Is There No Sorcerer Around? Let Me Transmigrate

"Looks like there are no Sorcerers around. I'll open a chest—oh yeah, an orange drop!!"

"Mythic+ dungeon group forming. Orange-drop run. Sorcerers need not apply."

As usual, Li Ming returned to his apartment after work, ate a simple dinner, and turned on his computer to play the game he had stuck with for six years, World of Warcraft. Then he saw those messages and immediately burst into tears.

There was no helping it. His class was Sugar Roll—ah, no, Sorcerer. Ever since Blizzard released the Legion expansion and introduced random legendary loot drops, the thunderous drums of war had once again sounded between European Emperors and Unlucky Persons. But none of that had anything to do with him, because Sorcerers had become the supreme popes of Africa. Rumors had even arisen that Sorcerers would go a lifetime without an orange drop, and that no orange drops could grow within a hundred yards of a Sorcerer.

As a result, Li Ming had not been able to run dungeons for a long time. Even in random Heroic runs, the other four teammates would instantly quit. Without running dungeons, he could not improve his gear or upgrade his artifact. Finally, gritting his teeth, Li Ming decided to pay for a carry run. But, heh heh.

"Boss, what do you need? Our team specializes in carrying Mythic+ dungeons from levels 1 to 15, as well as all kinds of Mythic raids. Godlike service at cabbage-cheap prices. What? You're a Sorcerer? Sorry, Boss, your fee will be doubled."

After contacting a team named Spaceship Never Capsizes, Li Ming explained his requirements and settled on a price. But after revealing his class, that was the reply he received.

"Fine, something came up. I'm logging off first," Li Ming replied calmly, then hung up YY. With his trembling left hand, he removed his black-rimmed glasses.

"This is discrimination!" Suddenly, he slammed his glasses viciously onto the desk and roared.

"So that's how it is. They're the ones who are useless, yet they say I'm getting in the way of their luck."

"Who the hell do they think they are? Raids, Mythic dungeons, Heroic dungeons—they all exclude Sorcerers. Now even paid carry groups want to double the fee. Those shameless scum deserve to be buried beneath the black soil of Black Africa, never to get an orange drop again—not even a glimpse of one. Aah—"

He had been venting hysterically, carrying himself with all the imposing vigor of the Führer in 1943, when he suddenly let out a scream. Apparently, while flailing around in his split-personality fit, he had moved too wildly and knocked over the Xianchengduo sitting on his computer desk. Then he got electrocuted. And then, heh heh.

The next day, there was a notice: "Recent weather has been dry. Residents are advised to use electricity with caution." That was the last echo Li Ming left in this world.

Li Ming's life had ended, but his consciousness—or perhaps his soul—did not disappear. After an unknown amount of time, and after experiencing an unknown number of nearly impossible coincidences, he arrived in another world and possessed the body of a baby boy who had just frozen to death at an Orphanage entrance. Not long after he possessed the body, a nun from the Orphanage found him and carried him away.

The baby boy grew up healthily under the Orphanage's care, while Li Ming's memories remained dormant. It was not until he was fourteen, after one particular sleep, that those memories awakened.

After staring blankly for an hour, Li Ming decided that he had probably transmigrated. However, having already lived in this world for fourteen years, he did not feel any unfamiliarity or dissonance.

After sorting through the chaotic memories stirred up by his past life's awakening, he learned a few things. First, he was in the United States. Second, he could no longer be called Li Ming. His name was Evenson Richter, a blond, blue-eyed Germanic orphan who had grown up in an Orphanage.

"Then from now on, I'll be called Evenson Richter." He calmly accepted the change in his name, though it was not because he wanted to bid farewell to his former self or anything like that. It was simply because his household registration, ID, and all his insurance documents were registered under that name. Besides, he had no way to explain why a Germanic white man raised in an American Orphanage would have a Chinese name.

"Other than my ears not being as long and pointed, I'm practically a Blood Elf." Standing before the mirror, Evenson marveled at his current appearance. His features differed somewhat from those of other Germanic people. For one thing, his facial features were more refined, and his eye color was darker—greener.

