Thud! Thud! Thud! Zhou Mingrui stepped back several paces, startled by the scene before him—his reflection in the mirror seemed less like himself and more like a mummified corpse. How could someone with such severe wounds still be alive? He couldn’t believe it, so he turned his head to check the other side. Even with the distance stretched and the light blurred, he could still see the clear evidence of贯穿 wounds and deep crimson bloodstains. “This…,” Zhou Mingrui exhaled, striving to steady himself. He reached out and pressed his palm against his left chest, feeling the heart beating rapidly, strongly, and vividly alive. Then he ran his fingers over the exposed skin, sensing a slight coolness beneath a steady warmth. After crouching down to confirm that his knees could still bend, he rose to his feet, no longer as panicked. “What’s going on?” he murmured, frowning, intending to carefully examine his head wounds once more. But then, after taking two steps forward, he paused—because the blood moon outside had dimmed, its light not bright enough to support a thorough inspection. A fragment of memory surged to the forefront, and Zhou Mingrui turned to gaze at the wall lamp encircled by gray-white pipes and metal grilles, situated right beside the desk. This was the current standard gas lamp, producing a steady flame and offering excellent illumination. Originally, given the Klein-Moretti family's circumstances, they should hardly have expected gas lighting—let alone kerosene lamps—candles being the expected standard of status and refinement. Yet four years prior, when he had stayed up late studying for his university entrance exams at Hoy, his brother Bensen had regarded this effort as crucial to the family's future, even willing to take on debt to provide him with favorable conditions. Of course, Bensen—someone who had both read extensively and worked steadily for several years—was by no means impulsive, unresourceful, or indifferent to consequences. He had convinced the landlord to fund the foundational renovations by citing the benefits of installing gas piping, such as enhancing the apartment's prestige and improving future rental prospects. Leveraging his position at the import-export company, he secured new gas lamps at nearly cost price, and throughout the entire process, he managed to rely solely on his savings without ever needing to borrow money. After a few seconds, he turned his body and walked toward the door, arriving at another mechanical device embedded in the wall, connected by gray-white pipes just like the one before. This was the gas meter! He glanced at the exposed gears and bearings, then pulled out a coin from his pocket. The coin was a deep yellow, with a copper sheen; on the front was the head of a man wearing a crown, and on the back, a cluster of wheat surrounding the numeral "1." Zhou Mingrui knew this was the most basic currency of the Luon Kingdom—the copper penny—worth roughly three or four yuan in today's terms, equivalent to what he had before his journey. There were also denominations of 5, 2.5, and one-quarter pennies, though still not fine enough for precise transactions, often requiring rounding when buying goods. After rotating the coin—issued at the time of King George III's coronation—between his fingers, he gently pressed it into the slender, open mouth of the gas meter. *Tink-tink-tink!* As the penny dropped inside the meter, a crisp, melodic sound of turning gears began, playing a brief and beautiful mechanical tune. Zhen Mingrui gazed for several seconds, then returned to his original oak desk and reached to turn the gas lamp switch. Ticking, then a snap! A cluster of flames ignited, quickly growing brighter, casting a clear glow first within the wall lamp, then spilling through the transparent glass and gently warming the room. Darkness receded suddenly, the rose hue fading from the window; Mingrui felt an unexpected sense of calm, and hurried toward the dressing mirror. This time, he carefully examined the area above his temples, paying close attention to every detail. After several comparisons, he noticed that aside from the initial bloodstains, the severe wounds had stopped bleeding—as if perfectly sealed and bandaged. The slowly pulsing gray-white brain and the visibly growing tissue at the wound edges signaled the approach of healing. Perhaps thirty to forty minutes, or maybe two or three hours, and then there would only be faint traces left. "Must be the healing effects from the journey," Zhou Mingrui lifted the corner of his right lip, speaking softly to himself. Then, he took a deep, steady breath—no matter what, at least he was still alive! Calming himself, he pulled open the drawer, took a piece of soap, and selected one of the worn-out towels hanging beside the cabinet. Then he opened the front door and headed up to the shared bathroom for the tenants on the second floor. Hmm. The blood on his head needed to be cleaned up—otherwise he’d always look like a crime scene victim. It wouldn’t matter much if it scared him, but if it frightened his sister Melissa, who had to get up early tomorrow, things would definitely go downhill. The corridor outside was dark, with only the soft, deep crimson moonlight filtering through the far end window, barely outlining the protruding forms—making them seem like pairs of monstrous eyes silently watching the living in the deep night. Zhou Mingrui stepped forward with cautious, almost trembling steps toward the bathroom. Inside, the moonlight was brighter and everything came into sharp focus. He stood before the sink and turned on the tap. The sound of running water