Zhao Yan's eyes flew open. His heart was pounding like a war drum.
All he could see was white. Nothing but white.
The walls, the sheets, the ceiling—an endless expanse of white.
He blinked rapidly, trying to piece together what he was seeing. This was not the battlefield he had just been in. This was not the place where swords were clanging against each other.
There was silence.
And then he heard it. A breath. Right by his neck.
A steady beeping filled the air. Rhythmic. Cold. Not at all what he was used to back where he came from.
Zhao Yan tried to lift his head, but his body felt so heavy. He could do nothing else but shift it slightly to the left… and then to the right.
When he turned to the right, his head bumped into something.
Another head.
That was when he heard the sniffles. Close. Right by his ear.
"Fu Jingrong… Fu Jingrong… Elder brother, please wake up…"
The voice was familiar.
