"Patient's heart rate is dropping, prepare to defibrillate!"
"No, his pupils are already dilating…"
"Try again! Increase the current!"
The cacophony in his ears, blurry vision, and the inability to speak — Allen felt that this world was truly messed up.
After giving hope, it suddenly plunged one into despair.
Nearing forty, and finally making a name for himself in the business world, Allen had believed his life was about to take a turn.
Well, it certainly did.
His brand-new car had barely driven a kilometre when it met a runaway truck head-on.
The final outcome, I believe you've already figured out.
Indeed… only the living get to talk!
"Cough… cough, cough!"
The violent coughing made Allen suddenly curl up, as icy cold air rushed into his lungs, bringing a burning, searing pain.
He struggled to open his eyes; the scene was a bit dim.
After his eyes adjusted to the light, the first thing he saw was a dirty, damp wooden ceiling, covered in cobwebs and mold.
As his senses returned, a foul stench assailed his nostrils.
A mix of rotting matter, excrement, and some kind of cheap alcohol nearly made him pass out again.
"It seems the truck was as effective as hitting the jackpot," Allen muttered to himself, his throat so dry it felt like it would crack.
He struggled to sit up and looked around.
After his eyes adjusted to the dim environment, what greeted him was a narrow, dilapidated attic.
The only window was a broken skylight on the roof, through which a few rays of light penetrated, illuminating the dust in the air.
This environmental shift was truly thorough, worthy of a truck.
"Oh… slowpoke, you're actually not dead?"
A hoarse voice came from the corner.
Allen looked in the direction of the voice; a man in a tattered burlap shirt with a scruffy face was leaning against the wall, holding a dark liquor bottle.
"I thought you wouldn't make it either, but you actually dodged this damned cholera."
The man took another large swig of alcohol, his eyes revealing a sense of numbness.
Cholera?
For Allen, that word only existed in history books and news.
Where did the truck send him?
He looked down at his pale skin and thin limbs, even his clothes were coarse cloth.
Sure enough, it wasn't his body!
His body, after retirement, had been regularly exercised, with well-defined muscles, definitely not this frail appearance.
Subsequently, a flood of confused memories rushed into his mind.
After a long while, Allen came back to his senses.
The original owner of this body was Allen Williams, a nineteen-year-old Irish immigrant who wasn't very bright and lived in a daze; his parents had both died of cholera two weeks prior.
Not being very intelligent, he inherited the small savings his parents left behind and struggled to survive in New York.
A few days ago, he fell ill after being caught in a winter rain, suffering from a persistent high fever, and then… his soul from the 21st century, for some unknown reason, took over this young body.
Or perhaps this body was originally his, and for some reason, he had been in a daze for nineteen years?
Shaking his head, Allen pushed these thoughts out of his mind; now was not the time to think about such things.
"Excuse me, what year is it… now?"
Allen decided to first figure out what time he had traveled to.
"What year?"
The drunkard seemed to have heard the funniest joke, bursting into laughter.
"Oh… poor boy, it seems your mind is completely broken to ask such a question. It's obviously the 1860th year since the birth of our Lord Jesus."
1860!
Allen secretly breathed a sigh of relief; thankfully, it wasn't worse.
Although this era in America wasn't great either, after all, the American Civil War seemed to be about to break out.
However… Allen glanced at his surroundings again, and couldn't help but frown.
New York in 1860, especially the Five Points where he was currently located, was one of the most notorious slums in the world.
This was a breeding ground for crime, disease, and poverty.
Cholera, tuberculosis, typhoid… any disease that could be treated in later generations was a death sentence here.
"Kid, if you haven't died of illness, go find something to eat."
Seeing Allen acting strangely, the drunkard burped and then ignored him, embracing his bottle and falling into a deep sleep.
It was fine until he mentioned it, but then Allen's stomach started to growl.
Without any self-pity, Allen calmly accepted the fact of his transmigration, even feeling a little happy.
After all, he was just a soul left, and now he had a chance to live another life; who would refuse?
Besides… he's already here, isn't he?
And based on the experience Allen had gleaned from all the novels he'd read, he couldn't say for sure if his soul transmigrated or if he was born anew, because the original owner of this body had always been a bit slow-witted.
Many protagonists in novels are like this, aren't they? After a great calamity, they recall their past life.
Enough, let's not talk about those extraneous topics.
Currently, Allen had only one task: to survive in this chaotic 19th century.
According to his memory, he found a small, cloth-wrapped lump in a hidden side pocket of his underwear.
He opened it and looked; sure enough, it was the seventy-five dollars from his memory.
This was Allen's entire inheritance, and his only capital to survive in this era.
"I must leave here first."
This attic was a huge source of infection; every minute he stayed, the risk of infection increased.
He leaned against the wall and weakly stood up.
Walking to the skylight, he took a deep breath of the relatively fresh air outside.
What his gaze met outside the window were dense and ugly wooden buildings, and narrow, muddy streets.
In the distance, women's screams and men's curses could be heard, mixed with children's cries.
This was the New York slum of 1860, a place filled with endless despair.
"Survive, then get rich."
Allen silently encouraged himself, his eyes gradually becoming firm.
He knew the general direction of American history, knew how the impending American Civil War would tear the country apart, and also knew what vast wealth opportunities the war would create.
He also understood basic scientific principles, knew the importance of hygiene, and even remembered some key technological inventions.
This knowledge, spanning over a hundred years, was a gold mine in this era.
"Seventy-five dollars, though relatively little."
Allen murmured, a smile playing on his lips.
"But for me, it's enough for now."
Tightly securing the money on his person, Allen pushed open the creaking attic door and stepped down the shaky stairs one by one.
The first thing he had to do was to leave here, eat some clean food, and drink a cup of clean hot water.
Then, make money!