Chapter 1: Betrayal and a Second Chance
The acrid smell of ozone, the metallic stench of burning circuitry, and the humid, sickly-sweet scent of Lu Chen's own dying blood formed the final sensory data set of his twenty-fifth year.
He lay sprawled on the cold, diamond-cut floor of his laboratory—the pristine, two-billion-dollar brain of his tech empire, "Zenith Innovations." His eyes, blurred and heavy, tracked the flickering power on a huge monitor: System Shutdown: 3%... 2%...
Above him, the face of Xu Jing was a masterpiece of cold, calculated malice. The man Lu Chen had pulled from obscurity, given a partnership, and trusted with the keys to the kingdom, now stood over him, holding a custom-made energy blaster.
"Fool," Xu Jing hissed, the word stripped of all the camaraderie they had once shared. "Did you truly believe you could build an empire this vast—a monument to your own ego—without making enemies? Or, worse, by trusting the competence of those beneath you?"
Lu Chen tried to speak, tried to force his powerful mind to coordinate his failing body. He wanted to spit a final insult, but only a ragged, wet gasp escaped his lips. The weapon had targeted his central nervous system; he was paralyzed, a prisoner in his own flesh.
Betrayal. It was the cruelest, most potent poison. Lu Chen, the genius who saw ten steps ahead in the global tech race, had been blind to the greed right beside him. He wasn't defeated by market forces or government regulation, but by a viper he had fed and warmed.
Xu Jing crouched down, his breath smelling faintly of expensive champagne. "You always thought you were special, Lu Chen. Always faster, always smarter. But you forgot one thing: power isn't about building the castle; it's about who holds the key to the main door. And tonight, I unlock your tomb."
He raised the weapon again, preparing a final, crushing blow. Lu Chen's world became a tunnel of red static. The final, desperate, burning thought of the collapsing tyrant was not of regret, but a cold, searing, eternal vow: If I had one more chance... just one chance, Xu Jing, I would tear your name from existence. I will make your life a slow, agonizing descent into the nothingness you have gifted me.
Then, the final, crushing strike of energy. The darkness came not as an end, but as a heavy, silent ocean swallowing him whole.
A shrill, metallic clamor ripped through the void, assaulting his ears and dragging him violently back to consciousness. Lu Chen's eyes snapped open, his body lurching upright in a clumsy, undignified tangle of cheap, synthetic blankets.
"What in the hell...?" he muttered, his voice cracking high and unfamiliar. It was thin, reedy, utterly lacking the deep resonance of his adult voice.
He blinked, the harsh morning light stinging his eyes. He was in a room. A small, cramped room with peeling wallpaper, a rickety wooden desk overflowing with grubby textbooks, and a single, unmade bed that smelled faintly of cheap air freshener and stale instant noodles. This was not the sleek, minimalist design of his penthouse; this was the definition of poverty.
He scrambled out of bed, his movements awkward and uncoordinated, as if he was inhabiting a badly fitted suit. He stumbled towards a cracked, oblong mirror hanging precariously on the wall near a dusty calendar.
Staring back at him was not the sharp, confident gaze of the world's youngest billionaire, but the wide, terrified, and slightly vacant eyes of a boy no older than sixteen. His hair was a shaggy, unkempt mess, his face rounder, softer, with a faint blush of adolescent acne. The body was slight, almost fragile, completely lacking the honed, disciplined musculature Lu Chen had cultivated through years of intense training.
A violent, chaotic torrent of foreign memories slammed into his mind, fighting for dominance with his own. They were flashes of humiliation, fear, and hopelessness:
Lin Hao. Age 16. High school student. A zero in the social hierarchy. Invisible, yet a magnet for bullies.
The Debt. Desperate need for money. The local loan sharks, ugly, looming figures, demanding payment this week.
Lin Mei. His younger sister. The cough. The hospital bills. The overwhelming, crushing fear of failure.
The Date. He saw the calendar: October 15, 2015. Not the year he died. Ten years. Ten full years into the past.
Lu Chen gripped the edge of the wooden desk, his knuckles white against the peeling paint. The reality clicked into place with terrifying, exhilarating speed. He wasn't dead. He was reborn. Not as himself, but as Lin Hao, a weak, bullied high schooler, ten years before his empire collapsed and his life was stolen.
His powerful, arrogant mind, now housed in the frail vessel of a boy, quickly calculated the magnitude of this gift. The global tech market, the political shifts, the meteoric rise of companies—he held ten years of future history in his head. It was a cheat code more potent than any "System" in those web novels.
A slow, chilling, predatory smile slowly stretched across Lin Hao's (Lu Chen's) face in the mirror. His thin lips curved, his eyes, though youthful, now held a cold, ruthless glint that promised absolute retribution.
"Xu Jing," he whispered, testing the new, reedy sound of the name. It was a silent vow that echoed not just in the room, but in the deepest, darkest core of his reborn soul. "You are just starting to crawl now. I have ten years. I will build an empire so vast, your theft will seem like a child's tantrum. I will bury you so completely that no one will ever remember your name."
He took a deep, steadying breath. His time for mourning was over. The game had reset. The first objective was clear: End the immediate crisis and secure his capital.
He scanned Lin Hao's desk, searching through the piles of schoolwork until his eyes landed on a crumpled slip of paper with a handwritten address for a local pawn shop. This was where Lin Hao was going to sell his grandmother's cheap, sentimental necklace—the last desperate attempt to delay the loan sharks.
Lu Chen crushed the paper in his hand. No. We don't need sentiment. We need capital, and we don't need to sell anything. We just need a newspaper, a phone, and my future knowledge.
His first target was the stock market. A small, overlooked pharmaceutical company called Aether Therapeutics. He remembered reading the history books: in exactly three days, they would announce a breakthrough drug trial that would send their stock price soaring over 500% in a week.
He had ten years to become a god. The first three days would decide if he could even survive to play the game.