Earth.
January 1st, Sunday.
Year 2113.
Marionette Hotel.
"What the hell?!"
A tablet smashed against the floor, its hologram shattering into fragments of pale light.
The one who had thrown it, William Kingston—114 years old, body withered yet voice still venomous—snarled, "Dumb asses! Absolute dumb asses!"
His chest heaved as he sat upright on the bed, glaring at the flickering projection still buzzing weakly on the ground. It carried the words: Reverend Insanity—Hiatus.
With a tired flick of his fingers, the wristband on his arm responded.
Light threads wove the broken hologram back together, piecing it into a solid, floating screen before him.
His hand reached out, touched it—mocking it, as though confirming that disappointment itself had substance.
"Chinese fools," he muttered, his sigh carrying more fatigue than anger.
"Still… this webtoon is unique." His eyes narrowed.
"But the chinese industry? Blind idiots."
"Of all things to adapt, they had to pick a century-old novel for a live-action."
His jaw tightened. "Absolute Rubbish."
The wristband at his arm glowed red, vital signs dipping with heart irregularities.
His fury was dragging him closer to the edge.
But William only exhaled, long and weary, the tremor in his breath steadying.
"There's still two hours left… and it has to be on New Year's, doesn't it?"
Through the glass window, he watched the world.
Fireworks crowned the sky, cities roared with celebration. Yet his gaze was heavy, burdened by a century of scars.
He had lived through too much.
In his twenties: the plague they called COVID.
In his forties: the shadow of World War III, a faint tremor before the earthquake.
In his fifties: the world war itself, ruthless, merciless.
By his sixties: the war ended, with England, America, Russia carving up the world like butchers—crowning kings and queens, strangling democracy.
By his seventies: mankind's first colonisation on the moon.
By his nineties: a cure that mended flesh, bone, and blood—everything but the slow march of time itself.
And when he crossed his hundredth year: EXON created artificial intelligence that not only thought, but dreamed. Conscious, aware, calculating.
Humanity had built its own rival.
At 114, William Kingston had seen the world climb to heights of technology, yet sink back into feudal rot.
Queens, dukes, and crowns ruled where once parliaments had stood.
Progress gilded the surface; beneath it, life was dragged backward into chains.
And William—an old man—could do nothing but watch.
His eyes fell on the floating hologram once more.
"This main character… he is lucky, no matter how much the story tries to paint him otherwise," he muttered.
"At least these insects, Gu worms… they are not bad looking." His lips curled in disdain.
"But who in their right mind adapts a novel left unfinished for a hundred years?" His voice rose, a roar of rage.
Then, just as quickly, the fire ebbed. He shook his head, voice dropping to a murmur.
"Whatever."
"From my perspective, this Fang Yuan is more like Napoleon Bonaparte."
"Ambition clothed in ruthlessness."
A thin smile surfaced. "Still… this webtoon is good enough to kill time."
He turned toward the window. Below, the city blazed with neon light.
Cars ripped past at impossible speeds, engines screaming. Crowds filled the night, drunk on the promise of a new year.
"Goodbye, world." The words left him like a sigh.
He lay back, closing his eyes. He knew the truth—within two hours, his heart would halt, and his mind would slip into nothingness.
The thought alone was agony.
That was why EXON had created this invention: the wristband pulsing faintly at his arm. A cold device that counted down every breath, promising death in sleep, sparing him the torment of dying awake.
Mercy, some called it. William knew everyone's just afraid.
His chest rose and fell, regret thick in every breath.
A life full of mistakes, of what-ifs that could never be chased.
The past cannot be rewritten.
A bitter thought curled through him.
After all… not everyone would be like Fang Yuan, who could go back in time like fly above that whatever river countless times?
...
"Ma'am… it's a boy."
The maid in green bent low, lifting the newborn with careful hands. She passed him to the pale young woman on the bed, her white robes clinging with sweat. Another maid brought forth the second child, still wailing, and laid him gently beside his brother.
Jiaying's arms cradled both infants, her weary eyes softening as she gazed at them. One screamed into the world with raw life. The other lay silent, eyes closed, asleep as if the noise of existence was beneath him.
The door burst open. A young man stumbled in, breathless. His features were handsome, his jawline sharp, though time had softened him with a layer of fat. His eyes, however, were alight with worry.
"Jiaying! Are you well?"
She gave a faint nod, then lifted the quiet child toward him. Her lips curved into a tired smile."Fang Mo… name the eldest."
Fang Mo took the silent boy into his arms. His gaze lingered on the two children—one howling, one unmoved. His expression hardened with thought.
"Yuan," he declared at last, voice deep and resolute. "Fang Yuan."
He glanced at the second child, still crying. "And this one… Fang Zheng."
...
"Hm…"
William stirred at the sharp cries echoing in the air. His eyelids dragged open, heavy as stone.
"Yuan."
"Fang Yuan."
"And this one… Fang Zheng."
The names rang like hammer blows.
A massive, round head loomed before his blurry vision. Large eyes stared down at him, filled with innocence.
William's breath caught. His mind jolted awake.
"Fuck!" he tried to shout—yet what escaped his lips was a pitiful infant's wail.
The cry only made Fang Mo and Jiaying smile with warmth, mistaking his desperation for acceptance of the name.
No! William's soul roared. But only more shrill cries spilled out of his tiny throat.
He understood. In a single dreadful instant, he understood.
He had been dragged into the story.
No!
Reincarnated into the body of Fang Yuan.
A bitter, suffocating irony twisted through him.
I was joking. Fang Yuan isn't lucky at all.
His heart howled.
Anywhere but here.
Anywhere but this cursed world!
But his prayers rose as nothing more than the cries of a helpless child. And his so-called parents gazed at him with boundless affection, blind to the storm raging in his soul.
Please… someone… help me.