DISCLAIMER
All the pictures and videos are not mine. This book is made from my inspiration from other Chinese transmigration stories.
If there are Chinese words that are mistranslated please point it out so I can fix it.
That's all, enjoy~
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"Hurry! Bring the crane—no, not that one—the industrial one! The truck's still sitting on her!"
"Wait, is that... is that Ms. Qin?!"
"Someone get this on video! Move your elbow, Chen, you're blocking the angle!"
Voices rose like a tsunami. Some were panicked, some excited, some morbidly curious—everything was blurring together into a messy background hum. A mix of sirens, camera shutters, and gawking spectators filled the air as if this were a red carpet event instead of an accident scene.
Qin Ruolan stood there—or rather, floated there—in eerie silence, staring down at the absolute circus surrounding the chaotic scene.
A poor emergency worker was shouting something about hydraulic pressure. Another was waving wildly at a confused crane operator who looked like he'd just been pulled out of bed. Someone in the crowd was sobbing. Someone else was livestreaming. And someone was definitely selling snacks.
"Where is my lower body?" Ruolan muttered, craning her neck—though she wasn't sure if ghosts even had necks. She floated a little higher, scanning the scene like a bored shopper browsing discount bins. Blood, glass, bystanders with smartphones glued to their faces...
Ah. There it was.
A few meters away, under a pile of twisted metal and a lone designer heel, lay her lower half. Legs bent at an angle so grotesque it would've made anyone looking at it have an upset stomach. A mess of flesh and bones, and mangled designer clothing.
Unbothered by the gore painting the pavement, she floated toward what was left of her torso. Her upper half had been delicately—well, clumsily—dumped onto a stretcher by two overwhelmed paramedics who were clearly questioning their career choices.
She hovered over the corpse, observing the once-immaculate face now drained of color, framed by disheveled hair that still somehow had volume. Slowly, almost reverently, she reached out a translucent hand and placed it on her own pale, blood-speckled cheek.
Then she patted it.
Mockingly.
"So this is how I die? This is how I go out? Not saving lives, not at a charity gala, but as a two-piece meal combo under a truck?"
She sighed. "How utterly embarrassing."
The words left her lips like an offhand joke, but there was no punchline—just the low hum of chaos, the distant wail of an ambulance, and the suffocating weight of disbelief that never quite reached her.
Her limpid gaze swept over the scene. People were everywhere—some screaming, some crying, most filming. But no one was looking at her.
No... they were looking at it.
Her body.
The grotesque spectacle in the center of it all. A woman once admired, envied, adored... now a lifeless, bloodied mound on the cold pavement. Limbs at odd angles. Clothes torn. Dignity nowhere in sight.
Her eyes narrowed.
So that's how it ends? Not with a dramatic farewell, not with graceful closure, but under a dump truck and a trending hashtag?
With a sigh, Ruolan turned and drifted toward the crowd. She stepped forward—except her foot didn't touch the ground. She floated.
"...Oh."
A bit disoriented but far from panicked, she moved straight through a stunned onlooker. The woman shivered violently and clutched her arms.
"Did you feel that?" the woman whispered to her friend. "Like... something passed through me."
Ruolan smirked.
"Get used to it."
She passed through people like a warm breeze, silent, unseen, watching them react to her death like it was some twisted form of entertainment. They weren't mourning. They were consuming. Eating the moment with their eyes, fingers swiping across screens, recording tragedy in 4K.
She floated to the edge of the crowd and turned around, watching the living fawn over the dead.
Then, suddenly like a strike of lightning—
[F A R M + S Y S T E M]
A strange noise, mechanical and chime-like, echoed inside her skull.
[I N I T I A T I N G B I N D I N G...]
Her brow furrowed.
"What in the sci-fi hell is that?"
Suddenly, something shimmered in the corner of her eye.
A soft blue glow hovered in the air beside her, pulsing faintly. Ruolan turned, blinking once. Then twice.
A floating box.
Rectangular. Translucent. Glowing. With... text?
"What?" she muttered, tilting her head. The box moved with her, eerily in sync like some overly attached screensaver.
Her brows rose in disbelief. "Is this... the legendary system?" she said with a short, disbelieving laugh. "No way. Is this what I get after death? Not enlightenment? Not peace? But a floating Windows error message?"
Still chuckling, she reached out hesitantly—half-expecting her hand to pass through it like everything else.
It didn't.
Instead, her fingers pressed against something solid. Cool. Electric. The moment her ghostly hand made contact, the air seemed to thrum like everything was alive, moving, she felt everything around her.
[ B • I • N • D • I • N • G ]
The letters flashed across the box in bold, steady intervals, like some sort of countdown she hadn't signed up for.
"What?" she whispered, a flicker of unease creeping into her voice.
Suddenly, white particles rose from the ground—no, from her—swirling around her in a slow, spiraling storm. They drifted through the air like snow caught in a vortex, curling tighter and tighter around her form. For a second she thought that it was about to swallow her whole. But no, it came from her.
Her heart should have been racing. Her lungs should've been gasping. But she had no heart. No lungs. Just a soul that wasn't reacting the way it should.
"I don't like this," she muttered, watching her own hand dissolve into shimmering fragments. Fingers faded like mist. Her arm turned see-through, vanishing from the fingertips inward.
Her voice trembled, but her body wouldn't obey.
[ T R A N S F E R = C O M P L E T E ]
"..."
No scream. No resistance. Just silence, and the cold pull of something vast and unfamiliar.
Then everything went black.
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