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Inside the damp, decaying cave, darkness and stifling air mingled with a complex, suffocating stench that made it hard to breathe.

A naked infant lay among a pile of leaves, eyes still unopened, lips tightly pursed instinctively.

Just taking a breath nearly sent her spirit soaring to heaven.

The smell was unbearably foul. She had no idea where this place was—why it was so dark, so foul-smelling—it was enough to choke a person.

Lin Yan had never imagined that dedicating herself to scientific research would mean becoming a baby. Yet even breathing fresh air was such a struggle.

It was truly unbearable.

Since she became aware, a long time must have passed.

But she still hadn’t seen the light.

At first, consciousness floated in a warm embrace, but before she could adjust, a sudden pressure squeezed her body, accompanied by noisy buzzing sounds from outside, bringing her to this suffocating place.

She heard voices—those were her mother’s soothing words.

Yes, her hearing was normal; she could understand human speech but could not speak.

She had tried hard to open her mouth, but only managed a few “ah ah ah” sounds.

Her vision seemed impaired—not exactly abnormal, but her eyes felt glued shut by something, refusing to open.

Unable to see was one thing, yet Lin Yan now wished her sense of smell would fail her.

She had come to understand that she was a newborn baby, limbs flexible but five senses incomplete, unable to speak or see.

In the darkness, Lin Yan lost track of time, feeling only endless torment.

To avoid suffocation, she let herself succumb to the body’s instinctive call to sleep deeply.

Only hunger or urgent bodily needs roused her briefly.

At this moment, she was hungry, and the breath she took nearly suffocated her.

But the instinct to survive forced her to struggle here.

She waited. Her mother seemed absent, and no one else was nearby.

Her body was simply too weak; her small stomach growled.

The pain of hunger was unbearable.

Lin Yan tried to turn over, but her body couldn’t keep up with her mind.

She stretched out both tiny arms, trying to press down her churning belly.

After much struggling, it was futile.

Hunger grew stronger until she felt she might die of starvation—then she heard familiar footsteps.

Light but urgent.

Lin Yan was certain those were her mother’s steps, well known to her.

Sure enough, just as she thought this, she was lifted up, something was stuffed into her mouth, and she immediately sucked hard.

The milky aroma filled her mouth.

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Lin Yan swallowed greedily; the pain of hunger was truly life-threatening.

At first, she felt a bit shy, but there was nothing else to eat, and the hunger was too overwhelming, so she gave in.

After a few mouthfuls, Lin Yan gained some strength to think further.

Rough textures touched her hand, accompanied by a fishy, pungent smell.

Lin Yan began to wonder what this thing could be.

She could only be sure it was her mother’s clothing, but what exactly, she could not tell.

Since birth, she had only been in contact with her mother, and seemed to have become immune to this scent.

There was no other choice; she had to accept it. This infant body forced her to submit.

Hua Hong looked down at the baby in her arms, her dark, rough face breaking into a slight smile as she whispered, “Good child, I’m sorry for letting you go hungry. It’s your mother’s fault.”

Lin Yan busily swallowed, waving her short arms to signal that it was alright.

Hua Hong gently squeezed her little arms and smiled.

This was her third child, and another girl.

The previous two—a boy and a girl—had not survived. Hua Hong deeply hoped this child would live strongly.

The Sun Tribe had lasted many years, but its population never truly grew.

When natural disasters or human calamities forced migrations, children under ten rarely survived.

As a member of the Sun Tribe, Hua Hong was nearly thirty and had endured five tribal relocations.

Lin Yan, now full and sated, grew sleepy again.

Upon waking, she was nearly suffocated by the foul air once more.

Instinctively, she tried to open her eyes, expecting no change—yet this time, they opened.

Her eyes were fine.

Joy surged through her; Lin Yan waved her arms and legs, babbling excitedly.

Then she realized the cave was dim and damp, and she was alone.

The only light was coming from the cave’s entrance ahead.

Lin Yan concluded this was an underground cave.

Why live underground?

Damp, stifling, and poorly ventilated, it was clearly not a suitable dwelling.

But no one could answer her questions.

The excitement faded, and Lin Yan’s instinctive sleepiness overwhelmed her again.

Just as she was about to close her eyes, she suddenly woke with a start.

What was that?

She thought she had just seen a vast science museum, like one she had known in her previous life.

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Taking a deep breath, the stench remained. Lin Yan was sure it was no illusion—she really had become a baby.

Closing her eyes, the image of that science museum seemed to reside in her mind.

She was certain it wasn’t a memory.

The grand, magnificent science museum she had known was full of shifting colors, encompassing everything. It chronicled human evolution, recording all from humanity’s beginning.

Records were shown in words and images, vivid and lifelike.

The science museum in her mind was gray and dull, resembling it but stripped of soul.

The only certainty was that when she opened her eyes, the museum’s great doors were open, revealing many floors and numerous rooms.

In the center of the first floor stood a huge black sphere, like a black crystal ball—what it was used for she didn’t know.

She could only view one room on the first floor.

Because only that room was lit, the rest gray, as if access was restricted.

Could this be some kind of time-travel benefit?

Curious, Lin Yan looked at the lit room, numbered 0101. It was nothing like the museum she remembered; she had no idea what was inside.

As a baby, all she could do was eat and sleep—and sleep and eat. With nothing else to do, she decided to take a look.

Just as she was about to enter, her body’s instinct overtook her, and she fell asleep.

Woken by the need to urinate, Lin Yan had no time to call out before feeling warmth beneath her.

At that moment, she felt utterly humiliated. Her body was out of control—it was unbearable.

Since she was lying on a pile of leaves, it didn’t matter much. She struggled to shift slightly and prepared to sleep again.

Suddenly, remembering her earlier discovery, she hurried, while still awake, to see what was inside the lit room numbered 0101.

No sooner had she thought this than she found herself inside.

The room was about two hundred square meters, filled with old wooden display shelves holding countless books.

She examined the shelves and tried pulling a book out—it came free. She took one, its yellowed pages indicating great age.

This must be a museum specimen. In her previous scientific world, no one used books anymore.

But in human history, books had lasted a long, long time.

Thinking too much, she decided to see what kind of book it was.

Lin Yan looked closely. The title was “Primitive Manual.”

What kind of book was this? She was filled with questions.