Lord of the Mysteries Chapter 2 - Situation

Zhou Mingrui recoiled in sudden alarm at the sight reflected back at him. The man staring out from the dressing mirror appeared less like someone alive and more like a withered, desiccated corpse.

He turned his head in absolute bewilderment, casting another glance toward the injury. Despite the dim lighting and the distance, he could clearly discern the jagged entry wound and the dark crimson stain of clotted blood.

“This...”

Zhou Mingrui took a ragged, shaky breath, desperately commanding his racing pulse to slow down.

He reached up to press a palm against the left side of his own chest, registering the frantic thumping of a heart brimming with terrifying vitality.

Next, he brushed his fingertips against the exposed skin. Beneath the surface chill, there was an undeniable, pulsing warmth.

Only after he squatted down and confirmed that his knees functioned properly did he rise, his breathing gradually leveling off.

“What kind of insanity is this?” he muttered, brow furrowed. He resolved to subject his head wound to a more thorough inspection.

He took two tentative steps before freezing in place. The sanguine glow of the moon was too muted, making it impossible to conduct a proper examination.

As if triggered by a hidden switch, a fragment of memory flickered to life. Zhou Mingrui turned his gaze toward the grayish pipes and the metallic-gridded lamp mounted on the wall adjacent to his desk.

It was the standard gas lamp of the era. The flame burned steadily, providing excellent illumination.

Given Klein Moretti’s dire financial state, a simple kerosene lamp was a pipe dream, let alone this gas unit. Even a candle would have been a luxury for their stature. However, when he had burned the midnight oil four years prior to secure his admission into Khoy University, his elder brother, Benson, had insisted on providing a proper study environment—believing their family’s future hung in the balance—even if it meant going into debt.

Of course, Benson, a literate man with years of work experience, was far from reckless. He possessed a shrewd streak. He had convinced the landlord that upgrading the unit with gas pipes would increase the future rental value. The owner, sufficiently persuaded, footed the bill for the installations. Utilizing his connections at an import-export firm, Benson then sourced a brand-new gas lamp at nearly cost price. Ultimately, he managed to avoid debt by using his own modest savings.

With the memory fading, Zhou Mingrui approached the desk, gripped the valve, and began adjusting the lamp’s switch.

A sharp sputtering sound erupted as the spark caught. Yet, to his dismay, no light flooded the desk.

He twisted the switch repeatedly, but the gas lamp refused to cooperate, offering only intermittent sputters.

“Hmm...” Retracting his hand to press a palm against his left temple, he sifted through his internal recollections for an explanation.

Moments later, he turned and marched toward the door, where a metallic device with grayish-white piping was embedded into the wall.

It was a gas meter.

Observing the exposed gears and spindles, Zhou Mingrui fished a coin from his trouser pockets.

It held a dull yellow, bronzed luster. The obverse featured a portrait of a crown-wearing monarch, while the reverse displayed a '1' atop a sheaf of wheat.

Zhou Mingrui recognized this as the fundamental unit of currency in the Loen Kingdom: a copper penny. Its purchasing power was analogous to three or four yuan from his previous life. There were also five-pence, half-penny, and quarter-penny denominations, though they were rarely small enough for daily life, often forcing people to buy multiple items just to break a coin.

After turning the coin—minted only after King George III took the throne—in his fingers a few times, he dropped it into the slot of the gas meter.

As the penny clinked into the mechanism, a melodic series of grinding gears chimed in a short mechanical rhythm.

Zhou Mingrui watched the meter for a moment before returning to the sturdy wooden desk to flip the lamp switch once more.

After a brief sputter, a sharp hiss filled the air.

A plume of fire erupted, rapidly expanding. Bright brilliance flooded the interior of the wall lamp, piercing through the glass and bathing the entire room in a soothing, warm radiance.

The darkness vanished, and the crimson moonlight receded from the windowsill. A strange sense of relief washed over Zhou Mingrui, prompting him to rush to the dressing mirror.

This time, he scrutinized his hairline with clinical precision.

After several checks, he confirmed that outside of the dried blood, no fluid was seeping from the grotesque wound. It looked remarkably like it had received expert medical treatment. Even the sight of grayish brain tissue slowly knitting together and the visible growth of new flesh suggested that, within a few hours, nothing would remain but a faint scar.

“Is this a side effect of the transmigration?” Zhou Mingrui murmured, the corner of his mouth curling upward.

He let out a long, shuddering sigh. At the very least, he was alive.

Calming his nerves, he pulled open a drawer to retrieve a sliver of soap. Grabbing a ragged, worn towel from the cupboard, he exited the room and headed toward the second-floor communal bathroom.

