Chapter 7: Rebirth

The person who had put on his clothes saw a cup of water placed beside the empty plate. Having learned his lesson this time, he carefully lifted the fragile glass and downed the richly flavored, strange-tasting plain water in one gulp.

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

Who am I?

During his confinement, he had already deduced from the overly bright washbasins that his appearance was not that of the black-haired, black-eyed yellow-skinned person he remembered.

His hair was still black, but his eyes were distinctly blue. His skin was not the translucent white of a yellow-skinned person, but the dead white of a white-skinned person.

Simply put, he was no longer the self he was before the transmigration. So, was there any point in continuing to use his old Chinese name?

In this life, he had been called En-Nyu-No-O-Ding by those Russians. Though he didn't know the original meaning, he could guess it was likely an informal nickname, which made him instinctively reluctant to continue using such a title.

Since he had become a foreigner, he might as well use a foreign name. So, using the Eagle language from his memory, he stammered out an answer: "My, name, is, Henry."

Pick a common market name; he didn't want to draw attention. That was his reasoning for calling himself that. As for why he picked this one? He didn't know. Was it his mood? Intuition? As long as he felt good, did he need to explain himself to others?

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

Hmm... does this mean I have to make up a surname on the spot? So annoying, I won't think about it. He shook his head and said, "Nothing, just Henry."

Old John had no intention of digging deeper, simply saying, "Suit yourself." Then he suddenly asked in Russian, "Do you have a place to go?"

Henry gave a look of genuine confusion that didn't seem feigned. Duh, do you really not understand?

Switching back to Eagle language, Old John asked again, "Do you have a place to go?" As if knowing the young man's Eagle language was not fluent, he deliberately slowed his speech.

This time, Henry, who had understood, changed his expression to a different kind of confusion and shook his head.

"I thought so." Old John stood up and casually picked up the shotgun. But he held it by the middle section, not by the grip and trigger. He continued speaking:

"If you have nowhere to go, you can stay. But that bed is mine; I can let you sleep on the sofa in the bar. But if you want to stay, you must work for me.

"I'll provide three meals a day; if you want to drink, you have to pay. If you're ready, come out; my bar is right ahead. If you want to leave, consider the food and clothes I just gave you a gift. But don't expect me to provide you with anything else."

Having finished speaking, Old John slung the gun over his shoulder and walked out.

Where else could he go? His appearance had changed; even if he returned to his hometown, he couldn't reclaim that identity or take back his life.

He hadn't even thought deeply yet about whether that former self still existed or could be replaced; or even whether this place was still the world he once lived in.

With spaceships already in existence, and having endured that lonely and torturous second growth period, Henry would rather believe this was not the safe and peaceful world he once lived in.

Before encountering the transmigrator's artifact, he had only heard rumors about Area 51, seen news of war in the Middle East, and witnessed the zero-dollar shopping sprees unique to the American Empire. Nothing like this world, whose first impression on him was so bizarre and terrifying.

Besides, who knows how long it had been; growing from an infant to his current form, it couldn't have been just a few years.

The moment such a thought surfaced, a number appeared in his mind: 7213.

This was the number of days that had passed from the day he appeared in outer space, preparing to descend to Earth, until he fainted from hunger.

And though those seven thousand-plus days were monotonous, they were vividly clear in his memory. Which day he was taken for what experiment, which physical checks were performed, what the person in charge looked like—everything was deeply impressed upon him.

What they had said, though he couldn't understand the meaning of their words, every single syllable was as clear as if they had just been spoken in his ear.

Even the period after he grew up, with its various torturous methods and injuries involving broken arms and legs, felt as if it had just happened. Whenever he recalled it, the corresponding part of his body would feel the pain he had suffered.

Henry quickly shook his head, trying to forget, or rather, to shift his attention elsewhere. He had now experienced the side effect of having too good a brain function.

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

Calculating based on an average human lifespan of seventy years, had nearly thirty percent of his time, and the most precious growth period, been wasted?

What a damn miserable start; he was powerless to even complain. Henry thought to himself.

Instead of thinking about how to go back, he might as well consider how to live well here. After all, his life before transmigration was also about adapting to circumstances.

The only thing he could still feel attached to was the D-drive in his memory. Besides the heartfelt sacrifices of various teachers, there were the anime and film works he had watched, and the games he had played.

If he wanted these things, he could simply collect them again. There was no need to insist on reclaiming his own...

Ah, I thought of something. I didn't clear my browsing history, nor the collections on that D-drive. If someone saw those things, I would be socially dead.

The reputation I left behind in my past life...

Whatever. People are dead anyway; it doesn't matter anymore.

After all, rotten mud can rot just as well wherever it goes. Since he was given a new name, he might as well live a new life.

With his resolve made, Henry opened the room door. Before his eyes was a fairly large bar. In the middle stood six sparsely arranged four-person tables, and along the walls were sofa tables with small partitioned booths.

Besides the tables and chairs, there were two old billiard tables, three dartboards that could be described as riddled with holes, and even the walls next to the dartboards showed marks of dart impacts.

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

From the bar's back, filled with various alcoholic beverages, there was no sight or smell of milk, juice, or similar items, making it clear this was not a place for family-style gatherings.

So why put up a two-dimensional decoration? Henry approached the old man who was serving customers at the bar counter, pointed at the star-spangled round shield, and asked, "Do you have a grandson living here too?"

Old John felt his heart tighten at such a question. He asked back, "Why do you say that?"

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

"That is a replica I bought."

"You?"

"During the Second World War, I almost got selected for the Howling Commandos. Although I didn't become a member, I participated in joint operations quite a few times. Is there anything wrong with hanging a shield of his to commemorate him, having fought alongside a hero like Captain?"

... Fuck! Where the hell have I transmigrated to?

New book seeking follows, collections, and recommendations. Thank you~~

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(End of this chapter)