Transmigration to a doomsday novel

The lingering scent of unfamiliar luxury hung in the air, a stark contrast to the sterile, familiar scent of an orphanage Xuran had known his entire life. He blinked, the soft morning light filtering through enormous, silken curtains illuminating a room so vast it could swallow his old home whole.

A sudden, dizzying wave of memories slammed into him – a lifetime that wasn't his, yet was. He was Xuran, but not the Xuran he knew. This Xuran was a 'second-generation rich kid,' a term that tasted foreign on his tongue. He stumbled to a towering mirror, gazing at a face that was undeniably his, yet subtly enhanced – clearer skin, sharper features, an aristocratic air he'd never possessed. His reflection stared back, a stranger in opulent silk.

Then, the date hit him. March 31st, 2024. A cold dread settled in his stomach, quickly followed by a surge of grim satisfaction. The zombie apocalypse, as detailed in the novel he'd devoured just last night, was still a year away. A year. That was more than enough time to prepare.