The good news is that I traveled through another world and became a deity. The bad news is that I am an evil god, and because I have no followers, I am about to be destroyed.
On the top of a mountain shrouded in fog, a temple crouches like a forgotten heirloom, its green tiles and flying eaves blending into the mist, as if bowing to an ancient secret.
The courtyard, arranged in a traditional quadrangle, is surrounded by walls covered in moss, with wooden doors carved with cranes holding ginseng—a symbol of peace that has faded but remains discernible. The creaking of the mortise and tenon joints sounds like the prolonged sighs of a deceased monk.
Inside the courtyard, moss-covered stone bricks are cool yet not biting, guiding visitors through the eaves. The gentle clinking of copper bells echoes like jade stones colliding, their melody intertwining with the scent of mugwort hanging from the corridor columns.
Beyond the misty wall, eerie and disturbing murmurs wound their way like rusty chains dragging across stone, their tone shrill and out of tune, as if a broken harmonica were being tuned by deaf hands.
The Transmigrator sat slumped on the altar of the dilapidated temple, his stone fingertips digging deep into his palms. The altar was nothing more than a platform made of three cracked green stone slabs, with moss growing in the cracks, resembling the electrocardiogram he saw in the hospital when he first arrived.
The four rows of wooden frames in the temple courtyard had long since rotted away, and the crooked beams were hung with half-faded prayer flags that rustled like torn cloth in the wind, startling the crows perched on the beams.
In the corner of the main hall, spider webs piled up to waist height, and a television set sat in the center of the altar, its casing cracked in three places, the antenna bent into an eerie curve, and the snowflakes on the screen resembling the old second-hand color TV from his hometown that had been used for ten years.
This was clearly some kind of transcendent space—perhaps a realm of consciousness? He "looked" at his stone-like palms, with grains of sand lodged between his fingers, yet he lacked the strength to lift even a fingertip. On his first day as a deity, he was tormented by hunger to the point of collapse. It wasn't the physical hunger of an empty stomach, but a void deep in his soul, as if countless ants were gnawing at his soul, reminding him that he was slowly "dying."
"It's like being hungry and wanting to eat, or thirsty and wanting to drink," he thought bitterly, his gaze sweeping over the television screen. The image suddenly became clear: a man in a deep gray-blue uniform was tapping a luminous staff against the ground as he questioned passersby.
The matte-finished armor plates on his shoulders and elbows were embedded with tiny fragments of crystal, and with each step, they emitted a few almost invisible sparks of blue light, like crushed stars.
The three iron chains on his cuffs were rusted thin, emitting a faint "click" with each movement of the baton. The three-sided crystal edges at the tip were worn smooth, resembling an old police baton salvaged from a scrap yard.
"Have you seen any traces of heretics in the neighborhood recently? Or any suspicious statues?" The man who appeared to be a police officer asked everyone who passed by in a language that the transmigrator could understand perfectly.
It was as if fate was mocking the transmigrator by placing a religious police officer next to the statue of an evil god! Moreover, judging from the triangular badge and clothing on the police officer's uniform, he did not seem to belong to the same religious system as the statue.
Fortunately, fate was only mocking him and did not actually harm the Transmigrator. When Miryam Croft's small hands, covered in coal dust, picked through the trash heap in Ashrat Alley, the Transmigrator "felt" the core beneath the stone skin slightly warm.
She was dressed in rags, her body and face covered in grime. Her disheveled linen braids were tied loosely at the nape of her neck, with strands of hair sticky with coal dust trembling in the wind.
Her round face resembled a peach someone had forgotten to wash, her nose and brow smudged with coal dust, yet unable to hide the moisture in her large, bell-like eyes. Her tattered cotton-linen skirt was stained with mud, and the frayed collar revealed her porcelain-white collarbone, creating a striking contrast with her gray-dusted fingertips.
Such a beautiful young girl was indeed rare in the slums.
The pocket of her apron was torn, revealing half of a worn pencil—a precious gift from her brother.
Perhaps it was a privilege of being a deity, but Transmigrators could understand the languages of this world. She didn't know if they could understand all languages or only the languages of this country.
Every Transmigrator should have the ability to gather information independently. Only by first understanding this world could they live better. Fate also gave the Transmigrators a little surprise. This family was not religious, at least not devoutly so.
