Chapter 3: No Way Back

Old Sheng’s Lamb Noodle House.

“Bro, didn’t I pick a great spot? This lamb noodle place is second to none on this street. No one would dare call themselves first...” Ye San was eating with broth dribbling down his chin.

“If this place is so good, why didn’t you tell me about it before?” Zhou Sen slurped noodles, chewed on lamb, and sipped the broth. This was how ordinary folks ought to live—comfortable and content.

“Bro, you never ate at small joints like this before. Even if I told you, you wouldn’t come.” Ye San grinned.

“Really?” Zhou Sen thought back and realized he actually never used to come to these humble, hole-in-the-wall places.

He used to think they weren’t up to his standards.

Though he came from poverty, ever since he’d been taken in by Old Anthony, he’d started living a more respectable life, wanting to make a clean break from his past. So he never set foot in the lower-class eateries again.

This kid had forgotten his roots a little—that was one thing Zhou Sen looked down on.

After eating, he wiped his mouth, stood up and said, “San, help me ask for a leave, and this meal’s on you. Next time, I’ll treat you to something fancy.”

“What? Bro...” Ye San was dumbfounded. When had Zhou Sen ever made him pay for a meal?

“I’m off. Going home for a nap. If you need me, come find me there.” Without giving Ye San a chance to reply, Zhou Sen strode off.

He couldn’t remember much from last night’s drinking, especially what happened after he got drunk...

Besides, was he really that weak at his age?

...

Zhou Sen’s home was in the Wharf District, which locals called Daoli. Cossack Street, as the name implied, was once a camp for Cossack cavalry. Now it was renamed Gaoshi Street.

The old Cossack barracks were demolished long ago, replaced by a bustling commercial avenue—one of the city’s busiest.

The man who adopted Zhou Sen was named Anthony Robin, a White Russian refugee who had fled to Ice City. His family had once been wealthy landowners, with thousands of acres before the October Revolution.

But personal strength is no match for the tides of history. At just twenty, Anthony Robin had fled his homeland with other refugees, coming to Ice City.

After more than twenty years of hard work, Anthony Robin had amassed a considerable fortune and made a name for himself in the city.

“Young Master Vasim is back.” The door was opened by Irina, a white Russian woman in her fifties, somewhat plump, her round face marked by the grooves of time. Yet it was clear that in her youth, she must have been a cheerful girl.

He paused, remembering his Russian name: Vasim. In Russian, it meant “handsome”—which, translated, was pretty boy.

“Irina, is everything alright at home?” Zhou Sen changed his shoes, took off his wool coat, and handed it to Irina.

“All’s well. I was just worried because you didn’t come home last night, Young Master...”

“They were celebrating my promotion. I drank too much and didn’t make it back. I’m going upstairs to sleep—don’t call me for lunch.” Ignoring Irina’s look of surprise, Zhou Sen went straight upstairs.

Today, Young Master Vasim really seemed different. Normally, he was so formal when he spoke. Now it was as if he’d become someone else.

“Mrow...”

A white blur leapt down the stairs and landed in Zhou Sen’s arms, startling him.

What on earth was this?

Looking closer, he saw it was a pure white Persian cat, with eyes as blue as sapphires, exuding an enchanting allure that drew you in.

“Lucy, where have you been? Haven’t seen you all night. The moment Young Master comes home, you appear?” Irina called out as soon as she saw the cat.

“Meow!” Lucy called, rubbing her head against Zhou Sen’s chest and then closing her eyes contentedly.

What a clingy little thing.

Zhou Sen liked cats—they were cold and aloof, hard to get close to, but there were exceptions.

Suddenly, Lucy’s eyes widened, exuding an air of inviolable dignity. A flash of fierceness glinted in her sapphire eyes.

Well, well, this little creature was putting on quite the act.

Zhou Sen couldn’t help but laugh. Such a small thing was no threat to him.

But as soon as she saw herself cradled in Zhou Sen’s arms, Lucy’s gaze softened. She closed her eyes, and her outstretched paws retracted.

People say cats are spiritual—could this little one have sensed something?

Perhaps he ought to keep his distance from her in the future?

No, even if a cat’s sense of smell isn’t as keen as a dog’s, they’re still sensitive to their owner’s scent. He must still carry Bai Yulan’s scent, which explained Lucy’s odd reaction.

He pushed open his door and entered his room.

A large European-style mattress dominated the space. Zhou Sen walked over, lay down, and closed his eyes. The bed was soft, with a gentle fragrance—different from Bai Yulan’s.

After a hearty meal and a good nap, life felt perfect.

His eyelids grew heavy. Who knows how long he slept. He awoke to a warm, ticklish sensation on his cheek. Opening his eyes, he saw a pink tongue licking his face.

Lucy!

