“Sesame Li?” Chris Brooks rubbed his temples desperately, his vision going black in waves, countless little stars bouncing up and down before his eyes. He knew about Zhu Yuanzhang, Monk Peng, Zhang Shicheng, Shen Wansan and the like, and he also knew that in the end Zhu Yuanzhang seized the world, while the others all became the waves that died on the shore. But where should Zhu Yuanzhang be at this moment? Was he still a monk, or had he already joined the Ming Cult?! And what about that foot-fetishist Zhang Wuji who knew the Nine Yang Manual, where was he?! Had the Lion Slaying Assembly already taken place? The Wumu Testament and the Nine Yin Manual, whose hands were they in now? If parallel universes existed, then what was the relationship between this planet he was on and Earth...

“Damn it, the history teacher died too young!” Under the expectant gaze of Mr. Su and the crowd of commoners, Chris Brooks—no, James Brooks—suddenly blurted out something no one could understand, rolled his eyes, and completely passed out.

“Another one who played games until he literally died!” In the 21st-century Earth, Beijing Tiantan Hospital, a nurse sighed, pulled up the white sheet, and covered a young, pale face.

Chapter 006: Buddha’s Child

I am Albert Brooks, a pig butcher. Since I was eight, I followed my master to learn how to slaughter pigs, castrate pigs, singe off their hair, wash pig intestines—year round, never a break. If I didn’t do well, my master would beat me. If I did well, at most I’d get an extra spoonful of lard in my food...

In his sleep, Chris Brooks saw a stubborn young man, surname Zhu, given name Eighty-One, nickname Albert Brooks.

The youth was burly, with dark skin and a wooden expression, but Chris Brooks felt as if he’d known this person for many years, a deep sense of kinship from the bottom of his heart.

Unlike the unlucky wretch Mr. Su described, who brought death to his sister, nephew, and brother-in-law, this youth named James Brooks was full of life.

His fate, too, was full of hardship.

His master was a drunkard, childless, and didn’t much like his only apprentice. Every day he forced him to work like mad, and if he was even a little dissatisfied, he’d immediately beat and kick him.

Chopping wood, carrying water, washing pots, tying up pigs, cleaning up dung and blood, washing pig intestines.

Pig intestines had to be washed with cold water; hot water would leave the stench of pig feces in the intestines, but cold water could make them clean and smooth, with the unique freshness of offal.

It had to be cold water, no matter the weather, no matter the season. Even in the dead of winter, it was the same.

In all his memories, the only warmth James Brooks could recall was his sister’s hand.

But his sister was forcibly taken back to the magistrate’s mansion to be a concubine. That magistrate was already over fifty, older even than the grandfather James Brooks lost to a flood.

From then on, he could no longer feel his sister’s touch. Even during holidays, he could only go to the back door of the magistrate’s house, greet his sister through the crack in the door, and then, under the disdainful gaze of the servants, receive a pair of cloth shoes and a few sets of socks his sister had made for him.

One day, his sister told him she was pregnant, maybe with a boy.

Albert Brooks was very happy, even though his magistrate brother-in-law had never shown him a kind face. But with a boy, his sister’s status in the magistrate’s house would be secure; at least, she wouldn’t be thrown out in old age, left with nothing.

During that time, he felt strong no matter what he did, always thinking he could save up some money to buy a decent gift for his unborn nephew. An uncle might be looked down on, but a nephew would surely make something of himself and live a good life.

However, before he could save enough, his sister’s corpse was sent out from the magistrate’s house. Both mother and child dead, they said it was a difficult birth. But Albert Brooks clearly saw purple bruises on his sister’s neck and wrists.

Dead was dead, and aside from a straw mat, there was nothing left.

The status of a concubine was the same as a household slave.

And for a drifter like James Brooks, the magistrate was as high as the heavens. He couldn’t seek justice for his sister, couldn’t even ask about the cause of her death.

Fortunately, heaven had eyes. Last year, that magistrate suddenly broke his neck in a fall and died a miserable death.

His sister was gone, his enemy was dead. James Brooks had nothing left to keep him in this world.

Every day he bought pigs, slaughtered pigs, sold meat. Then bought more pigs, slaughtered more pigs, sold more meat, and so on, sunrise to sunset, never-ending. To him, his body was already a prison; whenever he left it, he’d have no regrets.

When the local thugs took meat without paying, he didn’t bother to argue.

When shrews sent their children to steal bones, he turned a blind eye—just a few bones, whoever eats them, eats them.

Until one day, a gentle green appeared in the youth’s eyes.

Life suddenly brightened. James Brooks began working desperately to earn and save money, hoping that one day, he could keep that touch of green forever.

Yet that touch of green was personally sent by Mr. Thompson to the residence of Lord Darughachi. That was Mr. Thompson’s own daughter, married off to a Mongol old man in his sixties—how could he be so heartless?

On the wedding day, Albert Brooks followed the bridal sedan, down one street after another.

He watched helplessly as the sedan entered Lord Darughachi’s house, the vermilion doors slammed shut, separating the world inside from the world outside.