Rain fell in a thin, relentless drizzle.
Tap. Tap.
The sound of soles striking mud drifted in from afar—then drew closer.
Tap. Tap.
A man in a black suit kept his head lowered. One hand stayed buried in his pocket. He was drenched through, water streaming off him.
Pale yellow stars shone strangely bright, and the scraps of light that slipped past the clouds trembled in the puddles.
Along the railway, step by step, he lifted his legs as if each one weighed a ton.
The zipper of the briefcase in his right hand hung half open. A few sheets of paper stuck out from the gap; rain had smeared the ink into warped, illegible bruises, but you could still make out the word termination.
Huff—huff—
The wind from a passing train scraped at his ears until they ached. He raised his head slightly, stared at the cars that tore through his vision and vanished, and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.
He straightened his clothes—soaked, wrinkled, clinging to him in ugly folds—then pulled the briefcase shut, forcing himself to look a little less pathetic.
One step forward. Two steps forward.
He climbed onto the rails. Cold, hard steel pressed through the soles and into his feet. He shivered.
The rain was getting heavier.
Fat drops slammed into the mud, splashing up cloudy water.
His pant legs had long since turned the color of wet clay, but he seemed not to notice at all—standing there dumbly in the very center of the tracks.
He looked far down the line.
A beam of light flickered in the distance—faint, then brighter, then brighter still. It rushed closer and closer, and the rumble that came with it thickened into thunder as it barreled toward him.
He opened his mouth, as if he meant to say something—like a child learning to speak—yet not a single clear word came out. All he managed was a hoarse, blurred sound, something between a growl and a sob.
He reached out, trying to touch that light—the only light in the dark—only to grasp nothing.
He stumbled, barely catching himself.
The rain grew louder. The light drew nearer.
The roar of the approaching beast sharpened, paired with a glare so fierce it turned the world white as it closed the final distance.
He laughed.
He tore his mouth into a smile that was impossible to name—mockery, self-pity, relief—everything and nothing at once.
He spread his arms wide, facing into the wind, welcoming the light.
Riiip.
Bang.
And the man fell into permanent darkness.
Blood and mud mingled together, softened beneath the moon's gentle glow.
At last, the storm went quiet.
…
A rasping, grotesque murmur crawled along his ears.
Ke Ming forced his eyes open—and the moment he did, the bizarre, kaleidoscopic scene before him ripped apart what little consciousness he had left.
Space had been twisted into something indescribable. Colors—too vivid, too wrong—spilled and separated without any logic he could explain. Words failed him entirely.
He didn't know how long passed.
After he fully lost consciousness, blood-red threads spread from nowhere, wrapping his whole body into a cocoon. The crimson chrysalis was shoved forward by layers of writhing folds, and the scenery around him changed at breakneck speed:
Buildings shattered into jagged fragments. Smog smothered the sky. Human shapes warped and bent into impossible forms. And somewhere ahead—towering, piercing—the colossal pillar of light stabbed straight upward.
—
He opened his eyes again.
Sunlight. Blinding.
Once he adjusted, Ke Ming stared in confusion at the man and woman in front of him.
The man was handsome, sharp-featured, wearing a finely tailored suit. A red coat with gold patterns was draped over his shoulders like a cape. The woman carried herself with an elegant poise—blonde hair, blue eyes, the picture of a classic Western beauty.
The man smiled as he spoke to her.
What came out of his mouth might as well have been nonsense.
Ke Ming froze.
I can't understand a damn word.
That's what he wanted to say.
But when he opened his mouth, all that escaped was a baby's soft, meaningless babble.
He jolted and clapped a hand over his mouth—only to see a pair of tiny, chubby infant hands.
The woman glanced at the baby who looked as if he were trying not to laugh, then lifted him into her arms and rocked him gently.
Language barrier. Smaller body.
Not good.
He'd transmigrated.
