Zhou Mingrui recoiled in terror.
The face staring back from the cracked mirror was not his own — it was the hollow, ashen mask of a corpse.
How could anyone with such a wound still be alive?
He turned his head sharply, staring at the side of his reflection. Even through the dim red haze of moonlight, he could see it — a deep, penetrating wound at his temple, slick with dark, dried blood.
"This…"
He drew in a long, shaky breath and forced himself to calm down.
His hand rose instinctively to his chest.
Thump, thump, thump.
A rapid heartbeat pulsed beneath his palm, strong and alive.
He pressed a trembling hand against his neck — warm. His skin, though cold to the touch, carried the unmistakable heat of life.
He bent his knees, testing them. They responded normally. His body obeyed him.
After a moment, Zhou Mingrui straightened up again, expression tightening into a frown.
"What happened to me…?" he muttered.
He turned toward the desk, ready to take a closer look at his head wound — but paused. The crimson moon outside was faint, casting only enough light to paint the room in murky red shadow. It wasn't enough for a proper inspection.
Then, like a sudden spark, a memory surfaced — Klein Moretti's memory.
His gaze shifted toward the wall, where grayish pipes wound their way to a metallic lamp.
That was it — a gas lamp, common in the Loen Kingdom.
But for a poor family like the Morettis, even a kerosene lamp would have been a luxury. Candles were what they could afford. Yet four years ago, when Klein had studied late into the night to get into Khoy University, his elder brother Benson had refused to let darkness stand in his way.
He'd argued with the landlord himself, convincing him that installing gas pipes would "raise the apartment's value" and attract future tenants. The man agreed, paying for the modifications himself. And with his connections at an import company, Benson managed to buy a brand-new gas lamp at nearly cost price.
He hadn't even needed to borrow money. Just his savings — and his quiet determination.
As the memory faded, Zhou Mingrui stepped to the desk, turned the valve on the pipe, and twisted the lamp's switch.
Sputter.
A faint hiss. A flash of friction. But no flame.
He tried again.
Sputter. Sputter. Still dark.
"Hmm…" He frowned, rubbing his temple as he searched Klein's memories. A few seconds later, realization struck. He turned toward the wall and walked to the machine half-hidden beside the door — its exposed gears catching the red light.
A gas meter.
Zhou Mingrui reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin — dark yellow, bronze glinting faintly in the gloom. The face of a crown-wearing man stared up at him, regal and cold. On the reverse side, a clump of wheat surrounded the engraved number 1.
A copper penny. The smallest unit of Loen currency. About three or four yuan by his old world's standards.
He flipped it once between his fingers, studying its worn edges, and then slid it into the narrow slot at the top of the meter.
Clink! Clang!
Gears began to turn. Metal teeth ground together in a rhythmic mechanical hum.
Zhou Mingrui waited for a few seconds, then returned to the desk and twisted the gas lamp's switch once more.
Sputter… crack!
A sudden plume of flame burst to life. The lamp flared, glowing brilliantly from within the glass, flooding the small room with warm yellow light. The shadows fled from the corners, and the oppressive crimson glow retreated through the window.
For reasons he couldn't name, Zhou Mingrui felt relief wash over him. The warmth, the brightness — it made the nightmare feel just a little less real.
He turned toward the mirror again, stepping close enough that the light revealed every detail of his face.
The wound had stopped bleeding. No fresh crimson seeped out, only a dark crust where flesh had already begun to knit itself together. The squirming gray-white matter beneath the skin pulsed faintly — growing, closing, healing.
It was as if his body were repairing itself. Rapidly.
"Regeneration due to the transmigration…?" Zhou Mingrui murmured with a crooked smile.
Whatever it was, it was working. He was alive.
He exhaled deeply and opened the drawer. Inside lay a small, chipped bar of soap. He grabbed it, along with a worn towel hanging from a hook on the cupboard, and made for the door.
He needed to clean up.
He might have survived, but his reflection looked like a murder scene.
I can scare myself all I want, but if Melissa sees me like this in the morning… she'll think I'm a ghost.
The corridor beyond his door was pitch black. Only a sliver of red light seeped in from the far window, cutting two faint lines across the floor — like a pair of bloodshot eyes staring silently through the dark.
Zhou Mingrui shivered and quickened his pace. His footsteps echoed softly as he made his way to the communal bathroom.
Inside, the moonlight pooled across cracked tiles, enough to see by. He approached the basin and twisted the tap.
Gush.