Outside, the corridor was blanket-black, save for the faint silhouettes cast by the ghostly crimson moonlight through the window. It looked like a pair of monstrous eyes, silently observing the living in the depth of the night.

Zhou Mingrui walked with light, cautious footsteps, trembling with lingering fear as he neared the bathroom.

Inside, the moonlight provided just enough clarity to see. He stood before the basin and turned the tap.

As the water gurgled to life, he was suddenly struck by a memory of his landlord, Mr. Franky.

Since water costs were baked into the rent, the thin, short man—who was perpetually draped in vest, top hat, and black coat—would frequently stalk the hallways, listening for the sound of wasted water.

If the tap ran too loudly, Mr. Franky would shed his gentlemanly veneer, brandishing his walking stick against the bathroom door while ranting about ‘thieves,’ ‘shameless waste,’ and threatening to eject tenants on the spot, all while insisting his was the most valuable apartment in all of Tingen City.

Shaking off the thought, Zhou Mingrui scrubbed the blood from his face with the wet towel, over and over.

Checking his reflection in the cracked mirror, he verified that only the pale skin and the bizarre wound remained, finally daring to relax. He shed his linen shirt and scrubbed the bloodstains clean with the soap.

Suddenly, his brows knitted together in realization.

The wound had been so horrific, the blood loss so copious—surely his room was still a crime scene!

Working as quickly as he could, Zhou Mingrui returned to his room with the damp towel in hand. He wiped the bloodstains from the desk and, by the light of the gas lamp, hunted for any missed splatters.

He immediately discovered a significant spray of blood on the floorboards beneath the desk, along with a brass bullet casing by the left wall.

“A gunshot to the temple?” Analyzing the clues, he formed a grim theory about how Klein had met his end.

He didn’t rush to confirm his suspicions. Instead, he systematically scrubbed away the evidence and cleaned the area. Finally, he retrieved the bullet and returned to his desk, popping the cylinder of the revolver to tip out the remaining rounds.

Five cartridges and one spent shell sat there, glimmering with brass luster.

“Indeed...” Zhou Mingrui nodded, staring at the empty casing before reloading the cylinder.

He shifted his gaze to the left, where the ominous words were scrawled in his notebook: ‘Everyone will die, including me.’ Even more questions swirled in his mind.

After a moment of contemplation, Zhou Mingrui changed into a fresh linen shirt, slumped into his chair, and began to ponder more pressing matters.

Klein’s life story for now was secondary. The real enigma was the reason for his transmigration and whether a return was even possible.

His family, his closest friends, the endless wonders of the internet, and the simple joy of a good meal—these were the things that anchored his desperate desire to go home.

Zhou Mingrui’s right hand moved rhythmically, subconsciously popping the revolver’s cylinder open and slamming it shut, again and again.

A sudden flash of inspiration illuminated the fog that shrouded his memories.

A self-proclaimed 'expert' in all things—be it politics, history, or folklore—he had often been mocked by his best friend for only possessing a surface-level grasp of reality.

One of those trivial topics he had dabbled in was Chinese divination.

While visiting his hometown a year ago, he had stumbled upon a thread-bound book in a dusty antique shop titled, ‘Quintessential Divination and Arcane Arts of the Qin and Han Dynasty.’ It looked intriguing enough to use as a prop for his online posturing. Unfortunately, his interest lasted as long as his first attempt to read the vertical script, and he tossed it into a corner.

Then came that streak of abysmal luck—the lost phone, the embezzling clients, the mistakes at work. It had triggered a memory of a luck-enhancement ritual found in that very book. The instructions had been laughably simple, requiring no spiritual background.

Four portions of local staple food placed in the four corners of the room. He had to stand in the center, walk in a square in a counter-clockwise direction, chanting: ‘Blessings Stem From The Immortal Lord of Heaven and Earth,’ then ‘Blessings Stem From The Sky Lord of Heaven and Earth,’ then ‘Blessings Stem From The Exalted Thearch of Heaven and Earth,’ and finally ‘Blessings Stem From The Celestial Worthy of Heaven and Earth.’ After walking the square, he remained standing in the center for five minutes with his eyes closed. It was that simple.

He had tried it, costing him nothing but time. Nothing had happened then.

Who could have predicted he would end up transmigrated in the dead of night?

Transmigration!

“There is a strong chance that the ritual was the catalyst... I must attempt it again tomorrow. If that is indeed the key, I might actually find a way to return!” Zhou Mingrui stopped fidgeting with the revolver, sitting bolt upright.

Whatever the cost, he had to try.

He had to bet everything on this final possibility!