The morning brought quite a few surprises, aside from the hangover, the skull-splitting headache, and the thirst. He found himself undressed, wearing only primitive-looking underpants made from what seemed like a sheet or a rag. To his immense shame, they were rather filthy. His baggy clothes lay nearby, washed and dry. By the hearth, water gleamed in a wooden basin blackened with age.

  On all fours, he crawled over to it and froze for a moment. A blurry reflection showed an unfamiliar face. Running his palm over the week-old stubble, he drew back and slapped himself hard. The pain shot through his cheek, sobering him up a little, driving home the reality of his situation.

  This doesn't happen! Sure, I've heard stories, read books, but that's all made-up stuff for entertainment! He clutched his head, digging fingers into greasy, thinning hair. I've taken over someone else's body! I don't believe it. What the actual hell?

  He drank from the basin, then used the same water to wash his face, scrubbing furiously as if he could rub away the foreign features. After a brief internal battle, denial, a storm of emotions, he managed to pull himself together, calm down, and even partly accept reality.

  "Death has a weird sense of humor," he laughed at himself aloud. "Let's consider this a second chance. Well then, I'll use it to the fullest! Though why toss me into the body of a drunkard? And what am I supposed to do now? Sigh. Still better than being dead..."

  He took another look around the miserable room. No one had taken care of this house, ever. It had never been cleaned, and repairs? Probably not since the day it was built. Insects occasionally crawled across the filthy, dusty floor. Whenever his gaze fell on any notable object; a basket, a pot, the straw mat, the sagging door. Foreign memories surfaced in his mind.

  So I didn't just get a drunkard's body, but his memories too? He closed his eyes, straining his hangover-ravaged brain. His empty skull's full of nothing but booze! I've never been to this town, but I already know where every wine-shop and tavern is.

  Groaning like an old man, he got to his feet and stepped out the back door. A small space between his hut and the neighbor's formed a modest backyard, though by local standards, it probably made this crumbling shack almost a villa. Neighbors' laundry dried on ropes; a pile of old, hole-ridden baskets and trash occupied one corner.

  "So that's how it works! The previous owner's memories are buried deep, but when I see familiar things, they surface," he noted. "Not bad. This'll help me adapt to this world faster. Oh! Now I know my name - Zhang Ming."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Returning inside, he found the two children from yesterday, but now he recognized them instantly. The two daughters of the body's former owner: the elder and the younger. The drunkard hadn't remembered their exact ages; he hadn't given a damn about their existence. He'd only tolerated them as servants, taken his anger out on them, hit them, kicked them in passing, thrown empty wine pots, which had left a small scar on the older girl's forehead.

  Just one look at them made it clear no one had cared for them; they'd grown up on their own without support or care, like weeds. Despite their father's indifference, the two little girls had fought tooth and nail to survive, clinging to this cruel world with their tiny hands, refusing to give up.

  Along with the other poor folk, they caught and ate toads, frogs, or rats. A kind-hearted neighbor woman had taught them to look after themselves, advising them to gather firewood from the forest for other residents in exchange for food. Their father had found out and tried to force the neighbors to pay in coin, but was refused, after which he lost all interest in what his daughters did.

  Where did you get two kids, you bastard? If you had no money, why did you have them? What a fucking idiot! Should've cut your junk off! the new Zhang Ming cursed inwardly.

  He came from another world, and the memories of the body's former owner filled him with rage and a desire to beat the cruel father to death. But it was too late for vengeance now; the real Zhang Ming had died on the trash heap, amidst the waste.

  That's exactly where you belong! the new owner of the body fumed, looking at the thin, tormented girls. Alright, we'll deal with this later.

  He was hungry; his stomach felt like it was glued to his spine, and there wasn't a crumb in the house, his pockets empty. He drank more water, trying to quell the hunger, even considered eating a beetle, but it was faster. Gesturing for the children to sit before him, he decided to ask them where the previous Zhang Ming had gotten money for drink, desperately hoping the source was stable. Without obvious triggers, his memory yielded no answers, no matter how hard he strained.

  The two girls looked at him with big, frightened eyes, like cornered animals. In their short lives, they'd endured so much, suffered so much at the hands of their cruel father, that they didn't know what to expect. Yesterday he'd acted very strange, scaring them even more. The new Zhang Ming wanted to reassure them, promise that everything would be alright, but judging by their expressions, he'd only frightened them further. He had no idea how to handle children, so he didn't even try, getting straight to the point.

  "Where do I work? Do you know where I get money?" He pointed a finger at himself. "Don't be afraid. It's a simple question. Nothing will happen to you."

  "You don't remember?" the older one asked, surprised. "You're a porter. At the docks."

  "Oh! Finally something. Do you know where the docks are? How to get there?"

  "Yes," they nodded.

  "Then take me there," he said, getting up from the floor. "Ah, right. What are your names?"

  "Zhang Xue, Zhang Mingzhu," the girls exchanged a glance, pouted, and obediently introduced themselves.

  "Good. Let's go."