"Who... am I?"
Boom—
Pale lightning split the inky clouds like a blade,
Torrential rain poured down as if the gods were enraged, drenching the muddy earth. Puddles rippled with distorted reflections—a crimson silhouette broken and fragmented.
A young man in a blood-red opera robe staggered through the sludge, his movements drunkard-like. Wind whipped his wide sleeves, flinging mud and sand from the fabric that glowed like fresh wounds in the night.
"Stop... stop making noise!"
"All of you—be quiet!"
"I'm going to remember... soon! I swear!"
"There's a name... my name..."
His black hair clung to his forehead, rainwater streaming down his dazed eyes. Clutching his throbbing temples, he lurched forward, each step a struggle against the torrent of memories clawing at his mind.
A jagged rock in the mud tripped him.
He fell hard, a spike of pain exploding between his eyes. Blood mixed with rainwater in his mouth as he blinked, sudden clarity flashing through the chaos.
"Chen Ling..."
The name tasted like iron, ancient and sharp. Images burst through: forbidden rituals, a life lost in a cursed ceremony, assassins hunting him as the "Crimson Revenant."
He pushed himself up, trembling. The opera mask around his neck had cracked, revealing skin as pale as moonlight. Rain dripped down its demonic painted face—a crazed laughter frozen in lacquer.
"Ah..." He touched the cracked paint, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. "You trapped my soul in this mortal body, but I'm still awake..."
A guttural echo mocked him, swallowed by thunder.
Prologue to Memory Integration
Chen Ling's mind burned as two worlds collided.
The theater intern's memories—28 years old, designing stage layouts for a Beijing opera troupe, dying under a falling spotlight during an earthquake—fused with the Crimson Revenant's fragmented existence. Every detail seared like fire: late-night rehearsals, camaraderie with actors, the blinding agony of his final moments.
"This must be hell," he gasped, sweat mixing with rain. Yet his body felt strangely alive. Though his spirit whispered of ancient battles, his limbs ached with exhaustion—not from age, but from decades of weariness.
"Go home," he urged himself, staggering toward the familiar alleyway. The original Chen Ling's memory guided him: a ten-minute walk from the clinic where he cared for his younger brother. To him, it felt like an eternity.
Rain chilled him to the bone. Every muscle protested, but he trudged on, his opera robe stained black and red. At last, the flickering light of his apartment window appeared through the storm.
He fumbled in his pocket for keys... none. But the spare key was always hidden beneath the newspaper box. With trembling hands, he unlocked the door.
Warm light flooded the room, washing away the cold. For a moment, he leaned against the wall, breathing in the familiar scent of incense and old books. This was his refuge—a fragile anchor in the storm of his new reality.
He stepped inside, only to find two figures seated at the dining table—both with red-rimmed eyes, as if they'd just wept bitterly.
The sound of the door opening made them freeze. After a stunned moment, they both turned their heads simultaneously.
"Dad… Mom… I'm back."
Chen Ling's voice carried a dizzy lilt. He mechanically reached for shoes at the entrance, only to realize he'd been walking barefoot all along. Mud caked his soles and趾缝, leaving two sprawling black prints on the floor.
The couple's breath hitched as they beheld the crimson-clad figure before them. Their pupils dilated wildly—a living nightmare standing in their kitchen.
"Water… please," Chen Ling slurred, his mind foggy with exhaustion. He stumbled toward the kitchen, still gripping the water dispenser's plastic barrel like a lifeline.
Gulping sounds echoed through the room as he drank greedily, water pouring down his throat with chaotic abandon. Drips of liquid trailed from his chin, forming puddles that mirrored the terrified faces across the room.
Suddenly, he gripped the barrel's neck and ripped it open with brute force. Plastic shards flew as he chugged the remaining water directly from the broken container, synthetic material crunching between his teeth.
"It's... walked home," a voice answered from behind him.
Yes… behind.
While Chen Ling remained obliviously guzzling water, an invisible presence seemed to stand at his shoulder. Its reply carried the calm certainty of someone observing their shared space.
"The rain was fierce. I got lost... My shoes disappeared," it continued, each statement punctuating the silence like a clock ticking.
"Clean the floor later," the phantom added indifferently. "I'm too tired to wait."
The kerosene lamp flickered violently, casting shadows that danced like grasping claws. The couple stood rooted to the spot, their faces pale as porcelain, as the real Chen Ling collapsed onto the floor, unconscious yet still twitching with residual hydration spasms.
The water barrel emptied with a hollow thunk.
Chen Ling wiped his mouth, water droplets trailing down his chin as he turned to leave. One foot after another sank into the mucky prints, guiding him stumbling toward his bedroom.
"Go to sleep early too, Dad... Mom..."
His slurred goodnight echoed through the house before the bedroom door slammed shut. A heavy thud vibrated through the walls as he collapsed onto the bed, unconscious yet still trembling.
Silence engulfed the living room like a suffocating blanket.
Minutes stretched into eternity—or so it felt to the frozen couple. Only when the flickering kerosene lamp finally stabilized did they dare to move.
Their gazes locked, husbands and wives transformed into statues carved from fear.
"He's back," the father whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking like dry earth. "But how...?"
The mother's fingers gripped the tablecloth, white knuckles trembling. "If this is really A-Ling..."