Agony.

Unbearable agony.

It felt as though his skull was about to explode.

In a dreamscape of dazzling chaos, countless whispers wove together and swirled in his ears—until the dream shattered like glass. Zhou Mingrui was jolted awake by the violent pain piercing through his head. It was as if someone were hammering his skull with an iron rod—no, more like a sharp awl being driven into his temple and stirred relentlessly.

Hss...

In a haze of pain and confusion, Zhou Mingrui tried to turn over, to clutch his head, to sit up—but his limbs wouldn't respond. His body no longer seemed to belong to him.

He hadn’t truly woken up yet. He was still dreaming... possibly caught in that illusion of false awakening, the kind where one believes they’ve awakened but remains trapped in slumber. Drawing from past experiences, Zhou Mingrui focused all his will, trying to break free from the darkness and hallucination.

But in this half-dream, half-awake state, his consciousness was like drifting smoke, impossible to gather. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts scattered, stray emotions rising like weeds.

Why now? Why this sudden headache in the middle of the night?

And why is it this bad?

Could it be a brain hemorrhage?

God... am I going to die so young?

Wake up! Come on, wake up!

Hmm... it feels a little better now? But my brain still feels like it’s being slowly sliced by a dull blade...

Looks like I won’t be sleeping again tonight. How am I supposed to work tomorrow?

Work? With a headache like this? Obviously I’ll be taking a day off! Let the manager nag all he wants.

On second thought, maybe this isn't so bad after all... heh, a stolen half-day of freedom.

As the waves of pain surged and receded, Zhou Mingrui slowly gathered his strength. Finally, he sat up straight with a jolt, eyes snapping open.

His vision was blurred at first, then tinged with a faint red hue. The first thing he saw was a wooden desk, its natural grain visible, and an open notebook in the center. On its coarse, yellowed pages, a single line of bold, black text had been written in strange letters.

To the left of the notebook, seven or eight books were stacked neatly. To the right, a gray-white pipe ran along the wall, connected to a vintage wall lamp. The lamp had a distinctly Western style, about half the size of a human head, with an inner layer of clear glass encased in a black metal lattice.

Beneath the extinguished lamp, a black ink bottle glimmered faintly under the crimson moonlight. A vague angelic pattern was embossed on the bottle. In front of it, beside the notebook, lay a round-bodied fountain pen. Its nib caught the light faintly, and next to it—shockingly—sat a brass revolver and its uncapped pen lid.

A gun? A revolver?

Zhou Mingrui was stunned. Everything around him was unfamiliar. It bore no resemblance to the room he remembered.

In his dazed confusion, he noticed that the desk, notebook, ink bottle, and revolver were all bathed in a thin layer of crimson “veil”— the glow streaming in from the window.

Instinctively, he looked up, his gaze slowly rising.

Suspended in a sky as dark as velvet hung a blood-red full moon, casting its eerie light in silence.

What… Zhou Mingrui’s heart pounded in fear. He shot to his feet, but before he could straighten his legs, another wave of sharp pain surged through his skull, sapping his strength and sending him crashing back into the hard wooden chair.

Smack!

The pain didn’t stop him. Gritting his teeth, Zhou Mingrui braced against the desk, stood up again, and turned around in panic to take in his surroundings.

It was a narrow room with two brown wooden doors on either side. Against the opposite wall stood a bunk bed.

Between the bed and the left door was a cabinet with double doors on top and five drawers below. Beside it, on the wall, gray-white pipes led to a strange mechanical device, its gears and bearings exposed.

In the right corner near the desk, a stove-like structure sat with pots and pans arranged nearby. To the right of that, next to the door, was a standing mirror with two cracks running across it. Its wooden base bore simple carvings.

As his eyes passed over the mirror, Zhou Mingrui caught a glimpse of his reflection:

Black hair. Brown eyes. A linen shirt. Slim build. Ordinary, but with sharp and defined features…

This… Zhou Mingrui gasped. A storm of wild thoughts surged through his mind.

A revolver, vintage Western décor, and a scarlet moon unlike anything on Earth—everything pointed to one possibility.