"Not bad overall." Evenson was fairly satisfied with his current appearance. After all, he was a handsome young man. He would bet that, with his current looks, if he went to a supermarket, the cashier would definitely throw in two bottles of soy sauce for free.

After confirming his current identity, that he was still male and liked women, and that he looked pretty good, Elson began letting his imagination run wild. After all, he had transmigrated. A little excitement was understandable.

"Since I've transmigrated, I should have something like a system, an old grandpa, an artifact spirit, an ancient demon king, right?" Evenson thought with a serious expression. According to such senior figures as Zhao Ritian, Long Aotian, and Ye Liangchen, the paragons of integrity in the transmigration world, and the solemn legends they had left behind—documentary manuscripts like XX Defies Heaven, XX Is King and XX Roams the XX Realm, guides for transmigrators—he ought to have a system or something. Then, with its help, he would reach the pinnacle of life, marry a whole harem of beautiful rich women, and become a winner in life. He had even thought of an alias for his future adventures: Doragon Proud Sky. Still, ideals were plump while reality was bony—and sometimes it might even be a White Bone Demon.

After trying a whole series of standard transmigrator system-summoning poses—silently chanting in his heart, meditating while seated, raising his palms to the sky, difficult yoga poses, and more—he found that there was no response whatsoever. Then he tried unconventional methods, such as cursing furiously in his heart and babbling nonsense, but they were equally useless.

"Sigh, looks like destiny isn't on my side. Fine, getting to live another life is enough." After failing to summon a system, Evenson decided to accept his fate. But, heh heh. Just as he raised his head at a forty-five-degree angle to strike a pose, a thought suddenly appeared in his mind: he had a personal storage space, and he instantly understood how to use it.

"Wahaha! Whether I have a destiny or not isn't up to Heaven! I knew I was meant to defy the heavens! What the hell is this?" Just as Evenson felt that destiny had chosen him and that he might soon be able to defy the heavens, Heaven delivered another heavy backhand to this guy who was always trying to reverse Heaven's position.

The moment Evenson opened his personal storage space, a note fell out. He had no idea what material it was made of, but it gave off an incredibly badass feeling, like whoever had made it was either a true god or a pope. If it were tossed into a public square, ignorant young girls would absolutely scream and faint over it. But the words written on it... heh heh.

"SOLEMN DECLARATION: This transmigration was part of our consortium's XXth anniversary prize package. It was absolutely not an experimental accident. The transmigration service and all related benefits have now been distributed in full. They are located in the transmigrator's personal storage space; please inspect them yourself. Additional note: This consortium solemnly declares that we do not accept any complaints or returns. If you've got the guts, come bite us. —Philia Void [the following two characters were crossed out] Consortium."

Looking at this utterly infuriating instruction manual, Evenson was speechless as he stared at the heavens. Still, he first checked what was in his personal storage space. Maybe there would be an old grandpa in there. Then he discovered that it was his Sorcerer character's backpack. Damn it, what kind of after-sales service was this? These were clearly his own belongings.

1,000 Gold Coins. If only he had not bought game time from the auction house—then he would have had 200,000 Gold Coins.

Azeroth National Geographic: it was a map that could display every location in Azeroth, including Outland, Draenor, and the newly released Broken Isles. It could zoom in and out, but that was all it could do. It had no other use.

Azeroth's Compendium of a Million Treasures: it contained illustrations of every notable item that had ever appeared in Azeroth. But again, it was only for looking at and had no other use.

As he looked at those two infuriating items, Evenson seemed to receive a summons from somewhere beyond. He heard the will of the great universe speak with solemn authority: the infamous Philia Void Consortium had not earned its reputation throughout the void for nothing.

PS: The Philia Void Consortium comes from the novel Xiling Empire. If you are interested, you can check it out. It is recommended that you start from Volume Two.

PS: May everyone who hates Sorcerers be buried beneath the black soil of Africa south of the Sahara.