On the way home, the petty jailers from the yamen rushed out and knocked him to the ground. They splashed dirty water on him and cursed him, saying a toad like him wanted to eat swan meat.

He didn’t dare fight back, didn’t dare beg for mercy. He hated himself—why could he only be a toad? Why was there never a day when he could soar among the clouds? Even if it was just for a fleeting moment, it would be better than a thousand or ten thousand years.

The archer Mr. Thompson came to make trouble for him in every possible way.

Albert Brooks endured again and again.

Until yesterday evening, when Mr. Thompson struck the back of his head with an iron ruler.

At that moment, James Brooks saw himself finally take flight, never again to be bound by the mortal world, never again to heed the clamor of humanity.

The feeling of flying was wonderful!

But why was the evening sunlight so dazzling? Something was flying toward him against the setting sun—was it the legendary Taisui?

Taisui clashes with the sun, and the world is turned upside down!

A white light from the sky, carrying cars, computers, the internet, and the virtual world, collided with Eighty-One’s soul. There was a thunderous explosion, and then he fell into endless darkness.

Darkness, boundless darkness.

Two streams of energy from different worlds tangled, collided, destroyed, and fused in the darkness.

No one knew how long it lasted—maybe an instant, maybe tens of millions of years.

A green seedling suddenly broke through the darkness and grew strong!

The entire chaotic world suddenly became bright.

That seedling was called a dream!

When Chris Brooks woke from his dream again, it was already close to noon. Sunlight filtered through the pale green gauze curtains, shining on the tung oil–coated floor and rippling with waves of warm green.

He instinctively looked at his own hands—large, rough, covered in calluses, the knuckles noticeably thicker than normal. That was from years of laboring in cold water; the tendon sheaths inside had already deformed. But in his memories of the previous world, his fingers had been slender and long, used only for playing the piano or typing on a keyboard.

Rough is fine, he thought—at least these hands looked stronger than his previous ones. In troubled times, a bit more strength meant a better chance of survival. Hands for playing piano would only starve to death. With a mindset of going with the flow, Chris Brooks comforted himself.

After the collision and fusion in his dream, he had gradually accepted his new identity and the bitter fate of James Brooks. He was about to use his hands to prop himself up and find a mirror to see what his new body looked like, when he accidentally noticed that the sleeve at his wrist was completely different from the memories of either world.

The clothes were made of a very fine fabric; Chris Brooks couldn’t tell what it was, but he knew it couldn’t be cheap. Looking down, he saw the wide wooden bed beneath him, the silk pillow under his head, and the desk by the window with exquisitely carved patterns on its edges—each item exuded an air of wealth from the inside out.

“Did I transmigrate again?!” Chris Brooks was stunned for a moment, then quickly jumped out of bed and looked around barefoot. “Looks like I’ve landed in a good place this time! At least I’m in a wealthy family!”

Just as he was secretly rejoicing, an annoying face suddenly appeared before him. Mr. Sullivan beamed with a fawning smile and asked obsequiously, “Master Buddha, you’re awake. Do you need to wash your face and change clothes? I’ll call the maid in for you right away! Qiuju—!”

“Wait!” Chris Brooks quickly stepped forward and grabbed Mr. Sullivan by the collar.

Mr. Sullivan was startled, and the rest of his sentence got stuck in his throat. Blushing, he waved his hands and backed away desperately. “Master, please have mercy. I—I am but a crude servant, truly unworthy of your favor.”

“Favor?!” Chris Brooks was taken aback again, let go, and looked him up and down in surprise. He really couldn’t figure out what was so crude about this Mr. Sullivan, now dressed as a scholar.

But Mr. Sullivan, with an agility that belied his age, jumped several steps away, pressing his backside tightly against the wall, still gasping and pleading, “I didn’t know your preferences, Master, so I didn’t dare make any arrangements. I’ll go see if there’s a fresh-faced young servant in the courtyard and bring him to serve you!”

“A young servant? What do I need a young servant for?” Chris Brooks was completely confused at first, then his square face instantly turned the color of pig’s liver. “You’re the pervert, your whole family are perverts! I just wanted to ask you something—why are you hiding so far away? Get over here, now!”

“Yes, yes!” Mr. Sullivan still didn’t understand why his whole family would become perverts, but from Chris Brooks’s expression, he guessed it had all been a misunderstanding. He quickly agreed in a low voice and inched toward the bed, but kept his backside pressed to the wall, ready to stick to it at any moment, determined to resist to the death.

Seeing his chaste and virtuous act, Chris Brooks couldn’t help but laugh. After laughing, his anger faded. Shaking his head helplessly, he strode to the desk, picked up the teapot, and drank straight from the spout.