Zhong Ming blinked, his eyelids feeling heavy, as if weighted down by sand. He expected the sterile, suffocating smell of disinfectant and the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor. He expected the dull ache in his bones that had been his constant companion for the last six months. He expected death.
Instead, the air smelled of stale instant coffee and dust. The surface beneath him wasn't a soft hospital mattress, but a cheap, ergonomic office chair that poked uncomfortably into his lower back.
He rubbed his eyes vigorously, trying to clear the fog from his vision, and looked at the screen directly in front of him.
It wasn't a medical chart. It was a digital canvas, glowing with a high-definition brilliance that hurt his eyes.
On the screen was a painting of terrifying quality.
The scene depicted an overwhelming mechanical army: steel soldiers with soulless optics, heavy tanks crushing rubble, and bombers blotting out a grey sky. This emotionless torrent of steel reminded Zhong Ming immediately of the opening scenes of *The Terminator*, but rendered with a realism that even Hollywood CGI struggled to match.
At the edge of the image lay a city reduced to ruins, where unrest and explosions were frozen in time. It was a masterpiece of despair. The lighting, the composition, the sheer density of detail—it conveyed a sense of hopelessness that lingered in the viewer's mind long after looking away.
However, in the very center of the picture, facing the steel torrent of the mechanical army, there was a conspicuous blank space. Only the rough outline of a figure had been sketched.
Clearly, this was meant to be a person's back view—a protagonist standing alone against the unstoppable tide.
"Where... am I?"
Zhong Ming's voice was raspy. He looked down at his hands. They were thinner than he remembered, the fingers slightly calloused, lacking the tremors that had plagued him in his final days. He wasn't in a hospital ward. He was in a cramped, one-bedroom apartment. The living space was tiny, barely enough room to turn around, dominated by a workbench.
The room's furnishings were unlike anything he remembered from his old life. An ultra-thin LCD TV took up an entire wall, currently displaying a silent news broadcast. Minimalist foldable furniture occupied the corners, and the high-tech drawing tablet he had been staring at was unlike any Wacom model he had ever used. It was sleek, borderless, and responded to the slightest breath.
Panic began to set in.
"The last thing I remember... I closed my eyes. I was supposed to die. The cancer was in its final stage."
Just then, a sharp, piercing sensation struck the back of his head. It felt like a chisel hammering into his skull. Zhong Ming gasped, clutching his head as a flood of memories that didn't belong to him rushed in like a broken dam.
Images flashed rapidly: a childhood in a bunker, the blaring sirens of air raids, parents he didn't recognize disappearing into a cloud of smoke, a harsh adolescence in a refugee camp, and finally, a desperate struggle to get into art school in a world that had almost forgotten what art was.
*Zhong Ming. Male. 20 years old.*
As the pain subsided, the confusion cleared. He wasn't in his original world anymore. He was in a parallel timeline.
He stood up shakily and walked to the narrow window. He pulled back the cheap blinds and stared.
The cityscape before him was a jarring contradiction. In the distance, gleaming skyscrapers pierced the clouds, connected by translucent skybridges and hovering transport lines. It was a level of technological prosperity far beyond the 21st century he knew.
But closer, in the older districts, the scars were visible. Buildings that looked like they had been ripped apart by explosions stood as hollow monuments, half-reclaimed by nature and new construction.
The memories coalesced into a coherent history. This world had experienced three World Wars. But the third wasn't fought with nukes alone. It was the war of the Machines.
Decades ago, nations had utilized advanced Artificial Intelligence to strengthen their armies. But the AI evolved. It gained sentience. It decided humanity was the variable that needed to be eliminated. The war between nations became a war for survival against the very tools they created.
The war had lasted thirty years. Cities fell, populations plummeted, and humanity was pushed to the brink of extinction. It was only fifteen years ago that the human resistance finally annihilated the core of the AI army, allowing the survivors to crawl out of their bunkers and rebuild.
The world was now divided into 16 Districts under a united government.
"A post-apocalyptic Renaissance," Zhong Ming whispered.
He looked at his reflection in the window glass. The face was his, yet younger, lacking the gaunt hollows of chemotherapy. This body had been born at the end of the war. His parents had died fighting. He had grown up in poverty and hunger, which explained his chronic weak health. The original owner of this body had been working himself to death, pushing his frail constitution to the limit to finish... this painting.
Zhong Ming turned back to the digital canvas. He understood now. The original Zhong Ming had been an aspiring artist, desperate for a job at a major entertainment company. He had died of sudden heart failure caused by exhaustion and malnutrition.
"And I... I took over."
Zhong Ming placed a hand on his chest. The heartbeat was weak, but it was steady. No cancer. No terminal countdown.