Because Miryam Croft brought a divine statue home and showed it off to her sister Hannah Croft, this unnamed divine statue, though old, was finely crafted. The cracked robe was inlaid with dull metal of unknown origin, and taking it to Old Hawk might fetch a good price.
"I picked it up from the trash heap in Ashrat Alley," she whispered, as fragments of seaweed fell from the broken sleeve of the statue. "Old Hawk bought a broken statue last week and gave Polly's mother two shillings for it. This stone is twice as heavy as the statue, and the patterns look like they've been soaked in seawater for hundreds of years!"
"Do you know there's a serial killer out there? You shouldn't be wandering around at this hour—it's too dangerous."
The kerosene lamp in the attic cast a dim, flickering light, revealing the patches sewn onto Hannah's apron, made from her father's old work clothes.
Hannah's thimble hung above the patched-up children's trousers, the needle tip flickering in the oil lamp's light: "The constable burned three carved wooden boxes in the laundry room last month, saying the wood grain hid heretical incantations."
"I just brought the clothes over and..." Miryam sounded a bit wronged. She shoved the stone statue into Hannah's hands. "Look at this! It must be worth a fortune!"
Hannah took the stone statue, staring at its palm-up posture. The gesture was completely different from the "Holy Covenant Grip" of the sacred statue, as if it were holding something intangible.
Hannah's fingertips traced the broken crown on the statue. The metal crown embedded in the stone was dull in color but not made of any material she recognized: "Perhaps it could fetch ten shillings?"
"Ten shillings!" Miryam couldn't help but cry out. Their father might not earn that much in a week of hard work at the docks, and little Miryam only earned a measly six pence a day washing clothes!
Hannah didn't say it out loud, but the weight of the statue's base reminded her of the crushed crystal ore her father had hidden in the soles of his boots, which was the family's last hope for paying the rent.
Even a small piece of these rare metals and ores was incredibly valuable, and a complete piece as large as the statue's crown was certainly worth more than the crushed crystals.
Hannah suddenly dropped her sewing frame, and the sewing machine's pedal screeched. The landlady's shouts mingled with the rain and echoed through the house.
She stared at the statue's fingers peeking out from under her sister's apron: "Hide it at the bottom of the coal box and cover it with Dad's old work clothes."
She reached into the pocket of her apron for the worn-out saint's medal bracelet, the metal clasp digging into her palm, "Last month, Aunt Martha sold her old candlestick, and now she's still breaking stones in the mine."
Miryam nodded and stuffed the stone statue into the coal sack. Stone dust fell onto her skirt, which was washed until it was almost white, like scattered stardust. The light from the kerosene lamp shone on the statue's half-closed eyelashes.
Those eyes seemed to be staring at the leaky roof of the attic, where cold rain was dripping down, sliding along the stone cheeks, and hitting the patchwork floor, making a sound as light and despairing as their heartbeats.
In the dead of night, rustling sounds came from the attic. Miryam knelt barefoot before the sack, holding the statue in her arms. The kerosene lamp cast a deep gray shadow under her eyes. "Whatever deity you are," her voice mixed with the smell of sulfur from the coal stove, "I hope you can bless my mother's cough to be lighter and bless the foreman not to deduct our wages this week..."
Warm tears fell on the stone cheek of the statue, and the Transmigrator suddenly "saw" a red candle the size of a fingernail appear on the candle rack in the temple. The flame was weak but steady, like the only match in the darkness.
The deity listened to Miryam's prayer, and he was startled to discover a strange force silently seeping into the statue. On the empty candle stands on either side of the dilapidated temple, a small red candle had appeared, its flickering flame trembling as if it might extinguish at any moment.
The Transmigrator keenly sensed that these candles must be related to little Miryam's prayers, but he had no idea what the connection was or how to use the candles.
Just as he was puzzling over this, the TV screen on the altar suddenly flickered, and a line of small words appeared amid the snowflakes: "Faith Essence Points Gained: 10."
The Transmigrator stared at those words, and his stone-like eyes suddenly became moist — it wasn't the old man who had accompanied him, nor was it the super artifact, but this little girl struggling to survive, who had given him the hope of rebirth with her simplest of prayers.
The red candle flame flickered gently, reflecting off the cobwebs on the altar and giving off a faint glow, just like the small night light on his grandmother's bedside table before she passed away, dim but warm.
Looking at the small words flashing on the TV screen, the poor transmigrator almost cried out, "Finally! The system! I finally have the system! The god of destiny has not abandoned me!"