Late Spring, 1972
Hong Kong
Dusk bled across the western sky. Along the bustling thoroughfare, traffic surged in an unbroken weave. Elegantly dressed men and women strolled past in lighthearted conversation, while along the curbs, threadbare laborers huddled in search of odd jobs.
It was the quintessential face of a booming metropolis: blooming prosperity on one side, raw decay on the other.
With a sharp creak of its iron frame, a rickshaw pulled up to the roadside.
A youth stepped down. He looked no older than seventeen or eighteen, his frame so gaunt that his wrinkled white dress shirt billowed around him like an empty sail. Above that frail physique was a face as pale as parchment -- his lips completely devoid of color, radiating an inescapable, sickly fragility.
At first glance, one might easily overlook him beneath such an aura of sickness. Yet a closer look revealed striking, handsome bone structure: a defined jawline, dark and resolute brows, a straight nose bridge, and pale lips shaped in an elegant curve.
Regrettably, he appeared so weak that even stepping out of the rickshaw left him swaying on his feet, making it hard for anyone to appreciate his looks.
At the very least, the rickshaw puller had no heart for it.
Seeing how the youth looked ready to collapse into the grave at any second, the driver briefly considered asking if he needed help. Fear of trouble won out -- after all, to the destitute, getting entangled in trouble was the ultimate luxury they could not afford. Taking the crumpled bills handed to him, the driver muttered a hasty word of thanks, seized his cart handles, and hurried away into the evening crowd.
Kiu Man let out a faint breath. He supposed he truly did not look like a proper living person right now. After all, he had literally just climbed out of death’s grip.
His body was weak beyond reason, but being alive was always better than the alternative.
He moved slowly onto the sidewalk and glanced across the street. There stood a traditional teahouse beneath a gleaming, gilded signboard that read: Fu Yung Teahouse.
If events played out as written, a nineteen-year-old youth would plunge a dagger into the chest of a wealthy city merchant inside that teahouse tonight. A single strike that would irrevocably alter his own destiny -- and that of the merchant’s young heir.
Kiu Man knew about the imminent bloodbath not because he possessed precognition, but because he was currently standing inside the pages of a novel.
The boy about to commit murder was the novel's primary villain. The merchant's son was the chosen protagonist.
As for Kiu Man himself -- or rather, the original owner of this fragile body -- he was merely the arch-villain's childhood best friend: an insignificant piece of cannon fodder whose life was meant to end from illness on this very day.
So minor was his role that he never even made a direct appearance in the main storyline, existing solely as a tragic memory haunting the villain’s backstory.
Kiu Man had transmigrated into a book.
Crossing over from the autumn of 2020 into a novel set in the 1970s Hong Kong, he had taken over the shell of a doomed side character who shared his exact name.
---
One day earlier -- Early Autumn, 2020, in the western desert.
The desert night brought a biting chill that swept away the daytime heat. Deep within the campground, the rhythmic sound of steady breathing indicated that most of the hiking group was already asleep.
Kiu Man sat tending the campfire. He had just adjusted the dying embers when the rustle of gravel broke the silence, and a soft voice whispered beside him, "Brother Man, smoke?"
Kiu Man turned to see the bespectacled boy from the hiking crew. They had only crossed paths earlier that day. He did not even know the kid's name, only that the boy called himself an introverted homebody who had ventured out to experience life, only to get hopelessly lost in the arid dunes on day two.
"Thanks." Kiu Man took the cigarette, leaned toward the fire to catch a flame, and let out a thin stream of smoke with a faint smile. "What is the matter? Cannot sleep?"
A gust of dry wind made the boy pull his coat tight around his shoulders. "It is pitch black out here. Not a soul around... honestly, it is a bit terrifying."
"First time in the desert?" Kiu Man asked.
The boy nodded sheepishly. "Our guide claimed he was experienced when I signed up. Who knew we would lose our bearings after just one day? We got lucky running into you, or things could have gotten ugly." He added with genuine awe, "I really admire you. Hiking through an empty desert all by yourself takes serious guts."
Kiu Man gave an easy laugh, shaking his head. "It is just a matter of having done it a few more times."
He raised his gaze toward the horizon. Above stretched an ocean of stars; below lay an endless expanse of dark dunes. It was quiet enough that only the whistling wind broke the silence, cloaking countless unseen hazards in the shadows.
And danger, by nature, was intoxicating.
The boy quietly observed him. Earlier that afternoon, when their group had been stumbling blindly on the verge of running out of water, this man had appeared out of nowhere, calmly guiding them straight to an oasis before helping them pitch camp.
The boy did not know who Kiu Man was, only that he possessed extraordinary stamina, sharp instincts, and top-tier survival gear -- someone who clearly was not short on money. Most people who sought extreme adventures did so for the thrill, not out of necessity.
More than that, Kiu Man was striking. In the warm glow of the firelight, the faint stubble along his jaw gave his handsome face a rugged, magnetic charm.
Ignoring the boy’s appraising look, Kiu Man smiled. "Why do you not get some sleep by the fire? I will be right here. Nothing to worry about."
The boy was eager for the comfort. "Wake me if you get tired, Brother Man. I will take over the watch."
Kiu Man curved his lip noncommittally.
The boy spread his blanket, bundled himself in his windbreaker, and settled down. Remembering something, he pulled an e-reader from his pack and handed it over. "If you are bored, read a novel to pass the time."
The long desert night was indeed monotonous. Kiu Man accepted the device and casually opened the first title on the bookshelf:
《Tycoons of the Seventies》.
Just from the title, it was obvious modern power-fantasy pulp.
Kiu Man rarely read web novels, but since he would be awake until sunrise, he tapped the screen and read to kill the hours.
By the time he reached the scene where the arch-villain was gunned down by the protagonist, the eastern horizon was breaking into the pale belly of dawn, and rustling sounds stirred from the surrounding tents.
He passed the e-reader back to the waking boy.
Rubbing his eyes, the boy took it and asked, "What did you read?"
"The first one on your shelf."
"Oh, that web novel!" The boy chuckled as a sudden thought struck him. "By the way, there is a character in there with your exact name."
"Is there? I did not notice." Kiu Man had only skimmed through the melodrama without paying close attention to minor names.
The boy, clearly an avid reader, perked up. "Yeah! The villain Chan Ka Nam had a childhood friend who died right at the start -- he only ever shows up in flashbacks. Back then, both their families were dirt poor. When this friend fell gravely ill and could not afford a real hospital, Chan Ka Nam took a hit contract to assassinate the male lead's father just to earn the medical fee. But by the time he pulled it off and rushed back with the money, his friend had already passed away in an unlicensed clinic in the Kowloon Walled City. The shock pushed Chan Ka Nam over the edge, sending him down a ruthless spiral of doing whatever it took for wealth and power."
Prompted by the summary, Kiu Man recalled the brief flashback. The character had died before the main plot properly started, so he had not thought twice about it.
It was just standard web-novel tragedy, yet hearing it aloud stirred a strange ache in his chest.
He, too, once had a sworn brother who would have laid down his life for him -- someone whose name also carried the character Nan.
Before they could dwell on it, the other campers began emerging from their tents to greet them. The group ate a quick ration of dry food and packed up before sunrise. By midday, