"Dog, dog, are you dead?"

The roar of anger grew louder as Li Zitao felt his body being lifted. Violent shaking followed, like a roller coaster ride. Then he soared into the clouds, only to crash down hard, his back slamming painfully.

"Ah!" He groaned bitterly, forcing open his heavy eyelids.

"Damn it, who the hell are you?" he snapped, glaring at the man in front of him—a giant of a man, built like a bear, smeared with grease, his teeth gleaming black.

"F**k! You dare talk back?" The grease-covered giant, who reeked of oil, stormed over, grabbed Li Zitao by the forehead, and hoisted him into the air.

"Do you even know where you are? Do you even know your name?" the man growled. "If you dare talk back again, I'll…"

As the bear-like man ranted, Li Zitao's vision blurred. The vice-like grip on his head made his brain feel like it was about to explode. Memories—strange, unfamiliar memories—flooded his mind, tearing through him with searing intensity.

"My name is… Li Goudan?" he murmured. "I'm in America? It's 1929?!"

Terror clawed at him. 1929. Even Li Zitao, a self-proclaimed slacker, knew what this meant: ten years before World War II. Ten years before that "German dwarf" unleashed chaos and death upon the world.

"World War II… 70 million lives lost. Endless war, endless death…"

Panic consumed him. "No… no, this can't be real. I need to go back. This is a dream! Yes, it's just a dream!"

"Snap out of it!" The giant's angry slap struck the back of Li Zitao's head, cutting off his panic.

With a dull bang, Li Zitao—no, the soul now inhabiting his body—collapsed, consciousness fading into darkness.

When he woke again, Li Zitao had time to survey his surroundings. An old iron house, grease coating every surface, even the flimsy boards beneath him that passed for a bed.

"This… is America," he muttered. "And I'm a handyman at A. O. Smith? Damn it!"

Frustration bubbled over. He clenched his fists and pounded the bed. A sharp pain shot through his hand. "Ow! Damn it!" He cradled his fist, lying back with a defeated sigh.

As a modern-day shut-in, Li Zitao marveled at how he hadn't gone completely insane. But the loneliness—the crushing, suffocating loneliness—gnawed at him.

No grand ambitions filled his mind. No dreams of becoming a legend. His sole focus was survival.

Wang Dagou, his grease-stained coworker, barged in. "Mike's already pissed about you slacking off. Let's go."

The man's heavy hand clamped down on Li Zitao's shoulder, nearly sending him sprawling. "You're weak. Exercise more, or you won't last long."

"Got it," Li Zitao mumbled, trailing behind Wang Dagou.

The factory loomed ahead, its blackened soil soaked with oil. Machinery roared, workers bustled, and voices cursed in multiple languages.

"Hey, Wang! Did your little yellow friend finally get out of bed?" jeered a white worker, cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Did you kiss him awake, huh?"

Li Zitao tensed, fists clenching. But Wang Dagou ignored the taunts, keeping his head down.

"Look at him," the man sneered. "Dumb yellow pig. Doesn't even speak English."

To his own surprise, Li Zitao understood every word. "Wait… when did I learn English?"

But any thoughts of retaliation died as quickly as they came. In this brutal world, challenging these men meant death. No one would bat an eye at a dead "yellow man."

At the back of the factory, Wang Dagou handed him a tattered, stinking hemp shirt. "Put this on."

Li Zitao gagged at the smell but complied. This was his life now—odd jobs, backbreaking labor, and survival.

He had no illusions about his place in this world. As a new immigrant, he was no better than a slave. The road ahead seemed bleak. But for now, all Li Zitao could do was endure.

"First, survive," he whispered to himself, pulling the shirt over his head. "The future can wait."