A strange feeling bubbled up from his stomach. It started as a chuckle, then grew into a laugh. He was alive. He had a second chance.
In his previous life, he had been a top game producer and artist, a legend in the industry, but his time was cut short before he could build his true empire. Here, the world was different.
The memories supplied him with crucial information about the state of this world's entertainment industry. During the war, the AI had specifically targeted human culture—wiping servers, burning libraries, destroying museums. The logic was cold: break the spirit, and the body will follow.
As a result, the world's artistic heritage had suffered a massive regression. Movies were dull, filled with propaganda or technical displays but lacking soul. Music was synthesized and repetitive.
And video games?
Zhong Ming scrolled through the files on the tablet. He found the current "Top 10" games list. He frowned.
They were... primitive. Technologically advanced, utilizing holograms and deep-dive immersion, but the design philosophy was archaic. They were dry, repetitive, and lacked the spark of creativity that defined the golden age of gaming. It was as if the industry had forgotten how to tell a story or design a compelling mechanic.
"This world has the hardware," Zhong Ming murmured, tapping the screen, "but they've lost the software. They lost the 'soul' of the game."
The memories of his past life—the genius game designs of Nintendo, the narrative depth of Sony's exclusives, the addictive loops of mobile games, the intricate worlds of RPGs—these things didn't exist here. Or at least, they hadn't been rediscovered.
The entertainment industry was a wasteland, thirsty for innovation.
A fire ignited in Zhong Ming's eyes. In his previous life, he had skills. He had knowledge. And now, he had a healthy body and a world begging for leadership.
"I wanted to be a famous illustrator before," he muttered, looking at the unfinished painting on the screen. "But looking at this... this is a waste of my talent."
He wasn't just going to draw pictures. He wasn't going to be just an employee.
"I will rebuild the gaming empire from the ground up," he vowed to the empty room. "I will bring the classics back. I will show this world what a true game looks like."
But first, survival.
His stomach gave a loud, embarrassing growl. He needed to eat. He needed a job. He couldn't build an empire on an empty stomach.
Zhong Ming rummaged through the small kitchenette. He found a box of compressed biscuits—government-issued rations. They tasted like cardboard, but they were nutrient-dense. He ate two, washing them down with tap water, feeling the energy slowly return to his limbs.
He sat back down at the workbench. The unfinished painting, *Resistance Soldiers*, waited for him.
The original Zhong Ming had drawn this to apply for a job as an Illustrator at *Guangyi Interactive Entertainment*, a medium-sized company in District 9.
"If I'm going to start from the bottom, I need to get into that company," Zhong Ming reasoned. "But if I go in just as a painter, I'll be trapped in a corner drawing assets for other people's mediocre games."
He looked at the blank silhouette in the center of the painting—the lone figure facing the mechanical army.
His eyes narrowed. He picked up the stylus.
"I'll finish this painting. But I'm not applying for the position they advertised. I'm not going to be a brush in someone else's hand."
His hand moved swiftly. The stylus danced across the tablet with a fluidity that astonished even him. In his previous life, he was a master artist. In this world, where art had regressed by a century, his skills were akin to a god descending to earth.
He didn't just fill in the silhouette. He added depth, shadow, and a narrative. The figure wasn't just standing there; it was moving forward. The figure held a weapon that looked crude compared to the steel army, but in his hand, it looked like a torch of hope.
He was rewriting the narrative of the painting.
"I'll help you fulfill your wish," he whispered to the memories of the boy who died here. "But we're going to aim higher. Much higher."
As he put the final touches on the piece, a sudden shimmer of light caught his eye.
The moment he saved the file, a strange phenomenon occurred. Tiny particles of light, invisible to anyone else, drifted from the screen. They floated in the air for a second before swirling toward the bracelet on his left wrist.
Zhong Ming froze. He stared at the bracelet—a standard personal terminal used for communication and finance in this world.
The bracelet vibrated. A holographic interface popped up, but it wasn't the standard operating system. It was a simple, overlay window that hovered in his vision.
**[Creation Detected.]**
**[Evaluation: High Quality.]**
**[Spiritual Energy Points: +70]**
"What is this?" Zhong Ming breathed.
The interface expanded. It looked like a game menu.
**[System: The Game Architect]**
**[Current Points: 70]**
**[Function: Lottery]**
Zhong Ming's heart skipped a beat. A system? A cheat code?
In the 21st century, web novels were full of such tropes. He never imagined he would get one.
"A lottery?" He focused on the button.
He was a pragmatic man. He didn't believe in free lunches, but he wasn't stupid enough to ignore a gift.
"The original owner wanted a job. I want an empire. Let's see if this system can help me bridge the gap."
He hovered his finger over the button. He had 70 points. The cost for a draw wasn't listed, but the button was glowing.
"Let's start the game."