New Life

The man who had dressed himself saw a glass of water beside the empty plate. This time, he remembered his lesson and carefully lifted the fragile glass, downing the strange-tasting white water in one gulp.

"Kid, I'm John Brown. Who are you?" the old man asked.

Who am I?

During his time locked up, he had already seen from those overly bright washbasins that his appearance was not the black-haired, black-eyed Yellow race he remembered.

His hair was still black, but his eyes were unmistakably blue. His skin wasn't the translucent white of the Yellow race, but the dead white of a White man.

Simply put, he was no longer the person he had been before the transmigration. So did it still make sense to use his old Chinese name?

In this life, those Russians had called him Ennyunuo Oding. Though he didn't know the original meaning, he figured it was probably some unserious codename, and he instinctively didn't want to keep using that form of address.

Since he was now a foreigner, he'd use a foreign name. He fumbled in his memory for English and answered haltingly: "My, name, is, Henry."

Pick a common name—he didn't want to draw attention. That was his reasoning for calling himself that. As for why this one? Who knows? In a good mood? Gut feeling? I'll do what I damn well please—do I need to explain myself to anyone?

"Henry what?" The old man was asking for a surname.

Hmm... Was he supposed to make up a surname on the spot? Too annoying, couldn't be bothered. He shook his head and said: "Nothing, just Henry."

Old John didn't press the matter, only said: "Suit yourself." Then he suddenly asked in Russian: 'Got anywhere to go?'

Henry gave a blank look that didn't seem feigned. No shit, he really didn't understand.

Switching back to English, Old John asked again: "Got anywhere to go?" As if knowing the young man wasn't fluent in English, he deliberately slowed his speech.

This time Henry understood, but he just shook his head with a different kind of blank expression.

"I figured as much." Old John stood up, casually grabbing his shotgun—but holding it by the middle of the barrel, not the grip and trigger. He continued:

"If you've got nowhere to go, you can stay. But that bed is mine—I'll let you sleep on the couch in the bar. If you want to stay, you'll work for me.

"I'll provide three meals a day, but if you want to drink, you pay. When you're ready, come on out—the bar's in front. If you want to leave, consider the food and clothes just now a gift. But don't expect anything else from me."

With that, Old John shouldered his gun and walked out.

Where else could he go? His appearance had changed completely. Even if he went back to his hometown, he couldn't reclaim that identity or take back his old life.

He hadn't even had time to consider whether that former self still existed, whether he could be replaced, or even whether this place was the same world he had once lived in.

With spaceships appearing and having gone through that lonely, torturous second growth period, Henry would rather believe this wasn't the safe, peaceful world he had lived in.

Before encountering the transmigrator's artifact, he had only heard rumors about Area 51, seen news of the Middle East wars, and witnessed America's specialty—zero-dollar shopping. Not like this world, whose first impression was so bizarre and horrifying.

Besides, who knew how long it had been? Growing from an infant to his current form couldn't have taken just a few years.

As soon as this thought surfaced, a number appeared in his mind: 7427.

That was the number of days from when he first appeared in outer space, preparing to descend to Earth, until he collapsed from hunger.

And those seven thousand-plus days, though monotonous, were vivid in his memory. Which day he was taken for what experiment, what physical exams, what the person in charge looked like—all of it was deeply impressed on his mind.

The words they spoke, though he couldn't understand their meaning, every syllable was as clear as if whispered in his ear just now.

Even the period after he grew up—the various tortures and injuries that broke his limbs—those sensations felt like they had just happened. Whenever he recalled them, the corresponding body parts would ache with the remembered pain.

Henry quickly shook his head, forcing himself to forget, or rather to focus on something else. The side effect of having too good a brain—he was experiencing that now.

So, if he counted from the day of his transmigration, he had already spent nearly twenty years in this world?

If the average human lifespan was seventy years, that was almost a third of it—and the most precious growth period had been wasted?

What a miserable start, he couldn't even muster the energy to complain. Henry thought to himself.

Instead of thinking about how to go back, it was better to consider how to live well here. After all, before his transmigration, hadn't he just gone with the flow?

The only things he could still miss were the contents of his D-drive. Besides the devoted performances of various teachers, there were also the anime, movies, and games he had watched and played.

If he wanted those things, he could just collect them again. It wasn't like he had to get back his...

Ah, he thought of it. He hadn't cleared his browsing history, or those D-drive collections. If anyone saw those, he'd be socially dead.

The posthumous reputation of my past life...

Whatever. He was dead anyway, it didn't matter.

Mud could rot anywhere, no matter where it landed. Since he had given himself a new name, he'd live a new life.

With this resolve, Henry opened the door to the room. What greeted his eyes was a sizable bar. In the middle were six sparsely placed four-person tables, and along the walls were long booths with small partitioned seats.

Besides the tables and chairs, there were two old pool tables and three dartboards riddled with holes—the walls around the dartboards also bore marks from stray darts.

Then, on one particularly special wall, hung some old photos of soldiers and a... shield of Captain America?

From the rows of various alcoholic drinks behind the bar, with no sight or smell of milk or juice, it was clear this wasn't a place for family dining.

So why the nerdy decoration? Henry walked up to the old man, who was serving customers at the bar, pointed at the star-spangled round shield, and asked: "Do you have a grandson living here too?"

Old John's heart clenched at the question. He countered: "Why do you say that?"

"If you don't have a grandson, who hung a Captain America shield on the wall?" Henry's English had unconsciously become fluent.

"That's a replica I bought."

"You?"

"During World War II, I almost made it into the Howling Commandos. I didn't become a member, but I fought alongside them more than a few times. To have fought shoulder to shoulder with a hero like Captain America, what's wrong with hanging his shield to remember him?"

...Motherfucker! Where the hell did I transmigrate to?

New book, requesting follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations. Thank you~~