Did… did I transmigrate? His mouth slowly fell open in shock.

He had read plenty of web novels growing up, often imagining such a scenario, but now that it seemed real—he couldn’t bring himself to accept it.

So this is what they call the fear of getting what you wished for... he muttered with a bitter smile.

If not for the persistent pain keeping his mind alert, he might have believed it was still a dream.

Calm down. Calm down. Calm down…

Taking deep breaths, Zhou Mingrui worked to steady his emotions.

Just then, as his thoughts settled, fragmented memories began to surface in his mind:

Klein Moretti, a native of Tingen City, Ahowa County, Loen Kingdom, on the Northern Continent. A recent graduate of the History Department at Hoy University…

His father, a sergeant in the Royal Army, had died in colonial conflict on the Southern Continent. The compensation allowed Klein to attend a private grammar school and paved the way to university…

His mother, a follower of the Goddess of the Night, had passed away the year he was accepted into university…

He had an older brother and a younger sister; the three of them shared a modest two-bedroom apartment…

The family was poor, surviving on his brother’s salary as a clerk in a trading firm…

As a history major, Klein had learned Ancient Feysac, the root of Northern Continent languages, and Hermes, a ritual language often found in ancient tombs…

Hermes? Zhou Mingrui blinked, pressing his temples as his eyes returned to the notebook. The once-unfamiliar script was slowly becoming recognizable—eventually, he could read the sentence clearly.

It was written in Hermes:

"Everyone dies. Including me."

Hss—

A chill ran down Zhou Mingrui’s spine. He instinctively leaned away from the notebook, his weakened body nearly toppling over. He clutched the desk for support, feeling as though the very air had grown restless. Whispers curled at the edge of his ears—like the ones he used to imagine while listening to ghost stories as a child.

He shook his head, and the illusion vanished. Steadying himself, he looked away and gasped for breath.

Then, his eyes fell on the brass revolver, and a new doubt rose in his mind:

"With Klein’s financial situation, how could he afford a gun?"

Frowning, he fell deep into thought—until he noticed something new on the edge of the desk:

A half palm-print, dark red and dense, darker than the moonlight, thicker than the crimson veil.

It was a bloodstain.

"Blood?!" Zhou Mingrui instinctively examined the hand he had used to brace himself against the desk. His right palm and fingers were covered in blood.

At the same time, the headache still lingered—less intense, but unrelenting.

"Could I have hit my head?" he muttered, heading toward the cracked mirror.

A few steps in, the reflection showed a young man of medium build, black hair, brown eyes, and a scholarly air.

So this is me now... Klein Moretti?

He paused. The lighting was too dim to see clearly, so he moved closer, nearly touching the glass.

Bathed in the faint red glow, he turned his head to inspect his temple.

In the mirror, the injury was grotesquely clear: the skin was burned at the edges, surrounded by dried blood, and deep within the wound, he could see a sliver of gray-white brain matter... still squirming.

Knock knock knock!

Zhou Mingrui stumbled back from the mirror in horror, as if the reflection before him wasn’t his own, but that of a withered corpse.

How could anyone still be alive with such a fatal wound?!

In disbelief, he turned his head to check the other temple. Even with the dim lighting and awkward angle, he could still see the bloody puncture wound and the dark, dried blood surrounding it.

“This…”

He drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.

He placed a hand over his chest. His heart was pounding violently, beating strong within his ribs.

He touched the skin of his bare arm—cold to the touch, but warmth still flowed beneath.

He squatted, then stood, testing his legs. They moved freely. Slowly, the panic in his heart began to subside.

“What the hell is going on?” he muttered, frowning and preparing to inspect his head again.

Just two steps forward, and he paused.

The crimson moonlight streaming through the window wasn’t nearly enough to “inspect” anything carefully.

Suddenly, a memory fragment flashed through his mind. Zhou Mingrui turned his gaze to the wall-mounted gas lamp beside the desk, connected to the grayish pipe.

It was one of the latest gas lamps—reliable, steady, and bright.

By all logic, Klein Moretti’s family could never afford such a luxury. Even kerosene lamps were a stretch. Candles were far more in line with their status.

