Chapter 2

Pang Ya is a fool, and everyone in the village knows it. He also knew that she wouldn’t understand what he was saying, so it was like talking to a cow.

The only point was to feel a little better after saying it.

His fingers still seemed to be sticky with a foul smell, so he wiped them on his clothes and stopped looking at the faint glimmer in Pang Ya’s cloudy eyes. With a sullen face, he threw out all the wild hawthorns from his schoolbag, not leaving a single one. Then he bent down to pick up the scattered books on the ground, brushed off the dust, and carefully put them back into his schoolbag. He hummed and walked away without looking back, heading towards the village.

He had just reached the pond when he suddenly heard a muffled thud behind him, like something heavy had fallen into the water.

His steps halted, and his heart sank.

Immediately, the villagers' panicked and chaotic shouts came from behind: "Oh no, Pang Ya couldn't bear it and jumped into the pond to kill herself..."

...

Under the old locust tree in the courtyard, Sun Shi rolled up her sleeves, revealing two thin, dry arms as she squatted beside a large wooden basin, scrubbing the clothes in her hands.

There were over a dozen people in the Lao Yang family, and except for the elderly and the young, the rest worked in the fields. These clothes were heavy and difficult to wash, and when they were taken off, they could shake off several pounds of yellow mud. Once they were soaked in water, the basin instantly turned into a pot of yellow mud soup.

Usually, Sun Shi would carry the clothes to the pond at the village entrance to wash them. The pond water was fresh, flowing down from the Niu Mountain behind the village and heading east. She could also wash the vegetables for the family's lunch at the same time.

But today was different. Qing'er, who had been rescued from the pond yesterday afternoon, had been revived with acupressure and ginger water, but she wasn’t doing well.

She had a high fever last night and was delirious for hours. Sun Shi and Qing'er’s father didn’t sleep all night, staying by her bedside. As soon as it was light, Qing'er’s father went to the village to find the old Chinese doctor, Uncle Fu. It turned out that Uncle Fu had gone to a town thirty miles away the previous evening. After discussing with Sun Shi, they both felt that the illness couldn’t be delayed.

Qing'er’s father then went to discuss with Qing'er’s grandfather and set off in the family’s only ox cart to the town to get medicine.

These days, they were busy with the autumn harvest, and all the able-bodied men were sent to the fields to harvest rice. Normally, she would also go.

But with Qing'er so ill, she couldn’t bear to leave. She had to beg Qing'er’s grandmother to let her stay at home to do the household chores. This morning, she cleaned the courtyard, shoveled the pigsty, washed the pots and pans in the kitchen, fed the chickens, ducks, and the pig in the back yard, and now she was washing the family’s clothes in the courtyard.

Throughout the morning, she went into the house several times to check on Qing'er, touching her forehead and giving her a few sips of tea. The child had been burning like a charcoal stove all morning.

Sun Shi wrung out the water from the clothes in her hands and threw them into the bamboo basket beside her. She then picked up another piece of dirty clothes from the pile at her feet and started scrubbing.

Her face, pale and thin, was filled with worry. She occasionally looked up at the sun, which was almost overhead, and listened for the sound of the ox cart from the front yard. It was about thirty miles from Changping Village to the nearby Qing Shui Town, and Qing'er’s father had been gone for almost two hours. She estimated he should be back soon.

After hastily finishing the laundry, Sun Shi stood up, wiped her wet hands on her clothes, and hurriedly walked to the west wing of the house.

...

When Yang Ruoqing woke up, her body ached, and her head was buzzing.

She had just completed an A-level mission and was on her way back in a helicopter.

This was her last mission as a special agent, delivering an ancient painting to an underground auction center in Las Vegas.

After completing this mission, her career as a special agent would be perfectly concluded.

However, the helicopter encountered severe weather over the Pacific Ocean and crashed. At the moment of the crash, she vaguely remembered a green light suddenly flying out from the painting and entering her body.

She fell into the sea, and the cold water rushed in from all sides...

She struggled in the water, trying to grab a piece of debris from the plane. Her head finally emerged from the water, and fresh air rushed in, making her cough violently. She sat up abruptly.

The sudden light stung her eyes, making them feel sore.

She squinted, and when the soreness subsided, she slowly opened her eyes.

What she saw was a low, dilapidated house with a thatched roof and mud walls that were already cracked. There wasn’t a single decent piece of furniture in the house. A faded wardrobe was placed against the wall, and a table with a broken corner held a teapot and two chipped earthenware teacups. The only chair had a missing leg, propped up by a few mud bricks.

The floor was uneven and damp, and the smell of mold and the stench of the chamber pot in the corner filled the room, making her stomach churn.

There was no cold seawater, no plane debris. Where was this dilapidated, uninhabitable place?

Could she have been rescued by a kind fisherman after drifting at sea?

But in the 21st century, even the poorest African tribes wouldn’t have such a poor dwelling.

Her gaze fell on a wooden door, and a sliver of light seeped through the cracks. She lifted the damp, patched quilt covering her and was about to get out of bed to ask at the door when she noticed a pair of worn-out cloth shoes with holes in the toes.

She shook her head slightly, thinking that having shoes was better than being barefoot. As she reached out to put on the shoes, something incredible happened.

These plump, slightly swollen feet were clearly not hers.

She had naturally small, delicate feet, as lovely and translucent as white jade, with healthy, pink toenails like shells.

But the feet in front of her were rough, thick, and hadn’t been cared for in weeks. The toenails were black and two of them were even flipped up.

Then she realized her hands weren’t her own either.

She was a special agent and a top international assassin. Years of training had left thick calluses on her fingertips. But she was a hand enthusiast, so even with the calluses, her hands were well-maintained, smooth, and delicate.

The hands in front of her, however, were short and thick, like water-soaked radishes, utterly unrefined.

She touched her face, and by feel, she knew it wasn’t hers.

What was happening?

Who was she?

Who am I?

Where am I?

At that moment, the quiet, dim room suddenly creaked, and the old door opened a crack. A figure rushed in.