slightly as he pulled back to look at Qin. His face was a mask of stunned disbelief. “Who am I? I’m your father, Li Jinglong! Have you forgotten your own father?”

  Father? Qin stared at the man, his heart pounding. This was insane. None of this made sense. He wasn’t “Li Ruyun” or whoever they thought he was. He was Dr. Qin Shan, a cardiologist from the modern world. Yet the weight of the man’s hands on his shoulders, the warmth of his breath—it all felt so real.

  “I… I don’t…” Qin stammered, his thoughts a jumbled mess.

  Lu Ying stepped forward, his expression full of concern. “Old Master, perhaps the young master is disoriented. The accident—it must have affected his memory.”

  Li Jinglong’s face darkened, his brows furrowing deeply. “Disoriented? Memory loss? My son…” His voice wavered, a mix of anger and sorrow. “You fell into the river, Yun’er. You were playing by the cliffs, despite being warned to stay away. You slipped and hit your head. We searched for hours before we found you.”

  Qin’s mind reeled. None of this was familiar. The story, the faces, the setting—it all felt like a surreal dream. But as he looked into the man’s tearful eyes, a chilling realization began to settle over him. This wasn’t a dream. Somehow, impossibly, he was here, in this body, in this world.

  “Young master,” Lu Ying said softly, his voice trembling with hope, “do you remember anything? Anything at all?”

  Qin closed his eyes, trying to steady his racing thoughts. He couldn’t tell them the truth—they’d think he was mad. But he needed time to figure out what was happening, to understand how he had come to be in this strange place.

  “I… I don’t remember much,” he said finally, his voice hoarse. “Everything is hazy.”

  Li Jinglong’s face softened, a flicker of hope lighting his eyes. “It’s all right, my boy. You’re alive, and that’s what matters.” He clasped Qin’s hand tightly. “Rest now. We’ll help you remember.”

  As the two men left the room, their voices fading into the distance, Qin lay back against the pillows, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear. His chest tightened as he stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. Somehow, he had been thrust into a world that wasn’t his own, into a life that wasn’t his.