Am I... dead?
Zheng Fan believed he should have been.
However, dampness, warmth, a long-lost heat, was slowly coursing through his body.
At first, the sensation was faint, slight, hard to capture. But gradually, the sensory stimulation became clearer.
Is this the feeling of being dead? It seems it's not as hard to bear as I imagined. It's even... somewhat comfortable.
The neural input felt like a dried-up canal into which life-giving water was being reintroduced. It was a gradual process: from moistening the cracked earth, to dampening it, and finally to retaining water.
As all this unfolded, Zheng Fan's perception of the outside world became more and more sensitive.
He could feel his hands, his feet, and the warm liquid dripping onto his chest.
A strange thought began to surface in his consciousness.
Zheng Fan started to doubt.
Did I... really die?
No one knew what happened after death. Even though his former colleagues at the studio had created many horror stories about ghosts, these were, after all, just conjecture. Ultimately, the dead couldn't write a few hundred words of their experiences and send them back, like elementary school students submitting a report.
Zheng Fan started to try to do something. The first thing he tried was to open his eyes.
At that moment, he felt as if he were trying to move a mountain. On one hand, the sensations in every part of his body were rapidly recovering; on the other, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't open his eyes.
It was like being trapped in sleep paralysis; he wanted to resist, but all he could manage was a futile struggle.
"CLANG!"
A sound came, followed by a splash of hot liquid on his face.
Under this stimulus, Zheng Fan finally opened his eyes.
His vision was blurry at first; he could perceive some light but couldn't form an image.
Then, a shadow loomed over him, continuously wiping his face and repeatedly blocking his vision.
Like someone who had just woken up washing their face with a hot towel, it indeed brought a period of mental clarity and refreshment.
Zheng Fan's vision started to clear.
First, he saw a face—the face of a girl about fourteen or fifteen years old.
The girl wore a simple long dress. One hand held a brass washbasin, the other a towel, and she was looking at him nervously.
So, was I just woken up by this girl accidentally splashing a basin of hot water on me? And the warm, comfortable feeling I experienced earlier... was that her wiping my body?
The girl looked terrified. She had carelessly splashed hot water on a nobleman, a nobleman whom her mother had repeatedly urged her to take good care of.
For the past six months, her job had been to serve him. Even though he had been unconscious the entire time, she hadn't dared to slack off in the slightest. The most obvious proof was that the man had been bedridden for half a year, yet not a single bedsore could be found on his body.
Only those who have actually cared for bedridden patients would understand how much effort it took to ensure a patient didn't develop bedsores.
But the girl didn't complain at all; she was even grateful for this task.
In other words, this man was her lifeline. If she made any mistake, given her mother's temperament, she would very likely be kicked straight into the red tents of the brothel to serve those stinking customers.
Her mother's temper was terrible, exceptionally so.
If Mama finds out about my mistake, discovers the wet patch on the bed, I...
The girl's daze didn't last long, because she suddenly noticed—the man's eyes were open!
The girl blinked.
Zheng Fan blinked.
A 4.5-second silence.
"AH!!!"
The girl let out a scream.
The scream made Zheng Fan, who had just awoken, feel a throbbing pain in his head; it almost made him pass out again. It's truly a pity this girl isn't training to be a soprano, he thought.
"Mama, he's awake! He's awake!!!"
The girl turned, shouting loudly as she ran out of the room.
The room finally fell silent, leaving Zheng Fan alone.
Zheng Fan tried to move his limbs. Initially, there was some numbness, but he quickly found points of support. He began the difficult task of rising from the bed, using his arms for leverage.
His legs were a bit weak, but fortunately, he had braced himself and managed to keep his balance, avoiding a direct fall to the floor.
After panting heavily for a while, Zheng Fan finally let go with his hands and stood fully on the ground. His back was somewhat hunched, and his center of gravity slightly lowered as he carefully tried to maintain his stability.
The whole process was rather like a newborn baby learning to walk again. This body seemed overly weak; he was already drenched in a cold sweat.
Only then did Zheng Fan have the presence of mind to examine the room. It was a wooden structure, somewhat old, and the furnishings inside were rather antique. In the corner was a dressing table with a bronze mirror on it.
Where am I...?
Based on the room's furnishings, and ruling out the absurd possibility that I've been sent to some film-set hospital in Hengdian... have I... transmigrated?
As a creator, Zheng Fan was naturally no stranger to the term 'transmigration,' but he had never truly expected it to happen to him.
Staggering slightly, he moved to the dressing table and looked at the bronze mirror.
Almost everyone had heard of bronze mirrors, but few had actually seen or used one. After all, they had been obsolete for many years. But when Zheng Fan stood before the mirror, he was slightly surprised by its effectiveness.
Although it certainly couldn't compare to modern glass mirrors, it was much better than he had imagined.
While looking in the mirror, Zheng Fan reached out and touched his face. The reflection was his own face. Hmm, it seems this isn't soul transmigration...
Moreover, the face in the mirror was somewhat different from his face at the time of death. Before his euthanasia, the torment of his illness had reduced him to skin and bones. But now, there seemed to be a bit more flesh on his face. Though still somewhat gaunt and pale, it was within an acceptable range for a normal person.
Lowering his head, Zheng Fan noticed for the first time that he was completely naked, not even wearing a shirt.
It was just that when he first woke up, he hadn't really noticed this.
One always feels insecure without clothes, especially in a strange environment; this uneasiness becomes even more intense.
Thinking about it now, was that girl wiping my body earlier?
What Zheng Fan didn't know was that for the past six months, the girl had wiped his body almost every day. And it was this same girl who had accidentally splashed a basin of water on his face, waking him.
On the right side of the dressing table was a chair, and on it lay a set of clothes.
This outfit was very familiar: a hoodie, mainly black with some dark red accents. Beneath the chair, there was also a pair of boots.
These were the clothes Zheng Fan had been wearing when he committed suicide. He liked this style of clothing and had even designed and custom-ordered many sets himself. He felt that hoodies could bring him a sense of security, especially when he pulled the hood down to cover most of his face, granting him the tranquility he needed.
After struggling to put on the clothes and boots, Zheng Fan was so exhausted that he could only sit on the chair, leaning against the dressing table and panting. His newly awakened body was indeed too weak. But regardless, compared to the diseased body he'd had at the time of his suicide, this one was much, much better. At the very least, with a period of rest and conditioning, this body should recover significantly.
Just then, Zheng Fan suddenly noticed a figure appearing at the door. Still panting, he immediately looked up.
For a moment, Zheng Fan felt as though he had been struck by lightning.
Standing at the doorway was a woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She wore a long blue dress and a phoenix hairpin; her red lips shimmered, and her eyes were naturally alluring. This was the age of a perfectly ripe peach, and this woman possessed both an elegant temperament and a perfectly proportioned, voluptuous figure.
Of course, no matter how beautiful or how alluring her physique, that wasn't the main point, nor was it enough to astonish Zheng Fan to this degree. What truly shocked Zheng Fan was that—
He knew this woman!
Moreover, he had once drawn this woman with his own hands!
Feng... Feng Siniang?
Zheng Fan felt as if he were dreaming. Could it be that once a person dies, they enter an endless dream? If that's the case, then death no longer seems so terrifying. Instead, it's a kind of liberation, a release in pursuit of freedom.
The woman gazed at Zheng Fan standing before her. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. For a moment, her red lips curved into a smile even as tears began to fall—she was crying. She had lost her composure to an extreme degree.
Finally, the woman simply placed both hands before her lower abdomen, bent her knees, and sobbed, "My lord, you're finally awake!"