But four years ago, while preparing for the Hoy University entrance exam, Klein’s older brother Benson had insisted on creating the best study environment possible—even if it meant going into debt.

Of course, Benson wasn’t reckless. Educated and experienced, he convinced their landlord to cover the renovation cost by arguing that installing a gas line would raise the apartment’s value. Then, leveraging his job at the import-export firm, he managed to buy a new lamp at near-wholesale price. In the end, the whole thing was done without borrowing a single coin.

The memory faded. Zhou Mingrui returned to the desk, opened the valve, and turned the switch on the gas lamp.

Click-click. The igniter made crisp sounds, but no flame appeared.

Click-click! He tried again. Still nothing.

“Hmm…” Zhou Mingrui pressed his temple, searching for the relevant memory.

Moments later, he walked toward the door and approached another device on the wall, also connected to gray pipes.

A gas meter.

He studied its exposed gears and bearings, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin.

A dull yellow copper penny—one of the standard coins of the Loen Kingdom. On the front was the portrait of a crowned man, and on the back, a large “1” surrounded by wheat stalks.

He knew this was the lowest denomination: one penny. Worth about three or four yuan in his old world. Though higher values existed—five-pence, half-pence, and quarter-pence—small coins like this were still commonly used in daily life.

Fiddling with the copper penny, minted during the coronation of George III, Zhou Mingrui slid it into the coin slot on the meter.

Clink! Clank!

The coin dropped into the machine, followed by a series of soft mechanical clicks. The gears turned, producing a brief, pleasant tune.

After a moment’s watch, Zhou Mingrui returned to the desk and flicked the lamp switch again.

Click-click. Snap!

A flame burst forth, expanding rapidly. Light filled the inside of the lamp, then spilled through the glass, illuminating the room in full.

The darkness vanished in an instant. The eerie moonlight was banished from the room. Zhou Mingrui felt an inexplicable sense of relief and hurried back to the mirror.

This time, he carefully examined the wound on his temple, not overlooking a single detail.

Upon repeated inspection, he discovered something strange: aside from the initial bloodstain, the grotesque wound wasn’t bleeding anymore. It was as if it had been professionally treated. Even more unbelievable, the grayish brain tissue was still slowly squirming, and the edges of the wound were visibly healing—regenerating at a speed visible to the naked eye. In a few hours, it might fully recover.

“Is this… some kind of healing effect from transmigration?” Zhou Mingrui whispered, a faint smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

He let out a long sigh of relief. No matter what—he was alive.

He steadied his mind, pulled open a drawer, and took out a bar of soap. Grabbing an old towel from beside the cabinet, he opened the door and headed to the shared bathroom on the second floor.

First things first: he had to clean up the blood. Otherwise, he’d scare his little sister Melissa when she woke early in the morning.

The corridor was pitch black. Only the faint crimson moonlight at the far end window outlined the shapes of furniture, like the eyes of a lurking midnight creature.

Zhou Mingrui tread lightly, heart pounding, as he made his way to the washroom.

Inside, the moonlight was brighter. Standing at the sink, he turned on the faucet. The sound of running water made him suddenly think of Mr. Frankie, the landlord.

Since water bills were included in the rent, the short, skinny man—always in a top hat, vest, and black overcoat—would routinely sneak around the building, listening for water.

If the sound was too loud, Mr. Frankie would abandon all pretense of gentlemanly decorum, pounding the door with his cane while roaring:

“Shameless thief!”“Waste is the greatest sin!”“I’ll remember your face!”“One more time and I’ll throw you and your filthy belongings out!”“Trust me, this is the best-priced apartment in all of Tingen! You’ll never find a more generous landlord!”

Zhou Mingrui smirked faintly at the memory. He soaked the towel and repeatedly wiped the blood from his face.

Once the mirror reflected only a pale complexion and a wound, he breathed a sigh of relief. He removed his linen shirt and began scrubbing the bloodstains with soap.

That’s when another thought hit him:

“With that kind of wound and all that blood, there must be more evidence back in the room!”

