*Thud, thud, thud!*
Zhou Mingrui staggered back a few steps, horrified by his reflection. The figure in the mirror looked less like himself and more like a corpse.
How could anyone survive with such a severe wound?
Unwilling to believe his eyes, he tilted his head again, checking the other side. Even at a distance and with the dim lighting, he could still make out the gaping wound and the dark, dried blood.
"This..."
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.
Reaching his left hand to his chest, he felt the strong, rapid beat of his heart—a vibrant pulse of life. His skin, though slightly cool, was warm beneath the surface.
Squatting down to test his balance, he found his knees bent smoothly, his body responsive. Slowly, he stood up again, feeling a bit steadier.
"What's going on?" he muttered, frowning. He intended to examine the wound more carefully.
Taking two steps closer to the mirror, he paused. The light from the blood-red moon was too faint to see clearly.
A fragment of memory surfaced, prompting Zhou Mingrui to glance at the wall beside the desk, where a gas lamp with gray pipes and a metal grid was mounted.
It was a modern gas lamp, known for its stable flame and excellent lighting.
Given Klein Moretti's financial situation, affording even a kerosene lamp would be a stretch; candles would be more typical. However, four years ago, while studying late at night for his entrance exams to Hoy University, his brother Benson had insisted on creating a conducive environment for him, even if it meant going into debt.
But Benson, literate and experienced in working, wasn't reckless. Persuading the landlord that installing gas piping would "enhance the apartment's value and future rental appeal," he had convinced the landlord to cover the base renovation costs. Using his connections at the import-export company where he worked, he managed to acquire a new gas lamp at near-cost price, spending only their savings without needing to borrow money.
The memory flickered and faded. Returning to the desk, Zhou Mingrui opened the gas valve and turned the lamp's switch.
*Click, click, click.* The sound of the igniter crackled, but no light came.
*Click, click, click!* He twisted it again, but the gas lamp remained dim.
"Hmm..." Zhou Mingrui pulled his hand back, pressing it against his left temple, and dug into the fragmented memories, searching for a possible reason.
After a few seconds, he turned and walked over to the mechanical device mounted on the wall near the door, connected by the same gray pipes.
This was the gas meter.
Glancing at the exposed gears and bearings, Zhou Mingrui reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin.
It was a dark yellow copper penny, stamped with the image of a crowned man on the front, and a "1" encircled by wheat stalks on the back.
Zhou Mingrui knew this to be the Loen Kingdom's basic currency, called a copper penny. It held about the same purchasing power as three or four yuan from his previous world. The coin also had other denominations—five pence, half-penny, and quarter-penny—though daily transactions often still required rounding up.
After flipping the King George III copper penny, which was minted when the king ascended the throne, a few times between his fingers, Zhou Mingrui pressed it into the gas meter's narrow slot.
*Clink, clink, clink!*
As the penny dropped inside, the gears clicked to life, producing a short, charming mechanical tune.
He watched the meter for a few seconds, then returned to the wooden desk and turned the gas lamp switch.
*Click, click, click—whoosh!*
A small flame sprang up, quickly expanding as bright light filled the interior of the lamp, casting a warm glow over the room.
The shadows receded, and the crimson tint slipped away from the windows. Zhou Mingrui felt a quiet sense of relief and quickly approached the mirror once more.
This time, he carefully inspected the wound on his temple, scrutinizing every detail.
To his surprise, although the original bloodstains remained, the jagged wound was no longer bleeding. It seemed as if it had been expertly cauterized and dressed, with the grayish brain matter gently pulsing beneath, while the edges of the wound were visibly healing, the tissue slowly knitting together. Perhaps within thirty to forty minutes, or maybe a couple of hours, it would leave only a faint scar.
"A self-healing effect from transmigration?" Zhou Mingrui murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He exhaled deeply. Whatever the reason, he was still alive!
Steadying himself, he pulled open a drawer and took out a small bar of soap. He grabbed one of the old towels hanging by the cabinet, opened the door, and made his way to the communal washroom on the second floor, shared by the tenants.
Yes, he needed to clean the blood off his head. It wouldn't do to look like a crime scene every time he glanced in the mirror. Besides, while he could tolerate scaring himself, if he frightened his younger sister Melissa, who had to wake up early, it would be another matter entirely.
The hallway outside was pitch-dark, the faint red moonlight spilling through the far window, casting eerie shadows along the corridor. Every object looked like the silent, watchful eyes of monsters lurking in the deep night.
Zhou Mingrui treaded softly, his heart pounding slightly as he made his way to the washroom.
Inside, the moonlight illuminated everything, and he could see clearly. Zhou Mingrui walked to the sink and twisted the faucet.
As water gushed out, a thought suddenly struck him—his landlord, Mr. Frank.
Since the water bill was included in the rent, Mr. Frank, a short, thin man with a top hat, waistcoat, and black overcoat, was always eager to patrol the washrooms, listening carefully to the sound of running water.
