Bo Li awoke to a splitting headache, her temples throbbing as she slowly opened her eyes. At once, she noticed she was dressed in unfamiliar clothes—a rough shirt, a vest, and knee-high stockings.
The fabric was coarse, the stitching uneven and fraying in places. A faint, unpleasant scent of unfamiliar sweat clung to the garments.
Where was she?
Who had changed her clothes?
She instinctively sat up, lifting the hem of her shirt to inspect her abdomen—no injuries. She rolled up her sleeves—no needle marks.
Just as a flicker of relief began to stir in her chest, a thunderous crash shattered the quiet—Bang!
Then came the jeering.
"That brat's got a spine, I'll give him that. We had him tied behind a horse and dragged half the field, and he didn't make a sound…"
"How about a shot between the legs? Let's see how tough he is then!"
A wave of coarse laughter followed.
"Nah," someone interjected, "if we cripple him, the boss'll have our heads. That kid's the circus's golden goose."
"Golden goose? That runt? He's barely out of diapers."
"He's got real talent," the man chuckled. He turned and made a sharp whistling sound—like calling a dog. "Erik, come on. Show the boys your ventriloquism. Sing us one of your songs. Or one of those little tricks of yours…"
Whatever "Erik" said in reply, it silenced the crowd instantly.
The laughter ceased. A hush fell over the space outside. For a long moment, only the quiet shuffle of hooves on dirt could be heard.
Someone gave a cold laugh and shouted, "Hyah!" urging their horse into a faster gallop.
No one else spoke.
But a chill crept down Bo Li's spine. If she remembered correctly, that "Eric" was still tied behind one of those horses, being dragged along.
What made her blood run even colder was the language they were speaking—English.
She lived in Los Angeles, but their accents were clearly not West Coast American. They sounded… French?
Had she been kidnapped by Frenchmen?
Or was this something else entirely...?
Bo Li squeezed her eyes shut, then slowly lowered her gaze.
The moment she caught sight of her hand, her mind went completely blank. A prickling tension seized the back of her head. Her heart thundered in her chest.
—This wasn't her hand.
She had a mild obsession with cleanliness. Her nails were always neat, pink, and perfectly trimmed.
But this hand was red and rough, the knuckles swollen as if frostbitten. Dirt was caked under the nails, and thick calluses coated the palm in yellowish patches.
What do people see most every day?
Not their face, but their hands.
Bo Li had never imagined that one day, she'd wake up and find someone else's hand attached to her body.
It was like something straight out of a horror movie.
What the hell was going on?
"Hey—Polly! Polly, look at me!"
A voice exploded beside her like a thunderclap.
Bo Li—now inhabiting a body called Polly—felt her scalp prickle as she jerked her head up[1]
Somehow, a scrawny boy had wedged himself in front of her, his wide eyes staring into hers.
He looked underfed, his face pale and thin, dotted with red pockmarks. A crumpled flat cap sat on his head.
"What are you daydreaming for?" the boy asked. "Big news—Eric stole Mike's gold pocket watch!"
"Eric?" Polly rasped.
"Yeah! Mike's furious. Tied him to a saddle and dragged him for hundreds of meters. By the time the boss found out, Eric's leg was swollen like a steamed bun, and his back was all torn up—chunks of flesh everywhere…"
The boy spat with disdain. "Serves him right. Always showing off like he's better than the rest of us."
Chunks of flesh… Just imagining it made Polly's own back ache. But the boy seemed completely unfazed, as though he were describing a rat caught in a trap, not a fellow human being.
"I say they let him off too easy," the boy muttered. "That watch was expensive. Mike should've called the police. Had him hanged…"
Polly blinked. They can call the police here?
Wait—hanged?
Just then, the boy leaned closer, gesturing for her to lower the flap of the tent, leaving only a small slit to peer through.
"Shh! Look—they're here!" he whispered, face flushed with excitement. "The manager's coming!"
Polly glanced up—and immediately spotted Eric.
He was skeletal and battered, lying motionless on a stretcher.
His shirt was soaked in dark, dried blood that had spread like an ominous shadow, threatening to swallow him whole.
The air reeked of thick, metallic blood.
At first, Polly thought she was having a nosebleed. She tilted her head instinctively before realizing the stench was coming from outside.
A spark flickered. A man lit a cigar and walked over to Eric.
The fading twilight obscured his features, but Polly could make out the suit, a chain hanging from his vest, and a large gemstone ring on his thumb. He had to be the "manager" the boy mentioned.
"My dear Mike," the man said casually, "may I ask—what gave you the right to do this to him?"
Only then did Polly notice the blond boy standing nearby—plump, rosy-cheeked, and furious.
"He stole my watch!" Mike shouted at once.
"No, no, Mike," the manager replied, shaking his head. "That's not what I meant. I'm asking—what makes you think you had the right to beat him like this?"
Mike blinked, stunned.
He clearly hadn't expected the manager to take Eric's side. "But—but Uncle, he stole Mom's gold pocket watch—"
The man took a drag from his cigar and raised a finger for silence. "You're my beloved nephew, Mike. That's why I've always turned a blind eye when you squabble with the others. But this time, you went too far."
