-Next day-
Date: XXX, 2026 – Somewhere in Manchester
Sometime around noon, the sun hung high in the sky, illuminating the inside of the department where Michel was currently calling his temporary home. If a girl were to take a peek inside the master bedroom, she would shy away with a blush, crying, "Kyaa~Onii-samaa~~dame da yo~~!"
Michel tried to open his eyes to the physical world while enduring a headache like thunder cracking his skull. After getting a hold of himself, he tried to move his body—but he couldn't help but feel his body pressed down. As he took in the lustful view that painted the current scenery of the bedroom and the source of his predicament, he saw himself flanked by two ginger twins, interlocking around him like boas constricting their prey.
He sighed as he dropped his head again into the soft pillows, remembering the night before. "Oh, right... Damn, what a bomb to the soul and body."
"That was a great party. The booze flew and was drunk like water by the three after getting to know each other for a while. They were practically eager to get to know him, so it wasn't hard to retain them. These redhead twins had some kind of natural attraction that got him high quickly after getting intimate with them, making him trip and think philosophical shit at the same time—a crazy experience."
"Damn, what a crazy ride."
The trolls on the internet were right: myths vs. facts, and this was a damn fact. Redheads—soulless and all—sucked your soul from the source. What a blessing: redheads, blue eyes, and twins. Blessed mother.
He couldn't help but take another peek at their beautiful, smooth, big, fat, white globes of flesh. Seeing that his hands were still holding one in each—left and right—like he was holding the world, he couldn't resist putting a little force into pinching them. What awaited him as a reward was the beautiful sound of the girls, like lazy kittens whispering, "Aahn," from their pouty lips, with no intention of waking anytime soon.
*Tsk, tsk*. Michel couldn't help but make a sound of admiration. They were quite the beauties—curvy and pale, with generous breasts and asses. Their pussies were also a beautiful pink, currently red and plump from how much he'd used them both the night before.
'What slutty vixens. But one has to recognize that they are one of the finest kinds of girls.'
This sight of pure debauchery was so intoxicating.
While enjoying the warmth and softness of the girls, he couldn't help but think about the future. He needed to gather more information while dealing with the things at hand.
For starters, nothing that had happened since yesterday could be called normal—not even these two succubus in his arms. What happened yesterday in the showers of the prison could've been the fastest reincarnation for a transmigrator, ready to push the next one or rebirth after experiencing an embarrassing and quick death—if he hadn't had that kind of supernatural power-up he'd experienced.
Getting up from the bed after untangling himself from the pair of twins—somehow without waking them, as they instantly entangled themselves again, purring like lazy cats—Michel moved into the bathroom, intending to take a warm shower.
Looking in the mirror and observing his new face and body, his thoughts couldn't help but wander again about those superpowers inside him. Was it natural-born, like the myths of Achilles or something? Or was something else at play? For starters, this French last name—Labonair. The Labonair family... This year, 2026—maybe he really was in The Vampire Diaries universe as he thought? The Labonair surname was a family with royal blood, or alphas born as werewolves? He couldn't remember it very well, but what he did seem to remember was that they carried a mark on their upper right shoulder.
He couldn't help but glance there—and indeed, there was a mark in that place.
But was this the Labonair family birthmark? He didn't know what it looked like. Also, whose parents were from this body? What the fuck am I doing living in the UK? Shouldn't I be in eagle sauce? This body was a blank sheet—if not for the name: Michel Labonair.
Thinking about his last life, he'd had the great Mongol birthmark, but it had faded growing up—or at least that's what he'd been told, because he'd never seen it until coming to this new reality. Just curious remarks from old people of the time, remembering those gossip things.
Anyway, if it was werewolf power that this body currently carried, it could explain those superpowers akin to a Baldie One-Punch—but for that kind of power to activate, it must've been triggered by killing, could it have been those rich kids he'd supposedly killed? The event that sent this body to prison or was something else?.
He didn't know what had happened back then, but even so, it was weird that no problems had happened during those four years inside—no transformation on a full moon in prison, no rage issues, no other drama-puppy qualities.
Had the original Michel Labonair been killed? No idea. And no one would be able to answer those questions more than this body, the involved people, and the lord.
Fuck it.
Even if the werewolf gene hadn't been triggered then, it was now—after killing those fuckers for sure. He could only wait for the next full moon to see what happened. If werewolves turned out to be real, then he could question whether vampires existed, and then the original family, and witches with their magic... Such a weird thing... to speak of... Magic—the ability to bend the fabrics of reality, changing the natural order of nature, making the impossible possible.
