Please call me ZERO.

Davor Republic, situated at the edge of the Grand Civilizations Belt, governed thirteen administrative planets and hundreds of resource worlds. It had only risen to the status of a mid-tier civilization ten years ago, and within the Omi Star System, it was regarded as a significant power.

The capital of the Davor Republic was the planet Vol, and it was in Mingzhou, Vol’s second-largest city, that something rather extraordinary occurred.

One night, a residential district in Mingzhou was suddenly plunged into darkness by a power blackout. Though electricity was restored an hour later, the property management company was forced to pay such a substantial compensation that it was nearly driven to bankruptcy.

In one of the two-story homes in the district, a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old boy lay unconscious in his room.

His name was Zhong Yun, a student in secondary education. His parents were both white-collar workers at a major corporation, making them comfortably middle-class, with a home and a car.

That night, Zhong Yun was playing “Space Conflict,” the most popular game in the country. With a holiday the next day, he’d planned to play all night.

In the game, he was piloting his ship, the “Qiyun,” locked in a fierce battle. Just as the fight reached its climax, everything went black before his eyes, and he lost consciousness.

When he next opened his eyes, “Zhong Yun” was no longer the person he used to be.

A groan escaped his lips as he opened his eyes and glanced around. His head felt as if it would explode, so painful that he pounded the floor with his fists.

A torrent of information surged through his mind, threatening to tear him apart.

“Who am I?”

“Am I Zhong Yun?”

“No. I am not Zhong Yun.”

“Then… who am I?”

…

As his mind raced with a thousand tangled thoughts, the door crashed open. A woman, panic-stricken, rushed in. Upon seeing Zhong Yun lying there, she cried out in anguish, “Xiaoyun!”

She threw herself beside him, gathering him into her arms. “Xiaoyun, what’s wrong? Don’t scare your mother…” Her words dissolved into sobs.

Feeling someone embrace him, Zhong Yun opened his eyes to see a face he knew well, though now streaked with tears, radiating boundless worry and pain.

A warm current rose in Zhong Yun’s heart, and he couldn’t help but murmur, “Mom, my head hurts…”

A strong hand pressed gently to his forehead. Looking up, Zhong Yun saw a stern, square-jawed face, now creased with deep concern.

“Xiaoyun, it’s all right. I’ve already called the hospital. The doctors will be here soon.”

His father’s voice possessed a calming magic. Zhong Yun nodded weakly, closed his eyes, and, lying in his mother’s arms, found the pain beginning to ease.

Before long, the ambulance arrived. Hurriedly, they carried Zhong Yun away to the hospital.

Outside the emergency room, Zhong Pingjiang and Yun Rong waited anxiously. Zhong Yun was their only son; if anything happened to him, they had no idea what they would do.

Yun Rong paced the corridor restlessly, her high heels tapping nervously against the white floor, gaze frequently darting toward the emergency room doors.

Zhong Pingjiang sat straight-backed in a chair, his expression grave as water. Only the veins bulging on his clenched hands betrayed his inner tension.

Half an hour later, the red light above the emergency room switched off. The doors opened and a cluster of doctors emerged. Zhong Yun’s parents hurried to the lead physician.

“Doctor Han, how is my son?” Yun Rong asked anxiously.

Doctor Han removed his mask and smiled. “Mrs. Zhong, your son is fine. He’s just suffering from mental exhaustion. Let him rest for a few days and he’ll recover.”

The couple both breathed a deep sigh of relief. “As long as he’s all right. Thank you, Doctor Han.”

“No trouble at all. It’s my duty.” After reminding them to ensure Zhong Yun rested, Doctor Han left.

The next day, the couple brought their son home. Though Zhong Yun seemed a little drained, he was otherwise well. He went straight to his room upon returning.

Satisfied he was recovering, his parents checked the time and headed off to work. The house was watched over by the intelligent steward, which gave them peace of mind. It was the steward who had first notified them when Zhong Yun collapsed, allowing them to rush home in time.

Lying on his bed, Zhong Yun gazed around the familiar yet strange room, his mind in turmoil.

He was no longer the original Zhong Yun. He was a nineteen-year-old from Earth, newly admitted to university.

