The expression on this uncle’s face was so genuine, it didn’t look fake at all. Peter Brooks couldn’t help but feel uneasy inside. Could it be that after his car accident, the hospital refused to reimburse him, and those profit-driven hospital directors, with a single stroke of the pen, sent him to this antique-level mental hospital for “recuperation”?

“Hmm, your young master seems to be suffering from soul-loss syndrome. Otherwise, how could he not even know who he is?” The old man even put on an air of being an expert doctor. This guy had no idea that the person he was observing was actually a medical elite who had graduated after years of cramming and intensive training in the future.

“Soul-loss syndrome?! You’re the one who’s lost your soul! Old man, you need evidence when you talk. Don’t think that just because you’re a bit older, you can act all mysterious and fool people!” Peter Brooks almost wanted to spit right in the old man’s face.

Unexpectedly, the old man who was scolded by Peter Brooks acted as if he couldn’t hear Peter Brooks at all. He turned to the bad-breath uncle and said, “See? Didn’t I say so? Your young master’s illness is quite serious.”

“What should we do? In a few days, the young lady will be back. If she sees the young master like this, she’ll be heartbroken. And how am I supposed to explain this to the old master, who’s barely cold in his grave…” The bad-breath uncle wiped tears from his face with his sleeve, looking as if the sky was falling.

Cold sweat dripped from Peter Brooks’s forehead down to his chin. “Wait, who’s the old master?” Damn it, besides himself, could these lunatics have fantasized him into some kind of dominant character?

“The old master is naturally your father! Three months ago, the poor old master passed away from illness. I suppose you fainted from missing him too much…” The bad-breath uncle’s expression turned a bit strange as he said the last sentence, as if he was lying to his face.

Peter Brooks was truly frightened. “What’s today’s date? How long have I been unconscious?” My dad? No way…

The bad-breath uncle glanced nervously at the old man beside him, who was still holding Peter Brooks’s hand to check his pulse, and then said, “Young master, you fainted this morning because you were… ahem, missing the old master and overexerted yourself. Today is the tenth day of the fourth month, the seventh year of Jian’an.”

“What kind of year is that? I told you to use the solar calendar. Wait, what year did you say it is now?” Peter Brooks suddenly shouted. This time, the old man who was gripping Peter Brooks’s wrist with a martial arts hold couldn’t keep his grip, and Peter Brooks broke free with a sudden burst of strength. Not just the bad-breath uncle, but everyone in the room was startled by Peter Brooks’s sudden outburst.

Luckily, the bad-breath uncle kept his composure and forced a nervous smile at Peter Brooks. “Young master, it really is the tenth day of the fourth month, the seventh year of Jian’an…”

“Seventh year of Jian’an? Damn it…” Peter Brooks reached up to touch his head, then looked at his now small and tender body, glanced around at the architecture of the room, and noticed there wasn’t a single modern device in sight. Peter Brooks finally understood—he had transmigrated…

※※※

Peter Brooks found it hard to accept this reality for a while—or rather, hard to accept that he had suddenly become someone else and arrived in another time and space. He couldn’t help but mutter nervously, “I’ve transmigrated? Am I dreaming or what?”

“This is bad! It’s getting worse! Why aren’t you restraining your young master?” The old man was shocked. He hadn’t expected his sure-fire pulse-holding technique to be broken by a thirteen-year-old kid, and he shouted urgently.

The bad-breath uncle looked at Peter Brooks in front of him, gritted his teeth for a while before finally mustering up the courage. With a wave of his big hand, several strong servants nervously stepped forward, apologizing as they went. Under the steward’s scolding, they pressed Peter Brooks back onto the bed. No matter how much Peter Brooks cursed, he couldn’t break free. Maybe it was the shock of just transmigrating, or maybe this small body just couldn’t take the struggle—Peter Brooks suddenly felt drained, his vision went black, and he fainted with his eyes rolled back.

In a haze, he heard the old man’s voice: “Head Steward Mason, your young master’s illness is too severe. I’m afraid I can’t handle it alone… Please go invite Healer Harris Master Harris. I’ll handle the medicine, and he can calm your young master’s spirit and retrieve his soul. Only with both approaches can he recover…”

Peter Brooks woke up again. Or rather, it was the noise that woke him. As soon as he opened his eyes, Peter Brooks’s little heart nearly stopped from fright. In front of him was a human-shaped creature, draped in a rain cape, hair disheveled, face painted like a ghost, dancing and shrieking wildly, waving two big bones—who knows from which leftover soup pot—back and forth in its hands.

Had he transmigrated to the underworld now? Still groggy, Peter Brooks was lost in wild thoughts when a faint voice came from the side into his ear. “Steward Mason, your young master is awake, but Master Harris’s ritual is at a critical moment. You mustn’t let your young master disturb the master’s ritual, or the consequences will be dire…”