"Dad… Mom…"
Ethan sat at the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead. He picked up the blanket beside him and wiped away his tears and snot.
"Don't worry. Your parents are doing very well…"
A distant, ethereal voice echoed in his mind. A screen materialized before him—showing his parents, weeping as they watched his cremation.
"Dad! Mom!"
Ethan lunged toward the screen like a desperate tiger, only to fall flat on his face. The image vanished, but when he looked up again, the screen had reappeared.
He slowly backed up to the bed and kept wiping his tears with the blanket. Seeing his mother faint from crying tore at his heart—regret and guilt welling up inside.
Then, as he watched his parents' faces shift from confusion to joy upon receiving a medical report, he blinked in confusion.
When he saw them use the leftover change from paying medical bills to buy a lottery ticket—and win the grand prize—Ethan couldn't help but curse under his breath. He'd spent years contributing to charity and never even got a thank-you, yet his parents had somehow hit the cosmic jackpot!
He wanted to ask the heavens—had his existence been what was holding them back all along?
Nine months later, his parents had a baby boy and started living a happy, luxurious life. When the screen finally faded, it took with it the last bit of Ethan's exasperated disbelief.
He could no longer describe what he was feeling. The crushing sorrow of death and separation had completely vanished. Glancing around at the lavish bedroom, Ethan murmured softly:
"Maybe… this isn't so bad. As long as everyone's living happily ever after…"
After confirming his parents were safe and well, Ethan finally calmed down. There was no way—absolutely no way—he'd ever destroy a world. Not in this lifetime!
Now that his parents were happy and he'd become rich, Ethan decided he'd spend the rest of his life enjoying every luxury imaginable. Nightlife, clubs, massages—he'd take on ten at a time!
But just as he was sinking into that fantasy, the alarm clock beside his bed went off, shattering the moment. As soon as he silenced it, a knock came from the door. Frowning in irritation, he opened it.
"Mr. Ethan, how are you feeling? Please remember to submit a written report about your experience later."
"Huh? Isn't this my house? What report?"
Ethan was stunned. The staff member kept a professional smile and replied gently, "Oh, Mr. Ethan, you're so funny… Anyway, I need to inspect the room now. Please cooperate."
Remembering the tear- and snot-stained blanket, Ethan instinctively tried to stop her—but after spotting four large Black bodyguards standing by the door, he wisely stepped aside.
"Uh… Mr. Ethan, could you explain this to me?"
Following her finger, Ethan saw what she was pointing at and flushed in embarrassment. "It was cold… I caught a little cold."
She glanced up at the air conditioner reading—25°C—and her lips twitched. After a quick inspection revealed nothing missing, she said nothing more. The blanket was going to be replaced anyway.
Ethan changed back into his clothes and took the elevator down to the first floor. Outside, he looked up at the thirty-story hotel and sighed softly.
Opening his wallet, he found only 300 dollars. Checking the address listed on his ID, he hailed a taxi.
An hour later, the cab stopped three streets away from the hotel. With only fifty dollars left, Ethan flipped off the retreating driver, who promptly slammed the brakes and started reversing. Ethan panicked and dashed for his house.
Fumbling with the key, he burst inside, grabbed a baseball bat from the table, and took a few swings—ready for a fight.
"You damn! Get your ass out here!"
Ethan's face turned cold. Tightening his grip on the bat, he yanked the door open, ready to give the man a bloody lesson.
The next second—
A gun barrel was pointed straight at his chest. Ethan froze, raised the bat high, and dropped to his knees with a thud, paying for his moment of recklessness.
The thug frisked him and took everything—wallet, papers, even his shabby old watch—but didn't step inside. He hadn't meant to kill Ethan; there were surveillance cameras around, and the frightened compliance had made it easy to walk away with free loot.
Tossing the IDs onto the floor, the man pocketed the wallet, turned, and walked back to his car.
When the sound of the engine faded into the distance, Ethan cautiously got up, peeked around, and, seeing no one, slipped back into the house.
"Damn bastard! You left me with nothing but underwear—if I see you again, you're dead!"
Looking around at the old, worn-out furniture, Ethan sighed. His life was miserable, sure—but he still had no intention of carrying out that "world destruction" nonsense. He'd only agreed out of fear. Now that he was alive again, even if broke, how could a living man starve to death in a city like this?
After a shower, he changed into clean clothes and returned to his messy bedroom. Opening his laptop, he prepared to write that so-called "guest experience report."
Logging into Facebook, he found the hotel's account and opened their message—only to freeze.
He'd been able to speak fluently before, so he'd assumed language comprehension was a perk of his transmigration. But apparently… he could read English—just not write it.
"This is fine, Ethan! You got this!"
After some self-encouragement, Ethan searched for subtitled videos and began studying carefully—listening to the dialogue and matching it with the subtitles.
An hour later, he rubbed his tired eyes. The people in these "educational videos" sure were… dedicated. Even drenched in sweat, they never forgot to express their "deep emotions."
He kept studying until three in the morning. Exhausted, he ignored the tissues scattered across the floor, crawled into bed, and slowly closed his eyes. On the laptop screen, a "teacher" was pointing at a blackboard, explaining "theory" to a classroom of "students" who listened intently.
Then came the "practical session," led by the "teacher," as Ethan drifted off to sleep to her muffled, indistinct voice.
"Rat-a-tat-tat-tat—"
The sudden roar of gunfire jolted him awake. He slammed the laptop shut and crept to the window. Two gangs were shooting it out in the street below.
He swallowed hard, staring at the flashes of orange fire in the darkness and the sickening thuds of bullets hitting flesh. Suddenly, a stray bullet shattered his window. Ethan dove to the floor, covering his head and trembling.
Five minutes later, the gunfire stopped. Ethan took a deep breath, forcing his pounding heart to settle.
Looking at the broken glass, he muttered to himself,
"That's it. Tomorrow I'm selling this dump and move back."
This godforsaken place—whoever wants to stay here can have it. He was done.