Ting-ting-ti! Zhou Mingrui stepped back several paces, startled by the scene before him—seeming as though the figure in the dressing mirror were no longer himself but a dried corpse. How could someone with such severe wounds still be alive? With disbelief, he tilted his head again to inspect the other side of the mirror. Even with the distance stretched and the light slightly blurred, the clear wound through the body and the deep red blood stains remained unmistakable. “This….” Zhou Mingrui took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He reached out and pressed his hand against his left chest, feeling the heart beating rapidly, strongly, and vibrantly. Then he ran his fingers over the exposed skin—slightly cool beneath, yet warm with life pulsing through it. Bending down slightly to test that his knees could still bend, he stood up again, no longer trembling so much. “What’s going on?” he murmured, frowning, as he resolved to carefully examine the wounds on his head once more. A few steps forward, however, he paused—because the glow of the blood moon outside was now dimmer than before, not strong enough to support a thorough inspection. Then, a memory fragment flashed through him: he turned toward the gray-white pipes and metal grilles surrounding the wall lamp next to his desk. This was the current standard type of gas lamp—the flame stable, with excellent illumination. Originally, given Klein-Moretti’s family circumstances, even a kerosene lamp would have been a luxury—candles were what one expected from someone of their status and background. But four years ago, while preparing for entrance exams at Hoey University, his brother Benson believed this effort was vital to the future of the family. Even if it meant borrowing money, he insisted on securing favorable conditions for Zhou Mingrui. Of course, Benson—having worked professionally for several years and literate—was far from hasty or lacking in strategy. He had persuaded the landlord, using the argument that installing gas pipelines would elevate the apartment’s appeal and make it more marketable for future rental purposes. For himself, he leveraged his position at the Import-Export Company to secure nearly cost-price gas lamps, completing all the arrangements entirely from personal savings without needing a single loan. Another memory fragment passed through: Zhou Mingrui returned to his desk, opened the pipeline valve, and turned on the gas lamp switch. Dad-da-dah—faint sounds of friction as it tried to ignite—but light did not appear as he had expected. He twisted the switch again and again; still, the lamp remained dim. “Hmm…” He withdrew his hand, pressing gently against his left solar plexus, drawing upon memory fragments in search of what might have gone wrong. After a few seconds, he turned around, walked toward the door, and stopped at the mechanical device embedded on the wall beside it—another gray-white pipe running into its structure. This was a gas meter! He observed the exposed gears and bearings, then pulled out a coin from his pocket. The coin was slightly yellowish with a bronze luster; on the front, a crowned man’s head appeared, and behind it, a cluster of wheat stalks surrounded by the letter “1.” Zhou Mingrui knew this to be the most basic currency of the Lun Kingdom—the copper penny—worth approximately three or four Chinese yuan in his pre-transition days. There were also coin denominations such as five, two-and-a-half, and one-quarter pennies, though still not fine enough for daily precision; people often needed to round up purchases in small amounts. After turning it several times between his fingers, he pressed the coin into the vertical opening of the gas meter—the slender mouth that opened and closed. Ding-ding-dong! As the coin dropped inside, a series of clicks emerged from within, composing a short yet harmonious mechanical melody. Zhou Mingrui stared for several seconds, then returned to his original wooden desk. He reached out and turned the gas lamp switch once more. Dad-da-dah—then a sharp “crack!” A cluster of flames ignited quickly, grew brighter, first filling the interior of the wall lamp before spilling through its transparent glass, casting a warm, cozy glow throughout the room. Darkness receded swiftly; the fiery red light from the window faded. Zhou Mingrui felt an unexpected sense of calm. He hurried to the dressing mirror and examined carefully now, paying attention to every detail. After comparing several times, he noticed that beyond the initial blood stains, the severe wound no longer leaked fluid—indicating excellent hemostasis and dressing. The slowly shifting grayish brain tissue and visibly healing flesh at the edges suggested recovery was underway—perhaps within thirty or forty minutes, maybe two or three hours from now—the wound would leave only faint traces. “Treatment effects brought by the transfer?” Zhou Mingrui tilted his right corner of the mouth in silent thought. Then he exhaled deeply—no matter what caused this, at least he was alive! He composed himself further, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a small bar of soap from the broken towel hanging beside the cabinet. Then, he opened the door and walked toward the second-floor public bathroom shared by his tenants. Yes—the blood stains on his head needed to be addressed; otherwise, he’d always look like a crime scene victim. It would be awkward not to scare himself, but if it frightened his sister Melissa—who would have to wake up early tomorrow—then things would truly go wrong! The corridor outside was dark, only the red moonlight streaming from the far end of the window managed to outline shapes—giving them a quiet, watchful appearance, like pairs of eyes observing human life in the deep night. Zhou Mingrui moved with cautious steps, feeling both nervous and awed as he approached the bathroom. Inside, the light was stronger—the surroundings now clearly visible. He stood before the washbasin and opened the tap. Gush-gush-gush—water flowed into his ears—and then suddenly, he thought of Mr. Franchi, the landlord. Because water charges were included in rent, Mr. Franchi—a man wearing a hat, a waistcoat, black formal coat, always attentive—would routinely check on the water supply. Whenever it was not running smoothly or had any issue, he would visit. He often complained about minor disruptions. Now, Zhou Mingrui stood at his desk with the gas lamp now lit. He carefully wiped away all traces of blood, restoring the scene to a clean “incident,” before returning to his desk to retrieve the bullet from the gun’s cylinder. Clack-clack-clack—five bullets, one empty casing—all glowing in warm brass. “Indeed…” Zhou Mingrui looked at the empty shell, then carefully reinserted each bullet into the cylinder as he nodded slowly. His gaze shifted leftward to the note on his notebook: “Everyone will die, including me.” A wave of new questions arose inside him. Where had the gun come from? Was this a suicide—or was it staged? Could an ordinary graduate in history from a civilian background have possibly triggered such a crisis? And how could such a method leave only these minimal traces of blood—was it because he had arrived in time, enjoying the healing benefits of his transfer? He sat back with thoughtful reflection. At this point, Klein-Moretti’s own experience was no longer what mattered most to him. The real issue now was understanding why he had transitioned—and whether he could return. His parents, relatives, lifelong friends, the vibrant world of online connections, and the variety of delicious food—he longed for all of them. Clack—clack—clack… Zhou Mingrui’s right hand involuntarily swung the cylinder back and forth with the gun, then folded it again, repeating this motion again and again. “Hmm… The past few days haven’t been much different than usual—only unlucky now. How could I suddenly end up transferring?” “Oh! Wait—today before dinner, I had performed a ‘transfer ritual’!” A lightning flash illuminated his mind, revealing the memories veiled by fog. As a competent keyboard politician, historian, economist, biologist, and folklorist, he always claimed to understand “a little bit of everything.” His closest friends often joked that he merely understood “a little bit of each”—and only superficially. Among these domains, spiritual practices were one such area. Last year, during a visit home, he discovered an ancient vertical-bound volume titled *Qin-Han Secret Techniques: A Record*. It looked fascinating—something that could help him impress others online—and so he purchased it. But interest came swiftly and faded just as fast; the vertical format made reading difficult, and after only flipping through the beginning, he simply tucked the book into a corner of his room. Then, over the past month, bad luck followed one after another—his phone lost, clients vanished, work errors piled up. It was only then that he remembered the opening section of *Qin-Han Secret Techniques*, which described an extremely simple transfer ritual—requiring no prerequisites at all: Simply take four portions of your local staple food and place them in each corner of the room—at any surface such as tables or cabinets. Then, stand at the center of the room, walk counterclockwise for four steps to form a square: Step one—with sincere intent—murmur “Fusheng Xuanhuang Xianzun.” Step two—murmur “Fusheng Xuanhuang Tianjun.” Step three—murmur “Fusheng Xuanhuang Tiansheng.” Step four—murmur “Fusheng Xuanhuang Tianzun.” After completing the walk, close your eyes and wait quietly for five minutes—the ritual is complete. Motivated by a sense of no cost involved, he pulled out the book again, followed the instructions precisely, and performed the ritual just before dinner. Yet—nothing happened at all. And yet… at midnight, he had suddenly been transported! Transferred! “There’s a strong possibility that this transfer ritual…” Zhou Mingrui paused in his rhythmic movements of shaking the gun cylinder. Then, with sudden determination, he sat upright in his chair. No matter what—he would give it another try tomorrow! Even a dead horse should be treated as a live one!