The good news is that I traveled to another world and became a god. The bad news is that I am an evil god with no followers, so I am about to be destroyed.
On top of a foggy mountain, a temple hides like a forgotten heirloom, its green tiles and flying eaves blending into the mist as if bowing to an ancient secret.
The traditional quadrangle courtyard is surrounded by moss-covered walls with wooden doors carved with cranes holding ginseng, a faded but still discernible symbol of peace. The creaking of the mortise and tenon joints sounds like the prolonged sighs of a deceased monk.
Inside the courtyard, the cool, moss-covered stone bricks guide visitors through the eaves. The gentle clinking of copper bells echoes like jade stones colliding; their melody intertwines with the scent of mugwort hanging from the columns of the corridor.
Beyond the misty wall, eerie and disturbing murmurs wind their way like rusty chains dragging across stone. Their tone is shrill and out of tune, as if a broken harmonica were being tuned by deaf hands.
The Transmigrator sits slumped on the altar of the dilapidated temple, his stone fingertips digging deep into his palms. The altar was nothing more than a platform made of three cracked green stone slabs with moss growing in the cracks. It resembled the electrocardiogram he had seen in the hospital when he first arrived.
The four rows of wooden frames in the temple courtyard had long since rotted away. The crooked beams were hung with faded prayer flags that rustled like torn cloth in the wind and startled the crows perched on them.
In the corner of the main hall, spiderwebs piled up to waist height. In the center of the altar sat a television set, its casing cracked in three places and its antenna bent into an eerie curve. The snowflakes on the screen resembled the old, secondhand color TV from his hometown that had been used for ten years.
This was clearly some kind of transcendent space—perhaps a realm of consciousness? He "looked" at his stone-like palms with grains of sand lodged between his fingers yet lacked the strength to lift even a fingertip. On his first day as a deity, he was tormented by hunger to the point of collapse. It wasn't the physical hunger of an empty stomach but a void deep in his soul as if countless ants were gnawing at it, reminding him that he was slowly dying.
"It's like being hungry and wanting to eat or thirsty and wanting to drink," he thought bitterly as he gazed at the television screen. Suddenly, the image became clear: A man in a deep gray-blue uniform tapped a luminous staff against the ground as he questioned passersby.
The matte-finished armor plates on his shoulders and elbows were embedded with tiny crystal fragments, and with each step, they emitted faint blue sparks, like crushed stars.
The three iron chains on his cuffs were rusted and thin, emitting a faint "click" with each movement of the baton. The edges of the three-sided crystal at the tip were worn smooth, resembling an old police baton salvaged from a scrap yard.
"Have you seen any traces of heretics in the neighborhood recently? Or any suspicious statues?" A man who appeared to be a police officer asked everyone who passed by in a language the transmigrator understood perfectly.
It was as if fate were mocking the transmigrator by placing a religious police officer next to a statue of an evil god. Moreover, judging from the triangular badge and the officer's uniform, he did not seem to belong to the same religious system as the statue.
Fortunately, fate was only mocking him and did not actually harm the transmigrator. When Miryam Croft's small, coal-dusted hands picked through the trash heap in Ashrat Alley, the transmigrator "felt" the core beneath the stone skin grow slightly warm.
She was dressed in rags, her body and face covered in grime. Her disheveled linen braids were tied loosely at the nape of her neck, and strands of sticky coal-dusted hair trembled in the wind.
Her round face resembled an unwashed peach, her nose and brow smudged with coal dust yet unable to hide the moisture in her large, bell-like eyes. Her tattered cotton-linen skirt was stained with mud, and the frayed collar revealed her porcelain collarbone, creating a striking contrast with her gray fingertips.
Such a beautiful young girl was rare in the slums.
The torn pocket of her apron revealed half of a worn pencil, a precious gift from her brother.
Perhaps it was a privilege of being a deity, but Transmigrators could understand the languages of this world. She didn't know if they could understand all languages or just the languages of this country.
Every Transmigrator should be able to gather information independently. Only by first understanding this world could they live better. Fate also gave the Transmigrators a little surprise. This family was not religious, at least not devoutly so.
Miryam Croft brought home a divine statue and showed it off to her sister, Hannah Croft. Though old, the unnamed divine statue was finely crafted. Its cracked robe was inlaid with a dull metal of unknown origin, and it might fetch a good price at Old Hawk's shop.
