O Misterioso Reino dos Três Reinos

This was a modest mud-and-wood house with a typical beam structure, covering barely over twenty square meters. The yellow earthen walls were coated with white chalk, but in many places the plaster had fallen away, revealing the raw mud and straw beneath. Along the walls stood several wooden shelves, each neatly arranged with numerous rolls of bamboo slips. Some of these slips gleamed with polish, clearly worn smooth from repeated handling; even the hemp cords binding them showed signs of fraying. On the farthest shelf rested several exquisite wooden boxes, appearing to be cases for storing books.

In the center of the room lay a straw mat, upon which sat a low table. At one corner of the table were two or three brushes, scattered bamboo strips, carving knives, and various writing implements. Beside the table stood a rough, rustic earthenware jar, into which were slanted two or three silk scrolls.

Fei Qian sat cross-legged behind the study table, his gaze distant and unfocused, lost in thought.

The original Fei Qian of the Eastern Han had suffered a grave illness and, on the brink of death, had somehow revived—but no one knew that his soul had been replaced by that of a Fei Qian from a later era.

The latter Fei Qian was a low-level office worker in a modern city, a typical corporate drifter—lacking both the thick skin and cunning needed to rise through the ranks, merely surviving day by day. One evening, celebrating the appointment of a new boss, he drank too much and lost consciousness on the way home. When he awoke, he found himself in the Eastern