After discovering the connection between prayer and candles, the Transmigrator was excited. He felt that he was not far from a happy life. However, things did not go as planned: nothing happened for the next six months!
During those six months, little Miryam Croft knelt on a worn-out cushion every night, facing the stone statue and muttering to herself. As her lips moved, golden light like incense poured into the statue, and the candle—formed from white mist—would grow a tiny bit longer. To be precise, the candle's body thickened by 0.3 millimeters each week. This barely perceptible change caused the Transmigrator to doubt his own sanity countless times.
The mountain peak where his consciousness resided was not large, and the dilapidated temple was even smaller. His gaze swept over the moss-covered beams and collapsed dome, completing a "patrol" in just three minutes.
He had tried to penetrate the white wall of mist surrounding the mountain peak, but his consciousness was bounced back as if it had hit an elastic membrane. In the old temple, apart from a snowy TV set and a mottled pedestal for a deity, there was only a piece of ragged cloth that Miryam had secretly stuffed into a crack in the stone. She had bought it with her earnings as a laundry worker, saying, "I want to make a warm cloak for the deity"—even though the surface of the stone statue always had the coolness of granite.
Out of a modern Earthling's instinct, he believed that these white misty clouds must be the greatest advantage he had gained from this time travel. But how to use it effectively would require time to explore and study... and that time was too long! In novels, the protagonists could spend decades or even centuries in just a few chapters, immersing themselves in a single pursuit. But the Transmigrator had already grown bored after just three days.
This was because he could focus on his studies, earning a bachelor's degree all the way up to a PhD. He could sit in the library for six hours straight without eating or drinking, but at least back then he had a book. Here, on this desolate mountain peak, there was nothing—nothing—nothing!
Except for a television with only one channel.
Gathering intelligence is a basic skill for a Transmigrator, but if he's turned into a statue, his only source of information is the conversations of this family. It's like watching a long, drawn-out documentary: nothing but suffering, no highlights.
As a scholar who graduated from the History Department of the University of Opava in the Czech Republic and studied in the East for many years, the Transmigrator instinctively activated his information-gathering mode.
The TV, which could only receive one channel, became his sole window to the world. The camera was always fixed on the Croft family's attic: every morning, the father would prick his fingertip with a scalpel, and when 5ml of blood dripped into the metal container of Steam Essence Bella, the cotton candy-like mist would expand by 20%, emitting a pleasant whistle; the sister would scrub her work clothes stained with coal ash in a washbasin; Miryam would squat in the corner trying to repair cracks in the deity's statue with gears she had picked up. She always said, "The deity will be cold if its clothes are torn," even though the surface of the stone statue always had the coolness of granite.
From their conversations, the Transmigrator pieced together the outline of this world: the city called Stellaxis Pragis was probably at the level of 17th or 18th century Europe, but there were also many magical things that did not exist on Earth.
For example, steam-powered vending machines spewing steam could be found on every street corner.
For example, the Croft family's Steamsprit-Bella—a cotton-candy-like device that clears sewers and irons clothes by expelling coal-fired steam, at the cost of 50ml of fresh blood and half a piece of honeycomb coal per week. This "magical companion" reminded the Transmigrator of child labor during Earth's Industrial Revolution, both fueling industrial civilization with flesh and blood.
From a lifestyle perspective, this world is a civilization where magic and industry coexist. Its technological capabilities are roughly at the level of the first industrial revolution, but with the addition of magical artifacts, the overall level of civilization is roughly equivalent to the 19th century. Due to the limited environment and knowledge of this family, the information they can gather is limited. The Steamsprit, which can unclog drains and iron clothes, is truly impressive, so the potential of this civilization might be quite high.
However, using the Steamsprite comes at a significant cost: each time it works, nearly 5 milliliters of blood must be sacrificed, and it requires regular feedings of cheap coal. While the demon statue doesn't seem to feel heat or cold, judging by the family's behavior, the heating efficiency of the Steamsprite is more cost-effective than burning coal in a fireplace.
The Croft family lives in the lower-class Rust District, where the public security is poor. In the past year, a serial killer known as the "Rust District Ripper" has emerged, with at least ten victims brutally murdered. The Croft family has a favorable opinion of the Ripper, as rumors suggest he only targets despicable individuals.
Croft's father and older brother are dockworkers, and Miryam Croft, despite her young age, has to work as a laundry worker alongside her sister to support the family. Their mother works in a lead factory. Seeing the family's circumstances, the Transmigrator couldn't help but think of the urban underclass during the First Industrial Revolution—especially the mother, who, despite holding a master's degree in chemistry, was in a dire state.
Lead factory workers typically screened ore, stirred lead solutions, and worked in early factory environments with poor ventilation. These unscrupulous factories provided no proper protective gear, making lead poisoning inevitable and irreversible.
