John Foster searched through another part of his brain that belonged to the original memories of this body. All he could do was sigh and feel angry at its lack of resolve. To choose such a way to deal with this kind of situation was far too cowardly—it was pure escapism. The original owner was dead, while the person who stole his achievements was still living freely, now a so-called success. Was this death really worth it?

Anyway, John Foster himself felt it was absolutely not worth it. In this life, retribution comes in this life; who knows if there’s even such a thing as reincarnation.

However, while the original owner didn’t dare face the current situation, John Foster was different.

Someone who has survived the apocalypse is, after all, fundamentally different from those who lived in peaceful times.

The more memories he retrieved, the more amazed John Foster became.

There really is a new world...

All those years of fighting, all those years of hellish living—they were worth it! While searching through the original memories of this body, John Foster never stopped being alert to his surroundings. No matter when, even if the body itself was in a safe environment, John Foster would never fully let his guard down. This was a habit formed during the apocalypse, and one of the reasons he managed to survive for so many years.

When the whining noises from nearby grew louder and louder, John Foster finally paused his search through the body’s memories and turned his head to look.

He had already noticed that there was another living creature in this cramped room, but it posed no threat and showed no signs of aggression. In the apocalypse, such creatures were usually not mutated beasts, so he hadn’t paid much attention to it earlier. Now, hearing the increasing noise, John Foster finally looked over properly.

It was a small dog, with fur the length of a finger matted into clumps, filthy all over, stuck with who knows what. The dog was very thin—if you shaved off its fur, it would probably be nothing but skin and bones.

A stray dog the original owner had picked up before committing suicide.

After bringing it back last night, the original owner gave it a final, enhanced dinner—half for himself, half for the dog. Both portions of food had been laced with suicide drugs bought from a pharmacy.

On a table not far away sat an empty bowl; the drugged food inside had already been eaten by the original owner. The plate next to the dog, however, still held yesterday’s food, untouched.

In his memory, the dog’s condition yesterday was quite poor—it could barely stand. After a night, it looked a little more spirited, but still struggled to get up, lying on its side, head tilted, neck twisted to look at John Foster, wagging the tip of its tail, its black eyes fixed intently on him.

John Foster moved his legs. Though still a bit weak, he could walk.

Both feet on the ground, the solid feeling traveling from his soles to his brain made John Foster's heart race.

As if to confirm the reality of everything before him, John Foster walked very carefully, very deliberately.

One step, two steps...

What started as tentative, almost slow-motion movements gradually sped up, every cell in his body growing excited in response to the emotions transmitted from his brain.

From death to life—how lucky!

Reaching the spot where the dog lay, John Foster crouched down and tossed the plate—whatever it was made of—and the drug-laced mush inside straight into the trash.

Seeing John Foster's actions, the dog seemed to perk up a bit, a new light appearing in its eyes.

There was no more edible food in the room. Based on the body’s memories, John Foster took a bowl from the cupboard. He felt the side of the bowl, confirming it wasn’t made of any material he was familiar with. At first glance it looked like ceramic, but to the touch it felt more like some kind of synthetic plastic—very light.

There were some vague memories in his mind about new materials. From those, John Foster could only tell that this was a material that could rapidly degrade under certain conditions without releasing large amounts of harmful substances.

He didn’t dwell on it. Following his memories, John Foster filled the bowl halfway with water at the sink and placed it in front of the dog.

The dog, which had been lying there, wobbled to its feet. It looked like it might collapse at any moment, but still managed to stand firm, lowering its head to lap at the water in the bowl, its tail giving small, tentative wags.

Even a stray dog tries its best to survive.

John Foster glanced at the dog, then turned his attention back to the small room.

The space was about twenty square meters in total—cramped, cluttered, the corners a complete mess. But the memories in his mind told John Foster that before yesterday, that corner had actually been the tidiest spot in the whole room.

The roughly four-square-meter area in the corner was the original owner’s creative space. The songs composed over the past two months had all been completed in that cramped corner.

Many of the tools and furnishings in the room were completely unfamiliar, and John Foster had never seen any of the household appliances before. However, he could understand everything from the memories left in his brain, so as long as he fully integrated those memories, surviving here would be no problem at all.

John Foster walked over to a spot and pressed a small button on the wall. A waist-high cabinet extended out from the wall, with a mirror above it.

Without bothering to study the materials of the mirror or cabinet, John Foster carefully examined the person in the mirror.