Chapter 2“Schemes and Reminiscences”

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.

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