Water rushed out, clear and cold. The sound reminded him of someone — his landlord, Mr. Franky.
The man was small, thin, and perpetually dressed like a gentleman: top hat, vest, black suit. But whenever he heard running water, all manners vanished. He'd storm in, waving his walking stick like a weapon, shouting things such as:
"Thief!"
"Wasteful scoundrel!"
"I'll remember you, mark my words!"
"If I catch you wasting water again, pack your filthy things and get out!"
And inevitably, he'd finish with:
"This is the finest, most affordable apartment in all of Tingen City! You'll never find a kinder landlord!"
A wry smile tugged at Zhou Mingrui's lips as he scrubbed his face clean. He washed away the blood again and again until the towel ran red, then pale.
The mirror above the basin showed a man with a pallid face and a raw wound, but alive. Breathing. Present.
He peeled off his linen shirt and began washing the blood from it with the soap. As he wrung it out, a troubling thought hit him.
The wound… there was too much blood. If the floor or walls are still stained—
He didn't finish the thought. In a rush, he cleaned the shirt, threw the towel over his shoulder, and hurried back down the dark corridor.
Back in his room, he wiped the bloody handprint from the desk and searched for more traces under the glow of the gas lamp. Sure enough, splatters of red dotted the floor beneath the desk — and on the wall, a single yellow bullet lay half-embedded in the wood.
Zhou Mingrui crouched down, staring.
A bullet. Fired at the temple. A revolver on the desk. "Everyone will die, including me."
He pieced it together. The memories, the wound, the blood.
"So… suicide," he whispered.
Still, he didn't rush to confirm it. Instead, he cleaned the last of the blood and picked up the bullet. Then he opened the revolver's cylinder and emptied the contents onto the table.
Five gleaming rounds.
And one empty shell.
"Indeed…" he muttered, nodding to himself as he reloaded the revolver and set it aside.
His gaze drifted back to the notebook.
Everyone will die, including me.
The words stared up at him like an accusation.
Where had the gun come from?
Was it really suicide — or staged?
What kind of trouble could a poor history graduate possibly fall into?
And if it was suicide… how had he survived it?
He pressed his palms together and exhaled, forcing his thoughts to focus. The mystery of Klein's death could wait. What mattered now was his own existence.
He had transmigrated. That much was clear.
But why?
And could he go back?
Faces flashed in his mind — his parents, friends, coworkers. The hum of the internet. Street food at midnight. All the tiny, familiar things of his old life.
He clenched his jaw.
He wanted to go home.
Click. Click. Click.
His right hand flicked the revolver's cylinder open and shut, again and again, as his thoughts spiraled.
Bad luck… Yes, that's it.
A spark lit in his mind. The ritual. The luck ritual before dinner.
He stilled completely, memory flooding back in sharp detail.
He'd always considered himself a "keyboard scholar" — an online expert in every subject imaginable. His friends mocked him for it, but he took pride in knowing a little bit about everything: history, biology, politics, folklore.
One of his brief fascinations had been Chinese Divination.
Last year, he'd found a thin, thread-bound book in an old shop: The Quintessential Divination and Arcane Arts of the Qin and Han Dynasties. It had looked mysterious enough to impress people online, so he'd bought it.
He never got far into it — the vertical script made reading torture. The book ended up buried under a pile of papers.
But a month ago, when his luck began to plummet — phone lost, customers cheating him, mistakes piling up — he'd dug it back out.
Right at the start was a "Luck Enhancement Ritual." Simple, harmless, and free.
He'd followed it exactly. Four offerings of staple food placed in the four corners of the room. Four counter-clockwise steps forming a square.
At each step, a chant:
"The Immortal Lord of Heaven and Earth, grant blessings."
"The Sky Lord of Heaven and Earth, grant blessings."
"The Exalted Thearch of Heaven and Earth, grant blessings."
"The Celestial Worthy of Heaven and Earth, grant blessings."
Then, eyes closed. Wait five minutes. Done.
He'd performed it just before dinner, feeling faintly ridiculous — and nothing happened.
Until now.
Transmigration.
His eyes widened. "That's it… the ritual. It has to be!"
He slammed the revolver cylinder shut and sat upright, adrenaline burning through his veins.
"If that ritual brought me here," he whispered, "then maybe… I can use it to go back."
It didn't matter how absurd it sounded.
He had to try.
Even if it was a one-in-a-million chance — he'd take it. A faint smile curved his lips as his pulse quickened.
"This time tomorrow," Zhou Mingrui murmured, "I'm going home."