If the sound of running water grew too loud, Mr. Frank would abandon all pretense of gentlemanly behavior, fiercely waving his cane and pounding on the washroom door, shouting, "Damn thief!" "Wastefulness is disgraceful!" "I've got my eye on you!" "If I catch you doing it again, pack your dirty bags and leave!" "Believe me, this is the best deal in all of Tingen City; you won't find a more generous landlord than me!"
Brushing these thoughts aside, Zhou Mingrui wet the towel and began scrubbing the blood from his face, cleaning it thoroughly, again and again.
Once he checked his reflection in the cracked washroom mirror, confirming only the pale face and grim wound remained, he felt a bit lighter. Then, he removed his linen shirt, scrubbing away the bloodstains with soap.
Just then, a thought crossed his mind, and he frowned.
The wound was serious, the blood copious—aside from what was on him, there must be traces left in the room!
A few minutes later, having dealt with his shirt, Zhou Mingrui grabbed the damp towel and quickly returned to the apartment. First, he wiped the bloody handprint off the desk, then carefully searched the room in the gas lamp's glow for any other remnants.
His search immediately revealed splatters of blood on the floor and under the desk. Near the left wall, he spotted a yellowish bullet lying on the floor.
"…Did he press the revolver to his temple and fire?" As the pieces clicked into place, Zhou Mingrui began to understand Klein's cause of death.
He didn't rush to confirm but instead methodically cleaned up the bloodstains, erasing any trace of the "scene." Only then did he pick up the bullet and return to the desk. Opening the revolver's cylinder, he shook out the remaining bullets.
*Clink, clink, clink,* five bullets and an empty shell casing dropped out, all gleaming with a brass luster.
"Just as I thought…" Zhou Mingrui noted the empty casing, nodding slightly as he reloaded the bullets into the cylinder one by one.
His gaze drifted to the open notebook, where the words *"Everyone will die, including me"* were inscribed, stirring up a well of questions.
Where did the gun come from?
Was it suicide, or merely staged to look like one?
What kind of trouble could a history graduate from a modest background have gotten into?
And why were there so few bloodstains? Could it be due to his timely transmigration, along with some kind of self-healing benefit?
After a moment of contemplation, Zhou Mingrui changed into another linen shirt and sat down, focusing on the more pressing matter.
Klein's fate wasn't his primary concern right now. The real question was understanding why he had transmigrated and, most importantly, if there was any way to return!
His parents, relatives, close friends, the vibrant world of the internet, and all kinds of delicious food… All of this ignited his intense desire to go back!
*Click, click, click…* Zhou Mingrui's right hand absentmindedly flicked the revolver's cylinder open and shut, over and over.
"Hmm, there wasn't anything particularly unusual about the past few days… Just a bit of bad luck. So, why did I transmigrate out of nowhere?"
"Bad luck… Oh, right! I performed a luck-changing ritual before dinner tonight!"
A flash of realization lit up Zhou Mingrui's mind, uncovering a memory buried under layers of fog.
As a self-proclaimed expert in "keyboard" politics, history, economics, biology, and folklore—though often teased by friends for only having a superficial knowledge of everything—he'd dabbled in many fields.
Occult practices were one of them.
Last year, while visiting his hometown, he had stumbled upon an old thread-bound book titled *"Summaries of Qin and Han Era Mystical Practices"* at a secondhand book stall. It had seemed intriguing, potentially useful for impressing people online, so he had bought it. But his initial interest quickly faded; the old-style vertical text was tedious to read, and he'd barely skimmed the first few pages before tossing the book into a corner to gather dust.
Over the past month, Zhou Mingrui had been plagued by a string of bad luck—losing his phone, clients vanishing, work mistakes piling up. It seemed as if misfortune had taken a liking to him. That's when he remembered the "luck-changing ritual" mentioned in the opening pages of the *Summaries of Qin and Han Era Mystical Practices*. The ritual was exceptionally simple, requiring no special skill or tools:
All he had to do was place four servings of the region's staple food in the four corners of his room. These could be set on a table, cabinet, or any suitable surface. Then, standing in the room's center, he had to take four steps in a counterclockwise square pattern. With each step, he was to recite a specific phrase:
- The first step: *"Blessed Life, Profound Yellow Immortal Lord."*
- The second step: *"Blessed Life, Profound Yellow Heavenly Sovereign."*
- The third step: *"Blessed Life, Profound Yellow Emperor."*
- The fourth step: *"Blessed Life, Profound Yellow Heavenly Lord."*
After completing the steps, he was to close his eyes and stand still for five minutes. That was the entire ritual.
With nothing to lose, he had pulled out the old book before dinner and followed the instructions exactly. But at the time, nothing happened.
Who could have guessed that by midnight, he would have actually transmigrated!
Transmigrated!
"There's a good chance it was that ritual…" he thought. "Tomorrow, I'll try it here. If it really was the ritual, then there's hope I can get back!"
Zhou Mingrui stopped fidgeting with the revolver, his spine straightening as a surge of determination filled him.
No matter what, he had to try!
Even if it was a long shot, he had to treat it like his best chance!