A few minutes later, Zhou Mingrui returned, cleaned shirt in hand. He quickly wiped the bloody handprint from the desk, then searched for any other traces using the gas lamp's light.

It didn’t take long.

He spotted scattered blood droplets on the floor beneath the desk—and lying beside the left-hand wall, a brass bullet.

“...A shot to the temple with a revolver?”

Everything clicked into place. Zhou Mingrui now had a basic understanding of Klein’s death.

He didn’t rush to test his theory. First, he cleaned up the remaining bloodstains and the scene.

Then, he returned to the desk, bullet in hand. Opening the revolver’s chamber, he tilted it left and dumped out the rounds.

Clatter, clatter. Five bullets and an empty casing rolled across the desk, gleaming under the light.

“Just as I thought...” Zhou Mingrui studied the spent casing, nodding as he reloaded the revolver one bullet at a time.

His gaze drifted to the notebook and the haunting line:

"Everyone dies. Including me."

A flood of new questions surged in his mind:

Where did the gun come from?Was it suicide—or a staged one?What kind of trouble could a history graduate from a humble family get into?Why was there so little blood from a headshot? Was it due to the healing from my transmigration?

Zhou Mingrui fell into deep thought.

For now, Klein’s fate wasn’t the priority. The most important thing was to understand how he had transmigrated—and how to return!

His parents, his friends, the internet, the food—everything was pulling him back home.

Click. Clack. Unconsciously, Zhou Mingrui spun the revolver’s chamber again and again.

“My life wasn’t too different lately... just a string of bad luck. But why transmigrate all of a sudden?”

Bad luck... that’s right! I did that 'fortune ritual' before dinner tonight!

Like a flash of lightning, the fog in his memory cleared.

As a seasoned internet lurker, Zhou Mingrui prided himself on “knowing a bit of everything”—though his friends often mocked him for “only knowing the surface of everything.”

Occultism was one of his many interests.

Last year, while visiting home, he’d picked up a worn thread-bound book from a street stall:"A Summary of Qin and Han Esoteric Arts."He’d bought it for fun, intending to show it off online. But the vertical layout was hard to read, so he’d quickly tossed it aside.

Recently, after a streak of misfortune—lost phone, canceled client orders, work blunders—he remembered a simple luck-changing ritual described in the preface. No prep required.

He had simply divided the local staple food into four portions and placed them in the four corners of the room—on tables, cabinets, etc. Then, standing in the center, he took four counterclockwise steps to form a square.

Each step came with a whispered phrase:

Step 1: “Blessed One of the Mysterious Yellow Immortal.”Step 2: “Blessed One of the Mysterious Yellow Celestial Lord.”Step 3: “Blessed One of the Mysterious Yellow God.”Step 4: “Blessed One of the Mysterious Yellow Heavenly Venerable.”

Then he closed his eyes and waited silently for five minutes. The ritual was done.

He’d done it half-heartedly, thinking: “Well, at least it’s free.”

Nothing happened at the time.

Who could have guessed… he’d transmigrate in the middle of the night?!

Transmigrate!

“It must be that ritual! If I do it again tomorrow in this world—maybe I can go back!”

Zhou Mingrui sat up straight, eyes bright, the revolver now resting silently in his hands.

No matter what—he had to try.

After all, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Zhou Mingrui finally had a clear goal, and the fear and anxiety in his heart dissipated by more than half. He let out a long breath and finally had the presence of mind to carefully sort through the remaining memory fragments of Klein.

He habitually stood up to shut off the gas valve, watching the light of the wall lamp gradually dim and then extinguish completely. Sitting back down at the desk, he unconsciously rubbed the brass cylinder of the revolver while pressing his temple with the other hand, quietly “flipping through” those memory fragments in the crimson moonlit darkness—like the most focused viewer in a cinema.

Due to the bullet wound, Klein’s memories were like shattered glass: not only fragmented but with many crucial parts completely missing. For example: where did this well-crafted revolver come from? Was it suicide or murder? What did that line in the notebook—“Everyone will die, including me”—really mean? Had he been involved in some strange activities in the past two days?

