Prologue

“Ding—ding—ding—” The distant tolling of a bell struck his eardrums one by one. Zhang Chaohua awoke from a bizarre nightmare, drenched in sweat.

Instinctively, he called out, “Xiao Ai, turn on the lights!”

The room remained shrouded in darkness, unresponsive.

“Damn thing, lost the internet again?”

Zhang Chaohua turned over to reach for his glasses on the bedside table but grasped nothing but emptiness.

Only then did he realize he didn’t seem to need the glasses to make out the surroundings.

This was a strange bed, in a strange room.

Judging by the irregular shape of the ceiling and the round skylight, it appeared to be an attic.

Faint morning light filtered through the skylight, just enough to reveal a desk opposite the bed.

On the desk, a quill was dipped into an inkwell, its pristine white feather catching the eye. Zhang Chaohua could even see the delicate down trembling softly in the air—

Suddenly, memories of a man named Léonard Sorel surged through his mind like a tidal wave, flooding his consciousness.

Before losing consciousness, Zhang Chaohua had but one thought: “No longer nearsighted? How wonderful…”

The Prologue of Literary Master 1879: The Lone Frenchman

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