"Eric can do magic. Ventriloquism. He can sing," the manager said, glancing at the unconscious boy with a look of pity—as though mourning a once-useful dog. "If I tell him to, he'll even jump through a ring of fire.
You? You do nothing but eat my food. You can't even earn half of what he makes."
Mike's face turned red and then purple with rage. "But—but he stole my watch! The gold one! Uncle, he—he—"
"Did you see him take it?" the manager cut in.
"No, but—"
"Do you have proof?"
"No, but who else—"
The manager's voice turned cold. "Then he wasn't caught. And if he wasn't caught, then he did a damn good job."
Mike stared, dumbfounded. "Uncle… how can you—"
"How can I what?" The man gave a sharp laugh. "My sister was a brilliant pickpocket. She could empty a lady's dressing room without leaving a trace.
And you? You couldn't even tell your watch was missing—and you nearly crippled my top earner."
He looked down at Eric again and sneered, "And what piss-poor aim, too.
Now look—his leg's broken, his back's torn up.
Who's going to perform magic now, you?"
Mike looked as if he'd been slapped repeatedly. His face flushed bright red, but he had no reply.
After a few scolding remarks, the man waved his hand and dismissed Mike—after all, they were uncle and nephew.
Polly replayed their exchange in her mind, only to feel a fresh wave of dread.
—Was there no law in this place?
Mike looked no older than sixteen or seventeen, yet the man had casually remarked that his mother was a pickpocket.
And despite committing such a serious act—assault, dragging someone by horseback, nearly killing another child—the man merely gave him a few lukewarm words of reprimand.
Coupled with the eerie details—the gold pocket watch, talk of hangings, cigars, matches, and a pair of unfamiliar hands—it became painfully clear to her:
…She was likely no longer in the modern world.
Polly took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm and keep listening.
She needed more information to understand where she was and what exactly was happening.
The man finished his cigar and gave the unconscious Eric a nudge with the tip of his shoe. "...Can you still talk?"
No response.
Unbothered, the man went on, "I know both you and Mike want me to deliver some kind of justice. But I'm no judge, no policeman—I don't care who stole what. I care about one thing: money."
"Mike's mother gave me five thousand francs to look after him," the man chuckled. "If you can earn me five thousand francs, Eric, I wouldn't care if you killed him with your bare hands. Got it?"
Still no answer.
Eric lay completely still on the stretcher, like a corpse.
Polly, however, felt a chill seep into her bones. Her heart plummeted.
The man was clearly suggesting that as long as Eric made enough money, he could murder Mike without consequence.
He was encouraging these two boys to destroy each other.
What kind of place was this?
Or more accurately—what era was this?
Polly struggled to breathe. A cold, clammy sweat coated her back.
Then, a hoarse voice rasped out from the stretcher: "...Understood."
"Good boy," the manager said approvingly. "Don't worry—Old Mrs. Smith got some remedies from the Gypsies. You won't get gangrene."
Gypsies?Gangrene?
Polly's head swam.
If there had been any doubt before, it was gone now. She was no longer in her own time.
…She had time-traveled.
The manager seemed to reconsider something. He pulled out a bottle and placed it beside Eric. "Whiskey. Drink it. It'll help with the pain."
Polly fell into silence. Judging by the blood soaking half his body, Eric was gravely wounded.
And he was supposed to drink whiskey?
But Eric, as if waiting for this moment, suddenly reached out with shocking speed and seized the bottle. The sudden movement startled the manager.
Eric's fingers gripped the glass so tightly they trembled. He bit out the cork and drank the whiskey in one long, desperate gulp.
The little boy beside Polly watched enviously, not seeing anything strange about it. Instead, he muttered bitterly, "That's real Scotch... Why does he get rewarded for stealing?"
Polly said nothing.
She couldn't bear to keep watching this twisted scene, so she turned her attention to their surroundings: the caravans, tents, grass, filthy wool blankets, outdated gas lamps, and a grimy bucket in the corner.
Yes—this wasn't just the past. It wasn't even her country.
She had crossed into another world entirely.
Her chest tightened, and her breathing grew shallow.
But after a moment, she realized it wasn't panic causing her breathlessness—it was that her chest was bound too tightly.
The boy beside her was too distracted to notice her discomfort.
Polly quietly turned her body and slid her hand inside the shirt. Her fingers found something wrapped tightly around her chest—bandages.
Chest bindings?
Why was she bound?
Her head swirled with confusion.
The situation was already complicated enough, and now this detail made things even more puzzling.
She closed her eyes briefly, trying to ignore her racing heartbeat, and continued to search.
Her fingers brushed against something round.
She pulled it out—and froze.
It was a gold pocket watch.
Eric hadn't lied.
He hadn't stolen Mike's watch.
She had.
[1] (T/N: The protagonist’s original name is Bo Li. After transmigration, she is known as Polly. To maintain clarity, we will refer to her as Polly throughout the story.)