“Lucy, what are you doing? Don’t lick my face...” Zhou Sen pushed her away in distaste.

Meow...

Lucy mewled, her blue eyes full of grievance. Clearly, she didn’t understand—her young master used to love this. Why the sudden change?

That pitiful look made Zhou Sen’s heart skip a beat despite himself.

“Alright, Lucy, I’m not mad at you. But you must know—not to lick my face in the future, or the other lady cats won’t like you!” He gently stroked Lucy’s head as he spoke.

Meow!

Lucy suddenly leapt off the bed and dashed away.

So, the little thing had a bit of a temper.

Zhou Sen glanced out the window. It was still light. Who knew how long he’d slept? He got up and headed for the bathroom.

He turned on the brass faucet.

Splash, splash...

Wait—who was that pale face in the mirror?

Zhou Sen was startled, then realized: who else could be in the bathroom? It was his own reflection.

He studied his face in the mirror. Tears pricked his eyes. He actually had a face that could make a living.

If only he could live off his looks.

Was that why Bai Yulan had spent the night with him—because of his face? Zhou Sen wondered, a bit vainly.

Too bad he’d had no choice...

He sighed.

He picked up the razor, lathered up, and began to shave.

After freshening up, he left the bathroom. Although he’d fully absorbed his predecessor’s memories, some things had to be handled personally to make sure it wasn’t all a dream.

Suits, ties, dress shoes...

He opened the closets one by one, amazed. These things might’ve been nothing special in his previous era.

But here and now, they were beyond the reach of ordinary people.

Was this guy obsessed with suits?

There was even a dressing table. Zhou Sen had never seen most of those items before, identifying them only by memory.

His predecessor certainly was vain.

Was there nothing more normal, more ordinary to wear? Zhou Sen rummaged for ages, but couldn’t find a single item to suit his taste.

Knock, knock...

“Young Master Vasim, what would you like for dinner?” Irina stood at the door with her hands folded.

“Whatever.” Zhou Sen was getting a headache—these flashy clothes all felt unnatural, though they fit perfectly.

At least he had taste.

“How about roast meat, pickled sturgeon, and oatmeal porridge?”

“Anything else?” Zhou Sen frowned slightly. Roast meat was fine, but sturgeon—not his style.

“Mashed potatoes, toasted bread, and red sausage?”

“Do we have rice?” Zhou Sen asked.

“Rice?” Irina’s eyes widened. Though Zhou Sen was Chinese, he never ate Chinese food at home, out of respect for Anthony Robin’s dietary habits.

“Is there any rice in the house?”

“Yes, Young Master Vasim.” Irina nodded. Their family was in the grain business—so even if rice wasn’t on the table every day, there’d always be some in storage. Sometimes rice was used for porridge.

“I’d like rice and stir-fried dishes. Can you make those?”

Irina shook her head. Chinese food was too complicated. She’d tried, but it always turned out terrible, so she’d given up.

Young Master Vasim entered the kitchen—where he’d never set foot before—and put on a performance that left Irina utterly amazed.

Steamed rice, braised meat, Kung Pao chicken, braised fish, and a bowl of egg drop soup!

Three dishes and a soup—all perfectly presented.

Irina clasped her hands to her heart in disbelief. “Young Master Vasim, did you really make this?”

“Let’s eat. Are there chopsticks in the house?” Zhou Sen replied coolly, with a hint of pride. Even in a new body, his skills hadn’t faded.

If he ever quit being a policeman, he could always open a small restaurant—he’d never go hungry. That was the mark of a true craftsman.

“There are.” Irina hurried to respond. Even if they, as White Russians, rarely used chopsticks, it was customary to keep some at home.

It was probably the happiest meal Irina had ever eaten. In the end, she wiped the plates clean, and with a rinse, they could go straight onto the drying rack.

Night had fallen.

Full and satisfied, Zhou Sen returned upstairs. He couldn’t sleep now. In this unfamiliar yet familiar place, the initial excitement had faded, leaving only a trace of fear—and even despair.

There was no going back. His former self was gone. What about his aging parents? Could they accept this?

He was just an ordinary man. Online, he might make bold statements, but when something actually happened to him...

Seated alone in the study, Zhou Sen’s eyes reddened with confusion. He truly didn’t know which path to take next.

“Young Master Vasim?”

“Come in.” Hearing someone knock and call for him, Zhou Sen responded.

“Young Master Vasim, I’ve made you a cup of hot milk. Drink it and you’ll sleep well.” Irina entered with a steaming cup.

“Thank you.” Zhou Sen quickly tried to cover his moment of weakness.

Who were you, really? Though he’d absorbed and processed some memories, some things remained blurry, as if locked away.

Better focus on how to survive in this era. Right, he had to go back to the police station tomorrow.