"I found it in the trash heap in Ashrat Alley," she whispered as fragments of seaweed fell from the statue's broken sleeve. "Old Hawk bought a broken statue last week and gave Polly's mother two shillings for it. This stone is twice as heavy as that statue, and the patterns look like they've been soaked in seawater for hundreds of years!"
"Do you know there's a serial killer out there? You shouldn't be wandering around at this hour. It's too dangerous."
The kerosene lamp in the attic cast a dim, flickering light, revealing the patches sewn onto Hannah's apron that were made from her father's old work clothes.
Hannah's thimble hung above the patched-up children's trousers. The tip of the needle flickered in the light of the oil lamp.
"The constable burned three carved wooden boxes in the laundry room last month. He said the wood grain hid heretical incantations."
"I just brought the clothes over, and..." Miryam sounded a bit wronged. She shoved the stone statue into Hannah's hands. "Look at this! It must be worth a fortune!"
Hannah took the statue and stared at its palm-up posture. This gesture was completely different from the "Holy Covenant Grip" of the sacred statue; it was as if the statue were holding something intangible.
Hannah traced the broken crown on the statue with her fingertips. The crown, embedded in the stone, was dull in color and was made of a material she didn't recognize. "Perhaps it could fetch ten shillings?"
"Ten shillings!" Miryam couldn't help but cry out. Their father might not earn that much in a week of hard work at the docks, and little Miryam only earned six pence a day washing clothes.
Hannah didn't say it out loud, but the weight of the statue's base reminded her of the crushed crystal ore her father had hidden in the soles of his boots. That ore was the family's last hope for paying the rent.
Even a small piece of these rare metals and ores was incredibly valuable, so a complete piece as large as the statue's crown must be worth a lot.
Hannah suddenly dropped her sewing frame, and the pedal of the sewing machine screeched. The landlady's shouts mingled with the rain and echoed through the house.
Hannah stared at the statue's fingers peeking out from under her sister's apron. "Hide it at the bottom of the coal box, and cover it with Dad's old work clothes."
Reaching into the pocket of her apron, she felt the worn-out saint's medal bracelet. The metal clasp dug into her palm. "Last month, Aunt Martha sold her old candlestick, and now she's still breaking stones in the mine."
Miryam nodded and stuffed the stone statue into the coal sack. Stone dust fell onto her skirt, washed until it was almost white, like scattered stardust. The light from the kerosene lamp shone on the statue's half-closed eyelashes.
They seemed to stare at the leaky attic roof, where cold rain dripped down, sliding along the stone cheeks and hitting the patchwork floor. The sound was as light and despairing as their heartbeats.
In the dead of night, rustling sounds came from the attic. Miryam knelt before the sack, barefoot, holding the statue in her arms. The kerosene lamp cast a deep gray shadow under her eyes. "Whatever deity you are," she said, her voice mingling with the sulfuric smell of the coal stove, "I hope you bless my mother's cough and spare us from having our wages deducted this week."
Warm tears fell onto the statue's stone cheek, and the Transmigrator suddenly "saw" a red candle the size of a fingernail appear on the candle rack in the temple. The flame was weak but steady, like the only match in the darkness.
As the deity listened to Miryam's prayer, he was startled to discover a strange force silently seeping into the statue. On the empty candle stands on either side of the dilapidated temple, small red candles appeared, their flickering flames trembling as if they might extinguish at any moment.
The Transmigrator sensed that the candles were related to Miryam's prayers but didn't know how to use them.
Just as he was puzzling over this, the TV screen on the altar suddenly flickered and a line of small words appeared amid the snowflakes: "Faith Essence Points Gained: 10."
The Transmigrator stared at the words. His stone-like eyes suddenly became moist. It wasn't the old man who had accompanied him or the super artifact, but this little girl, struggling to survive, who had given him hope with her simple prayer.
The red candle flame flickered gently, reflecting off the cobwebs on the altar and giving off a faint glow. It was just like the small nightlight on his grandmother's bedside table before she passed away: dim, but warm.
Looking at the words flashing on the TV screen, the poor transmigrator almost cried out, "Finally!" The system! I finally have the system! The god of destiny has not abandoned me!"