Unfortunately, neither sibling seemed to have much of a knack for studying—their grades at the academy were always below average, no matter how hard they tried, they just couldn’t improve. And that wasn’t all; at the academy, most of the other students came from wealthy or noble families. In comparison, the siblings’ circumstances were far inferior, which naturally led to feelings of inferiority and affected their originally healthy personalities. George Miller became eccentric and withdrawn, while his younger sister Grace Carter grew quiet and taciturn.

“You’ll be heading to school soon. Don’t mess around with your classmates—focus on your studies and try to get into a good university.” Their father Edward Harris sat across from them, eating salad from his plate as he gave his stern reminder. “And Grace Carter, you too—don’t spend all day with your novels. You need to focus on your studies.”

“Okay.” Grace Carter replied obediently. She sat to the right of Henry Clark, wearing a delicate white fitted blouse with a white corsage pinned to her chest, accentuating her youthful and adorable figure. She paired it with a black and purple pleated mini-skirt, her legs covered in thick black tights to make up for the skirt’s shortness. As she ate her cake, the toes of her little black leather shoes pointed toward each other, her head lowered, looking timid and meek.

Henry Clark silently ate his cake, occasionally taking a sip of milk from the glass at his side. He glanced at his sister’s outfit and noticed a black, silver-glinting emblem on her chest—a wreath encircling a line of letters—signifying that this was the girls’ uniform of St. Oriole Academy.

He looked at himself: a fitted white shirt with black and silver stripes at the cuffs and collar, fitted black trousers, and black leather shoes. He looked just as handsome and well-dressed, and quite high-class.

The siblings’ looks were rather average; only their black-purple hair and wine-red eyes added a bit of distinction. His sister’s features were plain, with just the right amount of freckles and pimples on her face. As for George Miller himself, his hair was messy, his eyes dull, and his eye sockets sunken, as if he hadn’t fully recovered from a long illness—he gave off an uncomfortable impression.

Henry Clark didn’t finish absorbing most of George Miller’s memories until after breakfast. The siblings helped clear the dishes, then each went to their rooms to pack their school bags.

“Bro, have you seen my history book?” Grace Carter called out loudly from her room.

“No.” Henry Clark, or rather, now he should be called George Miller, replied casually.

He was packing his own books: history, geography, etiquette, math, and a whole slew of other subjects—actually more than in a high school on Earth. There were even classes like swordsmanship and archery. Stuffing all the books into his black backpack, George Miller let out a light sigh, walked slowly to the window, and opened it. A rush of cool, damp air greeted him.

Outside, below the window, was an open space between two apartment buildings, the ground paved in gray-black checkerboard tiles. On the left side of the lot, some people were lining up in front of a burly man holding a sign, with more and more people gathering—who knew where they were queuing to go. The sign read “Victory to Collins.”

Directly below, a grayish-yellow wooden cart was being pushed by a woman, rolling out from the entrance of his building. The cart was loaded with tools and ingredients for selling snacks and pancakes.

Suddenly, a white bird flew past George Miller’s eyes, circled a few times, and then disappeared.

He snapped out of his daze, finally realizing that he had truly arrived in another world. He was in his own home on the fourth floor, looking down at an environment completely different from China.

The people outside had either blond, silver, or red hair, with eyes of various colors. Their skin ranged from black to white. The language and writing they used was a special alphabet, similar to English. With George Miller’s inherited memories, he could naturally understand it all.

Now, he was no longer the adult he had been on Earth, but an ordinary sixteen-year-old boy, with an ordinary family, an ordinary background and appearance, and a frail body. His parents went to work every day, leaving in the morning and returning in the evening. He and his sister came home from school once a week, their lives a simple routine between school and home. Finish high school, take the unified exams, and if lucky, get into a decent university, then have a good background and hopefully land a good job. Just one among the millions of students taking the unified exams.

Having a good job—that was the greatest hope their parents had for the siblings.

“If it weren’t for the frail body, I might not have been able to make it here at all,” George Miller thought with a wry smile. He had a feeling that when he’d passed out in the carriage on the way home, it was probably George Miller’s body instinctively resisting the invasion of his consciousness. If it had been a stronger body, he might have been completely rejected.

“According to the knowledge in these memories, this world is still in the industrial revolution era. They have firearms, but no decisive strategic weapons. It’s pretty much like the world before the advent of nuclear bombs and missiles,” he reflected. “It’s nothing like the imagined worlds of magic, martial arts, or immortals—there’s not even a hint of anything supernatural.”