Pain.
His chest felt as though it were weighed down by a stone soaked in ice water, every breath dragging a sharp pain from the depths of his lungs.
Lin Yuan snapped his eyes open. The next second, he curled his body and began to cough violently.
“Cough—cough, cough, cough!”
The coughing echoed in the cramped room, carrying a hollow, damp resonance.
He even suspected he might have coughed up his lungs along with it.
Cold air rushed down his throat, bringing with it a pungent smell of coal smoke and mold.
A signature of London winters—damp, filthy, and bitter.
The entire city seemed soaked in industrial wastewater and decaying smog.
Lin Yuan pushed himself up to sit.
Creak—
The wooden board bed beneath him let out an overburdened groan.
Only then did he truly take in his surroundings.
The room was tiny.
Or rather, too small to seem like a place meant for humans.
The low ceiling was close enough to touch if he just reached up.
Large sheets of yellowed wallpaper peeled away, revealing the blackened, moldy walls behind them.
Dark water stains pooled in the corners.
The air was incredibly damp.
Light green mold had even begun to grow along the edges of the window frame.
A kerosene lamp hung on the wall, its glass shade caked in dust, with only a shallow layer of oil remaining inside.
Beside it sat several empty aspirin bottles and a chipped clay mug.
The only decent piece of furniture in the room was a lopsided wooden desk.
Cluttered papers, old newspapers, and a few thin pamphlets were piled on the desktop, their edges curled from the moisture.
The entire room exuded the smell of long-term poverty.
Lin Yuan remained silent for a few seconds, looking down at himself.
He saw a pair of pale, thin hands.
The blue veins on the back of his hands were frighteningly distinct, his knuckles red from the cold, and the edges of his nails even showed cracked, bleeding cuts.
His cuffs were heavily frayed.
The coarse linen fabric rubbed against his skin, making it itch.
He instinctively touched his face.
Thin.
His cheekbones protruded.
His cheeks even had a sickly, hollowed-out feel.
“...”
Lin Yuan said nothing.
But his heart had already sunk.
This physical condition was even worse than he had imagined.
He slowly raised his head.
The grayish-white fog outside the window blocked out the entire world.
It was no ordinary morning mist.
It was the famous “pea-souper” of late nineteenth to early twentieth century London—a toxic smog formed by the mixture of factories, fireplaces, steam locomotives, and winter dampness.
Even through the window, he could still faintly hear the sounds of the outside world.
The sound of carriage wheels rolling through puddles.
The distant roar of factory sirens.
The slurred curses of a drunkard on the street.
And some faint, elusive tolling of a bell.
Dull, long, echoing from the depths of the thick fog.
Lin Yuan stared at it all, his mind blank for a moment.
Just a few hours ago, he had still been in modern society.
He was playing his first run of a game.
His computer screen had been lit until three in the morning, his desk piled high with takeout boxes and coffee cans, and the unsettling background music of Cultist Simulator had been looping in his headphones.
Then, a sudden, sharp pain seized his chest.
He struggled to breathe.
His vision went black.
And when he opened his eyes again, he was here.
“...You've got to be kidding me.”
Lin Yuan muttered in a low voice.
His voice was as raspy as sandpaper.
He looked down at the floor.
A pair of old leather shoes sat by the bed.
The toes were cracked, and the edges were caked with dried mud.
Beside them lay an old black overcoat.
Its cuffs were badly worn, and mending marks were visible even on the lining.
Poverty.
Visible, undeniable poverty.
Just then, a flood of unfamiliar memories rushed into his mind.
A wave of intense dizziness hit him instantly.
Lin Yuan braced himself against the wall as a throbbing pain pulsed through his temples.
Fragmented images flashed repeatedly:
A cold, dreary archive.
Wooden cabinets crammed with papers.
The smell of mold on old documents.
Coughing up blood in the dead of night.
And...
A rent demand notice pasted on the wall.
It read: Two weeks in arrears. (3 shillings per week)
A few minutes later, Lin Yuan finally let out a slow breath.
He roughly understood.
He had transmigrated into an industrial city similar to nineteenth-century London of his original world, but a city where extraordinary forces existed.
The original owner of this body was named Ryan.
Twenty years old.
His parents had died early.
He lived alone at 12 St. Blaise Street in the East End of London.
He worked as a temporary recorder in the archives.
His wages were pitifully low.
Working five days a week, his weekly wage was 12 shillings (144 pence).
Some time ago, he had contracted a lung disease but had no money for treatment.
Last night, he had died in this rented room.
And now, Lin Yuan's soul had entered his body.
From this moment on, there was no longer the corporate slave Lin Yuan who died of angina in the dead of night.
There was only this temporary recorder, Ryan, who was on the verge of dying of illness on St. Blaise Street.
“...What a fucking hellish start,” Ryan muttered, rubbing his forehead.
But soon, he realized an even more pressing issue.
He was starving to death.
Ryan paused in the room for about ten seconds.
A persistent ache throbbed in his stomach—the dull pain of a long-empty belly, as if something were slowly twisting tight inside.
He used the corner of the desk to push himself up.
The desk was very wobbly.
The joints of the wooden boards were even slightly rotted and loose, emitting a soft creak when pressed.
There was very little to eat in the room.
He searched through everything.
Inside the drawer:
Two pence.
Half a loaf of hardened black bread.
A box of matches.
An archival record book.
Ryan stared at the half-loaf of bread.
The dark crust was cracked and as hard as stone, with even a trace of mold along the edges.
He tried to break it with his hands.
Snap.
It didn't break; instead, a tiny crumb chipped off.
Ryan fell silent for two seconds.
Then, he popped the crumb into his mouth.
The taste was hard to describe.
Like damp sawdust mixed with a hint of sour rot.
But at least it was carbohydrates.
He chewed slowly, forcing himself to swallow it.
The ache in his stomach eased slightly.
But it wasn't enough. Far from enough.
Bit by bit, crumb by crumb, Ryan finished the rest of the bread.
His movements were even slower than before, allowing his body to adjust to the coarse filling.
The hard bread was slowly chewed to pieces in his mouth, tasting like damp sawdust, but at least this time, he didn't frown.
When he swallowed, his throat still burned with dryness.
Yet the constant twisting emptiness in his stomach finally loosened a fraction.
Ryan leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes for a few seconds.
The room was silent.
There was only the occasional dripping of water from the damp corner.
Outside, Sunday in London felt even heavier.
The fog hadn't dispersed; instead, it seemed to press down a layer lower.
The street sounds were distant, leaving only the faint roll of wheels and occasional footsteps.
Time felt sluggish.
Amidst this silence, a sound came from outside the door.
It wasn't a knock.
It was footsteps.
Light, steady, without hesitation.
They stopped at the door.
Then came two very restrained knocks.
Knock, knock.
Ryan opened his eyes.
He didn't get up immediately.
He merely looked toward the door.
A young woman's voice came from outside.
“Mr. Ryan?”
The voice wasn't loud, but it was clear.
It carried a hint of calm politeness, along with a trace of weariness.
“It's Irene.”
Ryan matched the name in his memory.
The landlord's daughter.
She was also the actual accountant for this building.
He stood up and walked to the door.
The moment he opened it, the cold air of the hallway rushed in.
Dampier and colder than the room.
Rate on N.U.