Maybe his golden finger was just magic and not a Young Master Shenhao Golden Finger system? He personally hoped it was the magic one because, in that case, he'd be a hybrid werewolf/witch, and all other kinds of supernatural beings could exist.
There was no need to delve too deep into this line of thinking. After all, seeing was believing, and when he got to experience being a badass big wolf, he'd start believing the next thing on the list. So far, it could just be a natural-born superhuman with powers and a golden finger given by the Almighty.
He kept looking at his face like a new character in Fallout 4, couldn't help but joke—"I am the hybrid!!!" he yelled, showing his teeth as if baring his fangs. "No one can kill me."
"I will make you feel pain!!! A pain like you have never experienced before!!!"
Michel guffawed at his bad joke of a poor imitation of Klaus. But who knows? Maybe he was actually a hybrid—or maybe he was even more: not just any hybrid, the legendary tribid.
But what he was actually sure of is that he was a triple-nationality mixed soup-body tribid: a Brit with the looks of a German electricist when acting, with a full French name. The legendary tribid Briton, Gallic chicken, and Hansa—the perfect combination of the XX century, the epitome of Europe.
But damn, what good looks I've got now. Also, that kind of natural, sharp-eyed, cold look of facial paralysis that was intimidating just by making eye contact—just the perfect bad guy in handsome black clothes, ready to parade on the way to the north, bringing the girls and ladies to their knees with wobbly legs just by looking at him. Ready to bring them all the teachings of his ancestors—Liberté, égalité, fraternité—with a little pinch of freedom-eagle sauce at the rhythm of a banzai on his all-ins."
Pretty narcissistic and with a few screws loose, I must say. After all, I must have some werewolf shit doing something with my mind.
------------------------------------
-A while later, in the kitchen-
A day isn't a good day if there's no coffee with a speck of milk to do the touching to start the day. It revitalizes the body, mind, and soul—the perfect balance, just like Lady Anya's coconut weird shitty shakes from TokTok.
Pulling out his cellphone, Michel takes a peek first at the date: "XX May, 2026." He must remember the month to celebrate this date every year—the coming of a god on the blue-star planet. And for tradition, what better way than to drink a good bottle of old buddy Johnny Walker, any label? It'll ensure his bloodline remembers to keep the fire of his memory alive in their hearts and uphold this great cause of tradition. Of course, he doesn't give a shit about the ancestors of this body, but hey—not everyone's perfect, people say.
Opening the bank & exchange app, there's that beautiful red alert again, screeching to the four winds: "Take a look!" Anticipating and undaunted, Michel's body gets a new dopamine kick. After all, his entire life as a slave to the eight-hour system was just enough to make him a middle-class, law-abiding citizen—until less than 30 hours ago. Great number, 30. Just like a nice 30:1 margin.
Selecting the alert, it shows:
GBP/JPY
Current price: 1/168.04 Margin call: sell Open price: 81.1 Close price: 165.7 Status: completed (100%) Profit in money: £4,530,317.99 GBP (after tax) Profit in pips: 8,460
Whoah, there it is—moneeeeyyyy! Show me the moneyyyyyy!
Impressive and, at the same time, so exciting—easy money, if you've got this golden finger, of course. Because this is a bottomless pit for any mortal who ventures into these waters.
He needs to start thinking more deeply about what to do with this money. First things first: enjoy and deprave your soul in all the earthly pleasures that modernity can bring, like any good, normal person joining the ranks of the nouveau riche—just following the ancestors' teachings or the new-money term on Freeland. A bunch of people whining at the rich pigs who have money to do dumb things and show off. Well, go take a look at Rich Dad, Poor Dad and release the inner troll on the internet while you're at it.
Just as Michel's was about to close the app, the Maximus Omega and Alpha Finger revealed a new opportunity among all the available forex pairs—shining like a legendary item in the darkness: GBP/USD.
"Damn!" Michel exclaimed. "Take a look at that," He was sure to bring freedom to those dollars, following in Gran' Dad Eagle Sauce's footsteps, swaggering that eagle all the way.
GBP/USD
Profit: 3900% ETA: 1 hour
Clicking on it:
GBP/USD (buy) Open price: 1.28808 Close price: 3.00000 Operation starts: 10 minutes Finish: 1 hour
At that moment, Michel embodies the motto of wind, forest, mountain in his maximum expression—being as swift as the wind, as gentle as the forest, as fierce as fire, as unshakable as the mountain.
He places the new order with a 30:1 margin again, totaling 1,350 lots.