"Don't repeat your actions if you don't want to go back to prison," said a prison guard who escorted Tristan to the gate.

"Obey the law, son." The 45-year-old fat man reminded the young man, whose face didn't show happiness, that he was worried that Tristan wouldn't get tired of staying in prison. "I hope you have found your happiness when I meet you someday."

"Thank you very much for your kindness all this time, Sir." Tristan said it sincerely as he bowed when he was outside the prison gates.

"Tristan! I love you." A young man wearing a prison uniform shouted. Unfortunately, three guards managed to catch him before he approached Tristan. "Wait for me. I'll be out of prison in three months. I will look for you."

Three guards pulled the young man, a year older than Tristan, back to his prison cell. He and his gang had stolen gold from a gold shop.

"I don't know if we will meet." Tristan let out a sharp sigh.

He was happy to have good friends while in prison; he wasn't lonely facing boring days, but he planned to move from this country.

Tristan was carrying his old brown backpack—nothing valuable, only clothes. He walked away from the prison, crossing a long, desolate roadway before entering a narrow alley with houses on his right and left.

People only glanced at him; no one knew him, and no one wanted to know where he was going.

Tristan honestly didn't know where he was going yet.

He didn't have anyone anymore. His mother had died, and the bank had long taken their home due to his father's failure to pay installments, fines, and the accumulating interest.

"Where is the GreenHouse cemetery?" Tristan asked several people who passed him on the street.

He didn't have a cell phone. He didn't know where the police had thrown his cell phone.

Luckily, he had some savings; he worked washing other prisoners' clothes during his stay in prison, but he didn't have enough money to buy a cell phone.

"Cell phones are not important." Tristan shook his head. "I will not text or call other people, and I will not accept texts and calls from other people."

Tristan was trying to comfort himself, who seemed to still be suffering after he got out of prison.

He was pessimistic about getting a job. Was there anyone who would accept ex-convicts as their employees?

Even though Tristan told everyone that he was innocent, he knew that no one would believe him and no one would defend him. He couldn't even prove his innocence.

"Mom." Tristan looked at his mother's tombstone with sadness in his eyes. He couldn't cry any longer because he'd used up all of his tears when he initially went to prison.

"I'm out of prison, Mom." Tristan imagined his mother standing in front of him, looking at him gently, and smiling broadly at him.

"I didn't think I was still alive. It turns out I was really great; I could survive for 10 years in a cramped cell occupied by four people." Tristan lowered his head. He was ashamed of his mother.

"I will leave this country. I don't know when I will visit your grave." Tristan's eyes widened as he realized he didn't have a photo of his mother. "Mom, don't worry. I will never forget you. You are always in my heart."

Tristan raised his head, and his gaze focused again on his mother's tombstone. He was so stupid, he forgot to bring his mother's favorite flowers or chocolate.

"Don't worry, Mom. I've decided I don't want to have friends. I won't trust anyone." Tristan said it firmly, with determination burning in his chest. "I won't be a fool who can be framed by others."

What happened to him in the past was a very valuable lesson.

The powerful wind hit his face, which featured a beard, mustache, and sideburns, as well as shoulder-length hair. He was too lazy to trim them. Others would assume he didn't have much free time.

"Bastard." Tristan growled with his hands clenched tightly when his eyes caught sight of a billboard. "Bastard."

A few seconds later, he laughed out loud, not caring about the people staring at him.

Tristan laughed at himself. He spent 10 years in prison. Meanwhile, the man who framed him becomes governor!

"This world is unfair to poor people like me." Tristan stopped laughing because there was nothing he could do.

He lowered his head and continued his journey.

"I hope you still live here." Tristan had arrived in front of a fairly luxurious house in this area. "And I hope you don't kick me out."

He just wanted to say goodbye to his friend from high school. His friend diligently visited him in prison. Tristan deliberately didn't tell his friend when he was released from prison.

Tristan frowned when he found the door to the house unlocked. "Bram?"

No one answered for more than a few seconds. He decided to go slowly.

"Gosh. Oh, God!"

Tristan was shocked, his eyes wide, as he found Bram covered in blood on the sofa and his wife lying in her own blood on the floor near the kitchen.

"Ouch," Tristan gasped as a knife stabbed his stomach and neck.

His body was wracked with excruciating pain.

Gradually, his breathing slowed, his vision blurred, and he could no longer hear the voices of the robbers.

One of them kicked him in the leg, causing him to fall to the floor.

"God… is so mean to me." Tristan muttered before his eyes closed and his breath disappeared.

He died within seconds.

Tristan was happy he got to meet his mother.

"I'm not God, but I don't like you saying that. God is good, you should thank God because he let me choose you."

Tristan frowned. He hurriedly opened his eyes. He could only see white, he was even wearing all white.

"Am I in heaven?" Tristan was sure he was dead, but why was he alone?

Laughter echoed in the room. Tristan shuddered and looked around him in horror.

"You were dead, Tristan Hepper," said the owner of the voice after he stopped laughing with difficulty. "But right now, you are not in heaven."

"Why?"

"Because you will live in the body of a king."

"What does it mean?"

"You cannot refuse this fate, and you must follow the system's words if you don't want to return to being a person filled with bad luck."