"Visual confirmation: no Warlocks in the vicinity. Opening the chest... Oh yeah! Legendary drop!!"
"Mythic+ group forming, hunting Legendaries, No Warlocks allowed."
As usual, after getting off work and returning to his apartment, Lao Yan had a quick dinner and hopped onto the game he had stuck with for six years: World of Warcraft.
Then he saw these messages, and tears began to stream down his face.
He couldn't help it. His class in WoW was the Warlock—often jokingly called the "Candy-Maker" or told to "Just GTFO."
Ever since Blizzard released the Legion expansion and introduced the random Legendary drop mechanic, the drums of war had thundered between the "Luck-Lords" and the "Famine-Stricken."
None of that had anything to do with him, though, because Warlocks had become the Supreme Popes of the Famine-Stricken.
Rumors even circulated that "A Warlock is destined to be Legendary-less for life" and "Within 100 yards of a Warlock, no Legendary shall sprout."
Consequently, Lao hadn't been able to run a dungeon in ages. Even in Random Heroics, the other four teammates would instantly quit the moment they saw him.
Without dungeons, his gear wouldn't improve, and his Artifact wouldn't level up. Finally, Leo gritted his teeth and decided to pay for a "Carry Group." However...
"Customer, what do you need? Our team professionally handles Mythic+ layers 1–15 and all Mythic raids. God-tier service, bargain prices. Wait, you're a Warlock? Sorry, customer, your fee is doubled."
After contacting a group named The Spaceship That Never Flips, Lao explained his needs and settled on a price. But the moment he revealed his class, that was the reply he got.
"Fine, something came up. I'm logging off," Lao replied calmly before hanging up on the voice chat. Then, with a trembling left hand, he removed his black-rimmed glasses.
"This is discrimination!" he suddenly roared, slamming his glasses onto the desk.
"So that's how it is! It's clearly their own lack of skill, yet they claim I'm interfering with their 'luck'!"
"Who do they think they are? Raids, Mythic dungeons, Heroics—everyone is blacklisting Warlocks.
Now even the Carry Groups want double the pay? You shameless bottom-feeders! I hope you all end up buried in the soil of Sub-Saharan Africa, never to see a Legendary item as long as you live! NOT EVEN A GLIMPSE! AHHHH—"
In the middle of his hysterical outburst—resembling a certain 1943 dictator in intensity—he suddenly let out a sharp scream. It turned out that in his manic gesticulating, he had knocked over a bottle of orange juice onto his computer tower. The resulting electric shock did the rest.
The next day's news: The weather has been dry lately; residents are urged to be cautious with electricity. That was Lao's final echo in that world.
Lao's life ended there, but his consciousness—or soul—did not vanish. After an unknown amount of time and a series of near-impossible coincidences, he arrived in another world.
He possessed the body of a male infant who had just frozen to death at the gates of an orphanage. Shortly after the possession, a nun discovered him and took him inside.
The infant grew up healthy under the care of the orphanage. Lao's memories remained dormant until he was fourteen, when they finally awakened after a long dream.
After staring blankly for an hour, Lao realized he had transmigrated. However, since he had lived in this world for fourteen years already, he didn't feel a sense of alienation or "uncanny valley."
As he sorted through the chaotic memories of his past life, he realized a few things. First, he was in the United States. Second, he could no longer be called Lao; his name was now Evenson Richter. He was a blond-haired, blue-eyed orphan of Germanic descent.
"In that case, I'll just go by Evenson Richter from now on." He accepted the name change quite naturally.
The reason wasn't some deep "farewell to the past," but simply because his current household registration, ID, and insurance were all under that name.
"Aside from the lack of pointy ears, I'm practically a Blood Elf," Evenson remarked, admiring his reflection in the mirror.
"Not bad at all." Evenson was fairly satisfied with his current looks; he was a handsome lad.
After confirming his identity, his gender (still male), his preference (still female), Evenson started letting his mind wander. After all, he had transmigrated! A little excitement was understandable.
"Since I've transmigrated, I should have a System, an old mentor, an artifact spirit, or an ancient demon king, right?" Evenson thought solemnly.
According to the legendary pioneers of the transmigration industry, he should have a System to help him reach the pinnacle of life, marry a bunch of beauties, and become a winner.
He had even thought of a badass alias for his future adventures: Dragon Proud-Sky.
However, while ideals are plump, reality is often skeletal—and sometimes the skeleton is a lich.
After trying silent chanting, sitting meditation, various yoga poses, and every standard "Transmigrator Summoning System" ritual he could think of, there was no response.
He then tried shouting at the sky and other non-mainstream summoning methods, but it was all useless.
"Sigh, I guess destiny isn't on my side. Oh well, being able to live another life is enough." Just as Evenson decided to accept his fate, he looked up at a 45-degree angle to pose dramatically.
Suddenly, a thought appeared in his mind: he had a Portable Storage Space, and he instinctively knew how to use it.
"Hahaha! My fate is mine to command, not the heavens! I knew I was destined for greatness! Wait... what the hell is this?" Just as Evenson felt he was about to defy the heavens, Fate gave the guy who wanted to "defy" it a heavy backhand.
The moment Evenson opened the storage space, a slip of paper fell out. It was made of an unknown, high-end material that gave off a "God-tier" vibe—the kind of thing that would make people faint if you dropped it in a public square. However, the content written on it...
Formal Declaration: This transmigration is a promotional prize from our conglomerate's anniversary lucky draw. It is absolutely NOT an experimental accident. The transmigration service and all associated benefits have been issued in full within the user's storage space. Please check it yourself.
Special Note: This conglomerate does not accept any complaints or returns. If you've got a problem, come and bite me.
— Philia Void Profiteers (the last two words are scribbled over) Conglomerate.
Looking at this incredibly sketchy manual, Evenson was speechless. He decided to check what was in the space. Maybe there was an "Old Grandpa" mentor?
Then he realized: this was just his Warlock character's inventory. Dammit, what "after-sales service"? This was all his own stuff!
1,000 Gold Coins: "If I'd known, I wouldn't have bought those game time tokens on the auction house. I'd have 200,000 gold right now."
National Geographic of Azeroth: An atlas that could zoom in and out on every location in Azeroth, including Outland, Draenor, and the newly released Broken Isles. However, it was just for viewing; it didn't actually do anything.
Encyclopedia of Azeroth's Million Treasures: An illustrated handbook of every named item ever to appear in Azeroth. Again, just for looking at. It had no other function.
Looking at these two useless items, Evenson felt a calling from the void. He heard the majestic voice of the Great Universe saying: The infamy of the Philia Profiteers rings through the Void for a reason.