The black Land Cruiser slowly drove past the scene of the accident. The man in the trench coat silently glanced at the completely mangled Mercedes, then withdrew his gaze expressionlessly. The Land Cruiser accelerated again, and with a light press of the remote in the man's hand, the license plate flipped over, changing to another out-of-town plate.

As the high-mounted brake light suddenly lit up, the Land Cruiser quickly turned a corner and disappeared at the other end.

The next day, the "Changzhou Evening News" published a small, easily overlooked story: At around 3 a.m. today, a traffic accident occurred on the eastern section of Menghe Road. The vehicle involved was a dirt truck that had illegally entered the city. The accident resulted in two deaths, and the driver turned himself in to the city public security traffic bureau at 4 a.m.

Volume One: Youthful Days

Chapter One: Life Can Begin Again

Suddenly opening his eyes, William Carter felt his heart pounding in his chest as if he had just undergone intense exercise. The blood pumped from his heart rushed rapidly to every part of his body. Cold sweat soaked his back, yet his limbs felt a bit chilly.

He struggled to control his drifting consciousness.

Where was this?

His gaze finally settled on the old ceiling, where a single incandescent bulb hung lonely in the center.

This kind of ceiling without any paneling seemed very familiar, yet he hadn’t seen it in so long. The old Soviet-style red brick dormitory buildings—weren’t all the dorms in Factory 195 built like this?

How could he be here? Did the car accident not injure him?

Impossible. He could still clearly recall the blood froth at the corner of Evelyn Clark’s mouth, the clots of blood she later coughed up, and the shattered ribs in his own chest—even now, he could still feel it. His consciousness had only faded for a few seconds, and after that, he remembered nothing.

William Carter groaned, instinctively rubbing his throbbing temples. His head felt fuzzy, his thoughts sluggish, as if he’d been asleep for a long time and was still numb.

He kept feeling that something was off, but couldn’t say what. Suddenly, he noticed that his hands seemed different.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at his palms again—how were they so smooth and full? He looked at his arms, bent them, and was stunned to see well-developed biceps appear. William Carter was dumbfounded.

What was going on? Biceps? Hadn’t those disappeared from his body years ago? At least a decade, surely.

He instinctively touched his abdomen—flat and elastic, with faintly visible muscle blocks. The flab that had accumulated from years of good food and long hours at the mahjong table had vanished without a trace.

William Carter was shocked. What was happening? Could a single car accident and a hospital stay have changed his whole body so drastically?

With a whoosh, he sat up. William Carter looked around and realized he wasn’t wearing his usual Playce shirt, but a rather shabby old round-neck undershirt. What was going on?

A faint aroma of stir-fried green peppers with fermented black beans lingered in the air. How long had it been since he’d smelled such a familiar scent?

Ever since his mother passed away three years ago, William Carter had never smelled this aroma again. His second sister could make fermented black beans too, but she was still a notch below their mother’s level. William Carter could never forget the taste of his mother’s homemade black beans.

What was going on today? Was this an illusion? A hallucination from the trauma of the car accident? It didn’t seem like it. William Carter pinched his left bicep hard with his right hand. A sharp pain shot through him, making him realize this was no illusion, but reality.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, William Carter tried to observe his surroundings.

No mistake—everything before him was so familiar. He had lived in this room for three years.

The three years of high school before college, he had spent his nights on this very bed. And this old round-neck undershirt—wasn’t it the one he’d picked up from his father to use as pajamas?

His mouth tasted bitter and foul, a sign of a hangover from drinking too much the night before. William Carter instinctively rolled out of bed, walked barefoot to the square table, picked up the large tea mug, and gulped down more than half a cup of cold tea in one go.

Only now did his mind seem to come alive, but William Carter still couldn’t figure out what had happened.

Outside the window, the French plane trees shaded the road through the residential area. Cicadas were screeching desperately. A few retired old ladies were chatting under the trees. A thin, familiar figure rode a bicycle past the window. Who was that?

William Carter tried hard to remember, and suddenly it came to him—wasn’t that Mr. Moore?

His high school homeroom teacher.

Back in junior high in his hometown of Nantang, his English was poor. It wasn’t until he came to the Factory 195 school for high school that he realized the gap. This homeroom teacher had been very kind to him and helped him a lot, allowing his English to catch up quickly in three years of high school, which was crucial for his admission to Lingnan University.

Mr. Moore? How many years had it been since he’d seen him? Eight, or ten? He seemed to recall running into him at a city education system meeting when he was director of the Longtai County Education Bureau. At that time, Mr. Moore was about to retire. But today, he looked much younger than the last time they met. Why?