Faint beams of light filtered through the gaps in the roof tiles, casting onto a simple, rustic house. They fell directly onto the face of a young man, whose eyes were tightly shut against the glare. His eyelids fluttered slightly before slowly opening.

Ouch! It hurts so much!...

In his daze, his mouth whispered. His voice was raspy, sounding as though it hadn't been used for a very long time. Parting his lips slightly, the young man gradually opened his eyes. His eyelids felt heavy, as if weighed down by lead. Before him was the simple, ash-gray wooden tiled ceiling of the house.

Where is this?

He blinked, trying to focus. Beside the bed, a little girl of about six or seven years old was staring intently at him with large, round, sparkling eyes. She was sitting on a low wooden stool. Her hair was tied into two buns on the sides, with a few stray strands falling across her forehead. She wore a faded bà ba shirt. She looked curious and... happy?

Pausing for a few seconds, the corners of the young man's mouth gradually curled up into a sigh.

Dreaming nonsense again…

But this dream was incredibly strange. It was entirely different from the chaotic dreams he had encountered over the past eight years; it felt far more real and vivid.

Vincent Kenwood tried to close his eyes to escape what he thought was just one of the hundreds of bizarre dreams he had every day. However, the external light piercing his eyes felt burning hot and uncomfortable. Forcing his eyes open again, he frowned and muttered:

Damn it… which idiot turned on the hospital room lights in the middle of the night…

Vincent snapped awake, looking around the place where he lay. He was still in that same house, lying on a wooden platform bed just large enough for a single adult. The house consisted of only one room with rickety wooden walls and a hard-packed dirt floor. In the center of the room stood a low table. Further away, a small storage cabinet near the corner had one of its doors ajar, revealing a few neatly folded outfits made of coarse fabric. Turning his head to the right, he saw the same little girl. Those same eyes never left him as she sat there in absolute silence.

Seeing his eyes wide open, the little girl bolted from her stool and ran outside on bare feet, shouting loudly:

Dad! Dad, that guy is awake! He opened his eyes!

Witnessing the scene before him, he instinctively raised his hand and slapped his right cheek twice to wake up from this absurd dream. But then, he realized.

This sensation feels too real.

His hand trembled as he stroked his cheek, then down to his chin, his neck, and finally his chest. The warmth he felt when touching his own flesh—something he hadn't been able to do for ages—shocked him completely. He squeezed his chest hard. It hurt, it hurt terribly, but this didn't feel like the pain from before. This was not a dream. It wasn't like eight years ago, when he could only lie motionless inside a corpse-like shell, his eyes shut tight, his limbs paralyzed, yet his hearing perfectly intact. He used to hear the doctors' conversations clearly, his mother's weeping, and his friends coming to visit before quietly leaving.

He had once been an intern fresh out of college, but that traffic accident on the highway back then had stripped away everything. A truck had lost control and crashed head-on into his motorcycle. The doctors had said he would never wake up. For eight long years, he lived as a soulless corpse. For eight years, his soul was locked inside a paralyzed body, unable to move, yet his consciousness was fully awake to... suffer. He had clearly heard the disparaging remarks from relatives. He had wanted to die. He had screamed in silence when hearing his mother and friends recount old memories. He had thought he would remain that way forever until he finally departed from this miserable life.

And now…

He looked at his raised palm and moved it, wiggling his fingers as if to check something. Then, he tried to sit up, only to tumble back down onto the wooden bed as if his legs still refused to obey his commands. The fall sent a sharp, stinging pain through his spine, yet he laughed anyway—laughing hysterically as if he had just won the lottery. Tears spilled out unconsciously.

God has eyes! God truly has eyes!

He reached down to his legs, pressing hard and massaging his limbs, which had emaciated from lying still for so long. Even though they could only budge a tiny bit, even though his legs were still stiff, he could still feel the cold wood beneath his bare soles, and the wind slipping through the gaps in the wall, blowing against his skin.

Freedom.

Vincent laughed like a madman. The sheer ecstasy of realizing he had escaped the bodily cage that had constrained him for eight long years was finally unleashed. He was finally free after those years of imprisonment in that very vegetative state. From the corners of Vincent's eyes, tears streamed down while he continued to laugh uncontrollably.

But before he could immerse himself in joy for long, Vincent noticed a problem.

Where is this? Where on earth am I?

No matter how much Vincent thought, he couldn't wrap his head around it. While his escape from that incurable vegetative state was a medical miracle, where was the hospital bed? Where was the hospital room reeking of disinfectant? More importantly, where exactly was he, and who was that little girl from earlier?

Thinking about the girl and the surrounding space, he noticed a very bizarre detail. Although her clothing was very simple and fit the setting—a style commonly seen in East or Southeast Asian regions—the girl herself, from her eyes to her face and skin, and even that familiar language she used, was very clearly a white Westerner.

This is truly too bizarre.

Vincent felt joyful, but now, he was overcome by confusion and anxiety. It felt as though five large words were branded across his face: "What the hell is this?" After a long silence, his mind grew increasingly tangled. Question followed question, but not a single sensible answer emerged.

Did the doctors put me on new medication? Or is this another phenomenon of terminal lucidity? Am I about to die? But this sensation is just too real.

The sound of the little girl's footsteps returning with her father shattered part of the looping thoughts in Vincent's head. He lifted his head and looked toward the doorway not far away. There was the girl, accompanied by a man who appeared to be her father. He was heavily built, with black hair tinged with gray at the temples. A thick, full beard framed his face. His steps were slow. He wore a brown bà ba shirt and loose-fitting trousers that had faded in color. In his hand, he held a rope, leading a water buffalo behind him.

As they drew closer, Vincent gasped when he got a clear look at what they were leading. It was a water buffalo that possessed two pairs of eyes. Those eyes barely had any black in them; instead, they were a blood-red color. The buffalo's entire body was covered in black and brown stripes, looking like a zebra painted with brown hues.

Seeing the buffalo—which looked as if it had stepped right out of a comic book—right before his eyes in an undeniably real and vivid manner, Vincent finally had the answer to all the questions he couldn't previously solve. Though hard to believe, it was now crystal clear.

I have transmigrated into another world.