He stared at the man's face as it bent closer, eyes wide, waving his stubby little arms as if to shoo him away—yet no matter how hard he tried, it only looked like he was acting spoiled.
He watched the man's hand inch closer.
"Waaah… waaah!"
He burst into tears.
It wasn't a choice. It was instinct—his body simply cried.
The man spoke again, still unintelligible.
The woman fumbled to soothe him, rocking him while scolding the man with a cold expression. The man lowered his head, smiling apologetically.
Ke Ming had thought his life would end back there—that he'd never have to watch a boss's face again, never have to juggle favors and obligations, never have to work past midnight every day just to scrape together a meal.
No matter how you cut it, this counted as a new life, right?
Surely it couldn't be worse than before.
He thought that as he cried.
…
He watched. He mimicked. He learned.
Months passed in a fog. With an adult mind trapped in a baby's body, he managed—barely—to pick up enough of this world's language to understand basic conversation.
He still couldn't read a single character, but everyday speech was no longer a problem.
His parents called this place a Nest.
They both worked as Fixers. His father was employed at a large Association—a bottom-tier worker, from the sound of it, but his boss didn't seem overly harsh. His mother worked at a small Workshop.
A workshop—yet it manufactured weapons.
In the Backstreets, that apparently counted as a normal, legitimate job.
After Ke Ming was born, his mother stayed home to care for him, giving up her work to become a full-time housewife. His father left early and came back late; a child was a heavy burden for a family like theirs.
His father often returned drenched in blood, looking exhausted and filthy. Fixer was the kind of profession where you licked a blade's edge to live—basically a mercenary job.
Except here, it was something you could obtain through official channels.
A steady, lawful career.
There were also uncles and aunts who wore uniforms like his father's who visited the house often—colleagues, maybe superiors. They seemed close.
Ke Ming's lips twitched stiffly as he remembered one old man—older than his own father had been in his previous life—who got drunk and kneaded his cheeks like dough.
That gleaming longsword was terrifying. A man in his seventies or eighties who could still swing a huge blade and trade cuts with someone was not the kind of person you wanted to provoke.
His father's drunken antics were scary too—ripping off his shirt to show off his muscles, completely ignoring the women present.
The aunt in purple had practically drawn her sword. Ke Ming honestly thought his mother might have to spend the rest of her days as a widow.
Thankfully, after that day, his father spent a full week sleeping on a washboard.
All in all: congratulations. Truly, congratulations.
If you ignored the inherent danger of being a Fixer, this world wasn't so bad.
Ke Ming's previous life had been a single-parent mess. Before the college entrance exam, his parents divorced over money and shattered feelings. The family drowned in debt; there was no way they could support him through university. He graduated high school and went straight into the workforce, doing odd jobs just to stay alive.
By his twenties, he had no real friends. Life was a dead, rigid loop: work, home… work, home. The grind had long since sanded down whatever youthful fire he'd once had.
A new life…
Ke Ming inhaled—then choked immediately. His underdeveloped infant lungs couldn't handle it; air jammed in his chest, surged upward—
"Waaah—waaah!"
His young mother, reading with him in her arms, hurried to soothe him, rocking him and making soft shushing sounds.
With each gentle sway, the warmth of her arms became a cradle. His eyelids drooped. His crying faded into small hiccups.
Ke Ming fell asleep.
He dreamed.
He saw skyscrapers collapse into ruins. He heard people screaming themselves raw for help. He smelled blood spreading through the air. He reached out and watched himself begin to dissolve—into blood-red musical notes.
Ke Ming snapped awake.
He remembered why words like Fixer and Association felt so eerily familiar—why his father's uniform looked like something he had never seen and yet somehow already knew.
This was the City.
A City controlled by the massive corporate giants called Wings.
A place where human lives were worth less than grass.
A world that should have existed only inside a game—now rendered sharp and undeniable in front of him.
…
For a while, he didn't know what to say.
Maybe…
Maybe he should see if he could transmigrate again.
-------
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