It wasn’t just these specific memories that were incomplete—even his knowledge base had gaps. In his current state, Zhou Mingrui was certain that if Klein were to return to university now, he likely wouldn’t even be able to graduate—despite having left school only a few days prior, and always being diligent and studious.

“There’s a history department interview at Tingen University in two days...”“It’s customary in the Loen Kingdom for university graduates not to stay at their alma mater... The professor provided two letters of recommendation, one for Tingen University and one for Backlund University...”

As Zhou Mingrui immersed himself in these memory fragments, the crimson moon outside the window slowly sank westward. The eastern sky brightened with a fish-belly white glow, and the horizon was tinged with gold.

At that moment, sounds came from the inner room, followed soon by approaching footsteps.

“Melissa is awake... She’s always so punctual.” Zhou Mingrui couldn’t help but smile. Influenced by Klein’s memories, he felt a natural closeness to this younger sister.

Even though, in reality, I don’t have a younger sister... he silently added.

Unlike her two older brothers, Melissa hadn’t received her early education in the Night Goddess’ Sunday School. By the time she was of age, the Loen Kingdom had passed the “Elementary Education Act,” established the Board of Basic and Secondary Education, and significantly increased education funding.

Within just three years, a surge of public elementary schools—religiously neutral and independent from the rivalries of the Lord of Storms, the Goddess of the Night, and the God of Steam and Machinery—were established, integrating many church-run schools.

Compared to Sunday School, which charged just one penny per week but only held classes on Sundays, the public schools charged three pence but offered a full six-day curriculum—essentially making it a form of near-free education.

Melissa, unlike most girls, had been fascinated by gears, springs, bearings, and mechanical parts from a young age, and had dreamed of becoming a steam mechanic.

Her eldest brother Benson, who understood the importance of education, supported her dream just as he had supported Klein’s university journey. After all, Tingen Technical School was only a secondary-level institution and didn’t require preparatory grammar or public schooling like universities did.

Last July, at age fifteen, Melissa passed the entrance exam and fulfilled her wish to enroll in the Department of Steam and Machinery at Tingen Technical School. Her tuition rose to nine pence per week.

At the same time, Benson’s job at the import-export company was severely affected by the unstable situation in the Southern Continent. Business and profits plummeted, and more than a third of the staff were laid off. In order to keep his job and support the family, Benson had to take on heavier workloads and frequent trips to harsh environments—just like these past few days.

Klein had wanted to share his brother’s burdens, but his commoner background made him acutely aware of his disadvantages in university. For instance, Old Feysac—the root of the Northern Continent’s common tongue—was a compulsory childhood subject for nobles and the wealthy. Klein hadn’t encountered it until college.

There were countless similar gaps. Klein had practically pushed himself to the limit—burning the midnight oil—to barely keep up, eventually graduating with average grades.

Memories of his elder brother bounced through Zhou Mingrui’s mind until the sound of a doorknob turning in the inner room snapped him back to reality. He suddenly realized he was still holding the revolver in his hand.

This is a restricted, dangerous item!It would scare a kid!And there’s the wound on my temple!

As Melissa stepped out, Zhou Mingrui hastily pressed his temple and scrambled to open the desk drawer, tossing the revolver inside with a muffled thud.

“What was that?” Melissa glanced over with a puzzled look.

In the prime of her youth, she appeared pale and thin due to poor nutrition, but her skin still retained the unique glow of a young girl.

Facing her curious brown eyes, Zhou Mingrui forced a calm demeanor, casually picked up something next to the drawer, and shut it. With his other hand, he checked that the wound on his temple had fully healed.

What he had picked up was a silver pocket watch with vine and leaf patterns. He gently pressed the top button, and the cover sprang open.

This was their father’s—once a Royal Army sergeant—the most valuable heirloom he left behind. But as a second-hand item, it had been breaking down frequently in recent years. Even a watchmaker couldn’t fix it completely. Benson, who liked using it as a prop, had repeatedly been embarrassed and eventually left it at home.

To be fair, Melissa had a real knack for mechanics. After learning the theory at technical school, she began repairing the pocket watch using school tools. Recently, she had claimed to have fully restored it!

