1. Investigating My Own Death

Las Vegas, a shabby neighborhood.

Night had descended, turning the day’s unbearable heat into a refreshing coolness. The stars and moon hid in the darkness, while an unending chorus of insects played among the garden flowers below, like a lullaby coaxing the world to sleep.

Yet on this night, an uninvited soul awakened.

“Where am I?”

Ludian clumsily tore away the rope that had been strangling his neck, gasping for breath. He groped in the dark until his fingers found the wall switch.

Light poured into a bedroom that radiated a student’s aura.

Directly ahead stood a desk and chair, a globe, a lamp, and a calendar adorned with a landscape reminiscent of The Wizard of Oz—early May, 1980.

The room’s previous owner was clearly a Star Wars fanatic. The walls were covered with dazzling movie posters: the Dark Lord Darth Vader, cloaked in black, red lightsaber in hand; Captain Han Solo, brandishing a Mauser pistol in a black jacket; Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, hair white as snow, eyes bright with wisdom...

Next to the posters, the three-tiered wall cabinet was stacked neatly with high school textbooks: English, Chemistry, World History, and a pile of horror novels—The End of the World, Night of the Vampire...

The book covers glistened gently under the light, and all the titles were in English. For someone from China, it should have taken him a moment to process, yet now he understood them at a glance, as if by instinct.

He turned his head—and his pupils shrank.

Beside the bed, a gray four-legged stool lay overturned. A black hemp rope, like a poisonous snake, was coiled tightly atop it—Ludian had just freed it from his neck.

Above the rope loomed a ceiling beam.

Evidently, his predecessor had used these very items in an attempt to hang himself.

But, lacking any real expertise, he had failed to tie the knot securely; the rope had slipped loose.

...

Ludian shook his head and walked to the dressing mirror by the desk to study his current appearance.

Seventeen or eighteen years old, of medium build, about five foot nine, weighing roughly one hundred forty pounds.

He wore a blue T-shirt with white letters reading Super lo cinema over the left chest, and simple jeans below.

His clothes were damp—whether with sweat or cold water, he could not tell.

This square face bore the traditional black hair and eyes of a Chinese heritage, but with a broader jawline, more angular features, and a ruggedness—perhaps from a diet heavy in meat and a native command of English with all its extravagant intonations and accents.

“Not as handsome as I was in my past life, but decidedly more masculine.”

Under the lamp’s glare, his cheeks were as pale as if from blood loss, sharply contrasted by the bloodshot eyes, the angry red welts around his neck—marks bitten deep into the flesh.

Ludian examined himself closely. Aside from the bruised ligature marks, he was in good health.

“So I’ve transmigrated?”

Not long ago, in the summer of 2022, he’d celebrated graduation with his college friends—a farewell meal, some new board games at a local club. As the night deepened and the reality of parting forever sank in, he’d broken his usual abstinence and downed a few glasses of baijiu.

It was graduation season—and break-up season, too. He had recently parted ways with his girlfriend of four years, a music major, drowning his sorrows in drink.

Who could have predicted he’d never wake up again?

Ludian’s face contorted with a bitter smile as he clenched his fists.

“I swear, from this day forth, I—Ludian—no, Dean Lu—will never willingly touch another drop of alcohol. If I do, let me remain single for life!”

He gazed down at the lush courtyard outside the window, memories of this new identity boiling within him—some vivid as day, others blurred as if through static.

...

Dean’s father, Guangming Lu, was a Chinese construction worker. His mother, Lena Glenn, hailed from Indiana and carried a trace of Native American blood. In her late teens, she’d moved to Las Vegas—a city where heaven and hell meet—with her brother to open a small jewelry shop...

They built a warm, happy family.

But happiness proved fleeting.

In 1972, when Dean was ten, his parents drove home for a vacation and never returned—vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a meager savings, an old house, and a family photo on the nightstand.

His uncle, Paco, raised him until he was eighteen.

Dean’s memories of his uncle were vague—a rough, boisterous man, easygoing and generous.

In recent years, as Dean grew older and entered Nevada State High School, Uncle Paco’s visits became infrequent. Sometimes over a month, even several months would pass before he returned for a single night, though he always sent living expenses on time. The rest of the time, he worked in cities up north.

Today was a workday for Uncle Paco. The entire house was empty except for Dean, which was why he’d chosen this moment for self-destruction.

“Native American and Chinese blood—stacked buffs, a future full of promise. Why give up now?”

Dean stared into the mirror. The reflection was silent, but the vacant eyes betrayed a deep loneliness and desolation.

Dean felt a pang of sorrow and a tightness in his chest; his nose stung inexplicably.

It was as if the ghost of his predecessor still lingered in this body, subtly influencing him.

He shook his head, strode to the window, and took a deep breath. Then he began to search the bedroom, focusing on the desk and drawers, but he’d arrived too late.

In the trash bin lay a heap of charred paper. He picked through the ashes and uncovered a fragment of an envelope, bearing the letters MO.

What could that mean?

He wracked his brain, but nothing came.

After a cursory search of the bedroom, Dean left and continued his inspection.

It was a two-story detached house of average size. Upstairs, two bedrooms—one for Paco, one for himself—a corner bathroom with only a shower, no tub. The house was aged, the walls yellowing, wooden floors creaking underfoot, but everything was clean and tidy, evidence that Dean kept it well.