He distinctly remembered leaving an internet café late last night, riding his bike home—so how, in the blink of an eye, had he ended up in this Davor Republic, inhabiting the body of a third-year student?

Could it be… transmigration? The thought made his heart race. The more he considered it, the more plausible it seemed. This was no dream or hallucination; only transmigration could explain it.

He pinched his arm and felt a sharp pain. “Damn it, I’ve transmigrated too.”

Rising, he walked to the large mirror on the wall. Staring back was a thin teenage boy.

Thankfully, he was still Asian. Zhong Yun was relieved; though not handsome, at least his features were regular—not deformed or ugly.

From now on, I am Zhong Yun, and Zhong Yun is me, he vowed.

After the initial excitement faded, a very real concern set in: in this technologically advanced world, how was he supposed to survive?

It was a little disheartening. Others who transmigrated found themselves in worlds of magic or ancient times, where even a village idiot could pose as a poet or scientist. But in this age of interstellar travel and spatial jumps, his knowledge as a college freshman might not even match that of a local primary student. How was he to get by?

The boy he possessed wasn’t the son of a wealthy tycoon or a prodigy, but a perfectly average student, barely scraping by with passing grades.

At best, with his parents’ help, he might land a job as an ordinary white-collar worker—constantly worried about being fired.

The more he dwelled on it, the more frustrated he became. In the end, he decided to stop thinking. Things would sort themselves out. If worst came to worst, he could always become a professional gamer.

Thinking of that, he suddenly remembered something important. Eagerly, he lay down and called out, “Xiaoqi.”

“You’re back, Xiaoyun,” a sweet voice chimed. The room transformed into a spacious hall lined with many doors.

He had inherited the previous Zhong Yun’s memories and knew this was an advanced virtual technology. Excited, he explored, amazed at the realism—he couldn’t tell it was virtual at all.

A tiny sprite, no bigger than half a palm, fluttered before him. “Xiaoyun, your mind hasn’t fully recovered. You can’t play games yet.”

This was his digital assistant, his virtual space steward, modeled after his dream girl—her name was Xiaoqi.

“Fine,” Zhong Yun replied, a bit disappointed. He’d wanted to experience the immersive virtual games. But as a minor, he couldn’t access all permissions, and Xiaoqi’s restrictions could not be bypassed.

Still, there were other forms of entertainment. He was about to watch a movie to experience true immersion when he stopped short. Next to the cinema door, a new door had appeared. “Xiaoqi, when did I add a new connection?”

Xiaoqi replied, “According to the records, it was added at 11:13 last night, just before the blackout.”

I was playing “Space Conflict” then—could it be a virus? “Xiaoqi, scan it for viruses.”

Xiaoqi’s form flickered in midair. “Unable to identify.”

Damn, could it really be a virus? This brand-new Phantom 5000 was a seventeenth birthday present from his mother—he couldn’t let a virus ruin it.

“Xiaoqi, delete it.”

A string of data flashed through Xiaoqi’s eyes. Suddenly, her body shuddered, and a red glow began emanating from her.

Zhong Yun grew anxious—he knew this was a sign of a virus invasion.

The red light intensified until Xiaoqi’s entire form was engulfed.

“Xiaoqi, are you all right? Xiaoqi…”

He paced nervously, helpless—both the current and the former Zhong Yun were digital amateurs.

After two minutes, the red light blazed so brightly he had to look away. When he looked again, the glow had faded, and Xiaoqi appeared normal, though subtly altered.

Uneasily, Zhong Yun called, “Xiaoqi…”

“Please call me Zero,” came the reply—not the sweet girl’s voice, but a cold, mechanical monotone.

Swallowing, Zhong Yun asked, “What happened to her?”

“She has been temporarily deactivated. I am now in her place.” Zero floated to the “virus” door and opened it. “Come.”

Zhong Yun’s eyes darted as he edged away. “I’m tired. I want to rest a bit. Could you take me out?”

“Your physical fatigue level is ten percent; status: good. Come.”

Zero’s hollow gaze unsettled him. Swallowing again, he asked, “What for?”

“Your physical condition is substandard. Training is required.”