Zhou Mingrui looked at the open cover—yet the second hand didn’t move. Instinctively, he turned the top knob, trying to wind it.

But after a few turns, there was no tension sound, and the second hand stayed still.

“Seems like it’s broken again,” he said awkwardly to his sister.

Melissa glanced at him expressionlessly, strode over, and snatched the pocket watch from his hand.

She stood there, pulled the top button out, and after a few turns, the familiar tick-tock sounded.

Wait... wasn’t that button supposed to be for setting the time? Zhou Mingrui’s expression froze.

Just then, the distant church bell rang, chiming six times and echoing through the cool morning air.

Melissa listened carefully, then pulled the top button out a bit further and turned it to set the time.

“All done,” she said flatly, handing the pocket watch back to Zhou Mingrui.

He returned a sheepish but polite smile.

Melissa gave him a long, deep look before walking to the cabinet, grabbing her toothbrush and towel, and heading for the shared bathroom.

“That look just now... Was she looking at her idiot brother?”“That helpless gaze of 'caring for the disabled'?”

Zhou Mingrui chuckled softly and clicked the watch cover shut—clack. Then popped it open again—snap.

He repeated this action mechanically, while his thoughts drifted to another issue:

If Klein had committed suicide—just hypothetically—the revolver blast would’ve been loud. With only a wall between them, how had Melissa not noticed anything?

Was she such a deep sleeper? Or was Klein’s “suicide” even more bizarre than he thought?

Snap—watch opens. Clack—watch shuts. When Melissa returned from washing up, she saw her brother mechanically repeating this motion.

She gave him the same helpless look and said in a sweet tone:

“Klein, bring out the rest of the bread. Remember to buy more today, along with lamb and peas. Your interview is coming up—I’ll make lamb stew with peas for you.”

As she spoke, she dragged the stove from the corner, lit it using leftover embers, and boiled a pot of water.

When the water was nearly boiling, she opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet and retrieved a tin of cheap tea leaves like it was treasure, tossing a few into the kettle and pretending it was real tea.

They each poured a large cup and shared two slices of rye bread.

Though there was no sawdust in the mix and not much bran, it was still hard to swallow... Zhou Mingrui, physically weak, forced himself to finish it with the help of tea.

A few minutes later, Melissa finished breakfast, tied up her long black hair, and said:

“Don’t forget to buy new bread. Just eight pounds—it spoils fast in the heat. And get lamb and peas, remember!”

She really doesn’t trust her bookish brother’s memory... Zhou Mingrui smiled and nodded:

“Got it.”

Based on Klein’s memory and his own conversion, Zhou Mingrui knew that one “pound” in the Loen Kingdom was roughly equivalent to half a kilogram in his previous world.

Melissa didn’t say more. She tidied up, packed the last slice of bread in a lunchbox, put on the tattered veil left by their mother, slung on her handmade satchel, and headed for the door.

It wasn’t Sunday, so she had a full day of classes.

The walk to Tingen Technical School took about 50 minutes. Though there were public carriages (one penny per kilometer, up to four within the city, six in the suburbs), Melissa always chose to walk to save money.

Just as she opened the door, she paused, turned slightly, and said:

“Klein, don’t buy too much lamb or peas—Benson might not be back until Sunday. And remember, just eight pounds of bread.”

“Yeah, got it,” Zhou Mingrui replied helplessly.

At the same time, he mentally repeated the word Sunday several times.

On the Northern Continent, the year also had twelve months, with 365 or 366 days, and a seven-day week.

The former made Zhou suspect this world was a parallel one, while the latter was clearly linked to religion—after all, the orthodox Seven Gods of the Northern Continent were: the Eternal Blazing Sun, the Lord of Storms, the God of Knowledge and Wisdom, the Goddess of the Night, the Earth Mother, the God of War, and the God of Steam and Machinery.

As he watched his sister close the door and leave, Zhou Mingrui let out a soft sigh and quickly turned his thoughts back to the fortune-reversal ritual.

Sorry, but I really want to go home...