He descended the stairs quickly.

In the first-floor living room sat a bulky, heavy cathode-ray TV.

Through the living room window, he saw neighboring houses close by, separated by wooden fences—silent and dark at this hour.

He entered the kitchen, instinctively opened the fridge, and from a jumble of canned chickpeas retrieved some ice, wrapping it in a towel to press against the wounds on his neck.

He collapsed onto the sofa, gazing at the enormous black-and-white television. Fear and anxiety slowly ebbed away.

“Pull yourself together, Dean. There’s no use dwelling on the past. Adapting quickly to this new identity is what matters now.”

Unfortunately, perhaps because of the recent transmigration, many critical memories in his mind had been wiped clean, including everything his predecessor had experienced in recent months.

Now, having accepted this body, and having explored the entire “home,” Dean felt an irrepressible urge building within him.

It was as if he’d been born with this mission—

To uncover the reason for the pitiful Dean Lu’s self-destruction.

If it was merely heartbreak or youthful rashness, Dean would gladly take his place, live well, and care for his only kin, Uncle Paco.

Raised in the era of information explosion, with a mind full of knowledge from the future—he hadn’t accomplished much in his four years of college, but thanks to his ex-girlfriend’s influence, he’d picked up many classic Western songs. If need be, he could try his hand at odd jobs; in this era, making ends meet shouldn’t be too hard.

But if there was another reason—

If some malevolent person or thing, some external pressure, had driven his predecessor to suicide, then those dangers might still threaten his new life.

Only by eliminating all hidden dangers could Dean plan his future in peace.

With this resolve, Dean’s vision suddenly flashed. A row of translucent, eerily glowing Chinese characters appeared before his eyes:

You have undertaken the event—The Death of Young Dean: Recover the lost key memories and uncover the truth behind your predecessor’s self-destruction.

Complete the first event to receive an extra reward.

Investigation Progress: 5/100 (You must personally participate in the investigation to increase progress.)

Time Limit: Seven days

Estimated Difficulty: Easy (The clues are right under your nose.)

Reward: 30 experience + memory recovery + a specialty (first-time reward)

Penalty: Event closes, first-time reward lost.

Dean Lu

Character Level: 0 (0/100)

Age: 18

Constitution: 11 (Affects stamina, resilience, injury and recovery, resistance to physical ailments… Average adult male: 8–12)

Strength: 10 (Carrying capacity, striking power, resistance, muscle…)

Agility: 11 (Speed, reflexes, coordination…)

Perception: 9 (Sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, other special senses…)

Mind: 12 (Thought, emotion, energy, spirituality…)

Will: 9 (Willpower guards the mind, affects concentration, composure, resistance to mental anomalies…)

...

Abilities (0/5): None

Specialties: None

Events (1/1):

The Death of Young Dean.

...

“This panel is exactly like the role-playing board game I played with my classmates before I transmigrated,” Dean thought, his heart pounding as memories tumbled in his mind.

But it wasn’t the standard version. The game’s setting was a near-future world of the supernatural. Players could choose to be bounty hunters, investigators, true detectives, even cunning criminals, experiencing mysterious and terrifying events.

These characters weren’t ordinary people—not even human in the usual sense. They wielded abilities like mind reading, hypnosis, dream walking, shapeshifting, bewitchment, witchcraft, special firearms, energy manipulation—creatures at the top of the food chain.

Yet the system’s background had nothing to do with his current world—early 1980s, as far as he could recall.

This world’s history seemed almost identical to the Earth he remembered. World War I, World War II, the Great Depression—little had changed. The broad march of history, the details of society, at least eighty percent matched his former life.

In his eighteen years, Dean had never experienced, nor heard from others, nor witnessed, anything out of the ordinary.

Supernatural phenomena?

Superpowers?

None to be found.

Was this, perhaps, just an ordinary world?

...

“So, when in Rome, the system has stripped out all the superpowers?” Dean’s heart skipped a beat as he stared at the word “reward,” searching for an explanation, but the cold system seemed to lack any artificial intelligence and gave no answer.

He could only explore and experiment on his own.

“This body is in excellent shape—healthy, energetic. Especially Constitution and Agility, already above average for an adult.”

“Maybe from riding a bike an hour to school every morning.”

“An agility of eleven—what a waste not to be a sprinter.”

“But what’s with a willpower of only nine, nearly at the lower limit for a normal person? Two lives, and my will is still weak?”

Dean stretched his limbs, jumped in place twice, reached up to touch the ceiling, feeling out this new body, trying to manipulate the system with his mind.

Alas, aside from being able to summon and dismiss it at will, there were no other functions.

Unwilling to give up, Dean experimented further.

What were specialties in the rewards? Could experience be gained any other way?

The clock on the wall ticked quietly past one o’clock.

He was at a loss.

“No matter what, having a cold, aloof cheat code is better than transmigrating empty-handed.”

The initial excitement of arriving in a foreign world faded, and a wave of irresistible sleepiness washed over him.

“Tomorrow’s Tuesday. School is bound to hold some clues.”

Dean turned off the light, folded his hands under his head, and lay down comfortably on the bed.

“Rest well. Greet the new life.”

Soft snores rose in the quiet bedroom.

...