"What the hell is the use of Faith Essence?" the Transmigrator roared countless times in his heart. He tried to touch the candlestick with his consciousness, watching the white mist flow between his stone fingers but unable to condense; he shouted at the TV, but all he got in return was the crackling sound of snow on the screen.
As a scholar who could sit in the library for six hours studying Tian Gong Kai Wu, he was now defeated by the barrenness of "having nothing to do": he counted the 108 cracks on the temple wall, memorized the frequency of Miryam's eyelashes trembling during prayer, and could even determine the Croft family's coal reserves for the day based on the steam whistle's sound.
"Okay, okay, this is also a test..." the Transmigrator recognized the reality of the situation. If he had to say what he had gained during this time, it was that he had become very patient.
When he was on Earth, he was able to go three days without opening DikDok, and he was very proud of his patience and self-control.
The turning point came late at night when his Faith Essence reached 1,000 points. After Miryam finished her routine prayers, the TV channel knob suddenly protruded by a millimeter—a mechanical knob unique to old-fashioned cathode ray tube televisions. When the Transmigrator's calloused finger slipped into the gear-like grooves, the damping sensation he hadn't felt in twenty years transported him back to his childhood on Earth, to his grandfather's black-and-white TV that required a firm twist to change channels. The image flickered in his memory like pixelated snowflakes.
The Transmigrator took a deep breath to calm himself, then reached out and turned the knob.
Nothing happened. The screen remained unchanged, still showing the view from the corner of the attic where the demon statue stood.
He turned it a few more times, but nothing changed.
"Haha," the Transmigrator couldn't help but laugh. He used all his self-control to resist the urge to smash the TV.
After the screen flickered three times, a red pixelated ghost face suddenly popped up—a low-resolution mosaic of exaggerated grins. The dialogue box read, "Did that scare you? Haha," written in the most primitive ASCII characters, yet it felt like a hammer striking his consciousness.
Below that dialogue box, a new dialogue box popped up. This time, it was a blue pixelated little man: "Ugh, what a hassle, more work."
Immediately after, a familiar JRPG-style attribute panel unfolded:
Character: ??
Race: Vagrant wraith
Occupation: ??
Age: 100 days
Lifespan: 1 year
Talent 1: Faith's Bounty
Faith Essence: 1000
Character Status: Healthy, Angry
The Transmigrator's mood was very complicated. The red "Lifespan: 1 year" made the Transmigrator's "retina" ache—it turned out that the countdown had started from the moment the first bit of Faith Essence was injected. He tried to converse with the pixelated figure on the screen, but all he got was the panel's relentless flickering. The entity that had made that hellish joke seemed to have never existed, leaving only a knob that could switch between the surveillance feed and the attribute panel, proving that everything that had just happened was not an illusion.
However, as long as this thing responded, it was enough. Although the data showed he only had 1 year of life left, he believed that in this world where nothing could be explained by existing knowledge, everything could be reversed. After all, according to the game's rules, the data on the status panel could be changed.
Now the knob was indeed working; it could switch screens, switching back and forth between the status panel and the surveillance footage.
Life once again fell into a stagnant calm, only to be shattered three months later by a heart-wrenching scream. The mother, who worked at the lead factory, returned, but she was no longer the gentle woman who used to braid Miryam's hair before bed: her lips were purple, her fingertips trembled uncontrollably, and she couldn't even lift the enamel cup; her apron was stained with silver-white powder that couldn't be washed off—it was lead dust, which the Transmigrator had seen in Earth's documents, eroding her nervous system at a rate of 0.1 millimeters per day.
"What's wrong with Mom's hands?" Miryam's voice trembled with tears. Her father silently wiped the metal container of steam distillate, the bloodstains standing out starkly in the moonlight: "The ventilation ducts at the lead factory were blocked again, and she had to stay by the molten lead pool for three extra hours."
The Transmigrator stared at the screen, watching her mother curled up on the creaking iron bed. He suddenly recalled the lead poisoning specimens he had seen in the chemistry lab—metal deposits in the kidneys, irreversible necrosis of nerve endings. These textbook descriptions were now destroying the pillar of this family at a visible pace.
On that chilly autumn morning, Miryam did not come to pray. The attic on the TV was unusually quiet, the steam whistle of Bella the steam engine sounding intermittently, like a leaking bellows.
Her father's figure appeared on the screen, his shoulders drooping 5 centimeters lower than usual, his calloused hands slowly covering his mother with a white sheet—it was a tablecloth his sister had repurposed from a guest's, with the lace trim still intact along the edges.
The Transmigrator stared at the screen, watching Miryam's figure rush into the frame, watching her fists pound the stone statue's base, watching the first tear fall onto its stone feet—it was the first time he had felt "warmth" since arriving in this world.