Chapter One: The Prison Cell

This is a prison cell, holding three people.

A faint ray of light filtered in through a tiny window high up on the wall. In the dimness, one could see a severed finger lying on the filthy straw.

The young man, called “William Thompson” in both his past and present lives, asked his cellmate, “You’re saying that this finger was bitten off by me?”

“Yes, you’re pretty ruthless.”

The one who replied was a skinny, short young man with shifty eyes and a rat-like face. He was so small it seemed he could slip through the bars—though, unfortunately, he couldn’t actually do so.

This young man’s name was Henry Clark, who claimed to be a formidable thief, with the nickname “White-Furred Rat.”

William Thompson didn’t know how formidable Henry Clark’s so-called “formidable” really was. He did remember that, as a child, he’d seen a beautiful white rat spirit in “Journey to the West,” but the “White-Furred Rat” before him was truly an eyesore.

It’s worth mentioning that “White-Furred Rat” Henry Clark had clearly never heard of “Journey to the West,” because he said the current year was “the fourth year of Xingchang in the Great Song.”

William Thompson thought back—he’d never heard of any “Xingchang” era in the Song dynasty, which puzzled him.

But Henry Clark couldn’t say much more; this supposedly formidable thief seemed to know little about the outside world.

The severed finger the two were discussing belonged to the third person in the cell, a fierce-looking burly man named Brian Carter.

This Brian Carter had a huge frame; outside, he might have been a strapping giant, but now, starved in prison, he was reduced to skin and bones.

Because Brian Carter’s right index finger had been bitten off, he’d been taken out to have it bandaged and had just returned. Now, he sat there with his eyes closed, feigning sleep, silent.

William Thompson sized up Brian Carter—judging by his body, he’d been in prison for at least half a year.

As for why he himself had bitten off the man’s finger?

Before William Thompson could figure it out, Henry Clark was already launching into a vivid retelling.

“Big Carter just wanted to have a little fun with you. If you ask me, it wouldn’t have hurt to let him have his way. If he wanted to mess with me, I’d definitely agree! Staying in this cell is so boring it’ll drive you mad. But you, you’re really ruthless—clamped down on his finger and wouldn’t let go, even after being beaten like that. I’ve been in the underworld for years, and I’ve rarely seen a young gentleman like you.”

By this point, William Thompson more or less understood what had happened.

The reason he’d bitten off Brian Carter’s finger was probably for the sake of “purity.”

But Henry Clark kept chattering on.

“The most amazing thing is, I saw you get beaten to death by Big Carter—you’d stopped breathing, stone cold dead, and yet you came back to life. Damn, that’s really something.”

He slapped his thigh, unable to express his excitement, so he grabbed his stinky foot and rubbed it hard, clicking his tongue and muttering, “Amazing, amazing.”

William Thompson rubbed his forehead, thinking this was indeed a bit miraculous.

He had originally been a modern man, who died unexpectedly in a plane crash, and somehow transmigrated—when he opened his eyes, he was in this stinking prison cell.

By the way, the crashed plane was his private jet, which made him all the more regretful.

At first, he’d harbored a faint hope that maybe this was all some elaborate prank for a reality show, and that when the cell door opened, he’d find himself in a studio.

But reason told him that was impossible—his body wasn’t the same as before, so this had to be transmigration.

After half a day, he’d figured out that the original owner of this body had been imprisoned just yesterday, got into a fight with his cellmates last night, was beaten to death, and he himself had taken over the corpse.

Up to now, he hadn’t had a chance to see what he looked like—what was it about him that made Brian Carter want to do... that kind of beastly thing?

After all, there were no mirrors in this cell. Even if he peed, he probably couldn’t see his reflection.

But he could tell this was a young, slender body, well-nourished and evenly muscled. The original owner must have come from a good family and had a decent upbringing—though why he’d ended up in prison was a mystery.

William Thompson had tried to subtly ask Henry Clark about the reason for his imprisonment, but Henry Clark just rolled his eyes and said he didn’t know, then gave a meaningful grin and joked, “How should I know? Maybe you eloped with some young lady.”

That answer was obviously nonsense.

He’d have to ask the jailers about it later. Outwardly, William Thompson remained calm, but inside he was deeply unsettled.

This cell saw no sunlight and had no ventilation. The air was thick with the stench of feet and excrement, filthy and chaotic. From the neighboring cells came the wails of the sick, which seemed to turn into a smell, giving the impression of rotting corpses.

More dangerously, he’d bitten off a cellmate’s finger—could that end well?

Though Brian Carter kept his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, William Thompson stayed on guard. He pondered for a while, about to say something to Brian Carter...

Suddenly, there was a commotion outside.

The clanging of keys rang out, and several jailers entered, holding torches and leading an official inside.