filled his ears, and suddenly he thought of Mr. Franchi, the landlord. Since the water charges were included in the rent, this gentleman—wearing a top hat and a waistcoat, a black suit, small and slender—always came around regularly to inspect the bathrooms, quietly listening to the sound of the running water. If the flow was particularly loud, Mr. Franchi would lose his polished demeanor, waving his walking stick furiously, banging it against the bathroom doors, and shouting out, "Good heavens, what a thief!" "Waste is shameful!" "I'll remember you!" "See me one more time, and I'll have you drag your filthy luggage out and leave!" "Believe me, this is the most affordable apartment in Tilingen—there's not a more generous landlord you'll find!" Pulling himself back from the thoughts, Zhou Mingrui dampened a towel and began washing the bloodstains from his face, repeating the motion again and again. Once he had checked himself in the cracked, weathered mirror of the bathroom and confirmed that only the severe wounds and his pale complexion remained, Zhou felt a great deal lighter. Then he removed his linen shirt and used soap to gently rub away the blood spots. At that moment, however, his brow furrowed, and he remembered there might be other issues: the injuries were dramatic, and the bloodstains were numerous—besides his own, there should be traces throughout the room! After a few minutes, Zhou finished attending to his linen shirt, took the damp towel, and hurried back home. First, he wiped the blood smudges on the desk, then, under the glow of the gas lamp, began searching for any other traces. Upon closer inspection, he immediately noticed several splatters of blood on the floor and beneath the desk, and beside the left wall, a bright yellow bullet casing. "…Did he fire a shot against his temple with a revolver?" The clues now suddenly fell into place, and Zhou Mingrui had a clear sense of what caused Kline's death. He didn't rush to verify immediately, but instead carefully wiped away the bloodstains, properly attending to the scene before returning to the desk with the bullet casing. He then opened the revolver's cylinder to the left, extracting the cartridges inside. Click, click, click—five cartridges and one empty casing, all gleaming with a yellow-bronze luster. "Indeed…" Zhou Mingrui glanced at the empty casing, gently inserting each cartridge back into the cylinder while nodding slightly. His gaze shifted to the note written on the open notebook—“Everyone will die, including me”—and a wave of further questions arose in his mind. Where did the gun come from? Was it a genuine suicide, or staged? Could a history graduate from a civilian background have possibly gotten involved in such a serious matter? How could such a sudden death leave only these traces of blood? Is it because I arrived in time, with an inherent healing benefit? After a moment's reflection, Zhou Mingrui changed into another linen shirt and sat down in the chair, pondering more pressing matters. Currently, Chen's fate wasn't the priority—what truly mattered was understanding why the transition had occurred and whether it could be reversed! Parents, relatives, close friends, companions, a vibrant network of connections, diverse cuisines—these were all testaments to the urgent longing to return! Tap, tap, tap… Zhou Mingrui's right hand unconsciously flicked the gun's cylinder open and closed it repeatedly, over and over again. "Hmm, this period hasn't been much different from before—just a bit of bad luck, really. How did I end up suddenly transported?" "Bad luck… Ah! I performed a fortune-shifting ritual right before dinner tonight!" A flash of lightning surged through Zhou Mingrui's mind, illuminating the memories previously obscured by mist. I've always proudly claimed to be a well-rounded keyboard politician, historian, economist, biologist, and folklorist—someone who knows a bit about everything. Of course, my close friends often tease me, saying I actually know only a little about everything. Among these, the art of feng shui has been one of them. Last year, while visiting my hometown, I stumbled upon a bound, vertically formatted book titled "A Record of Secret Practices and Techniques from the Qin and Han Dynasties" at an old book stall. It looked quite intriguing, and I thought it would help me sound knowledgeable and impressive online, so I bought it. Unfortunately, my interest came and went quickly—its vertical layout made reading it quite uncomfortable, and I only flipped through the beginning before setting it aside in a corner. It wasn't until the past month, when a series of misfortunes hit me—my phone went missing, clients left, and I made several work errors—that I suddenly remembered the opening chapter of this book featured a simple, transformative ritual that required no prior knowledge or special foundation. With the mindset that it wouldn't cost anything, she pulled out the book herself and followed the instructions, completing it before dinner. Yet, yet, nothing happened at the time. Who knew, by midnight, she had actually transported—transported! "Perhaps it was that luck-boosting ritual... Hmm, I'll try it again here tomorrow. If it really is the cause, then I'll have a chance of returning!" Zhou Mingrui paused her shaking of the revolver and suddenly sat up straight. No matter what, she had to give it a try! Even a dead horse deserves to be treated as if it were alive! PS: Tomorrow at three in the morning, I'll make up for the missed chapters of the previous book (manual comedy). First update at midnight, second at noon at 12:30, third at 7 PM.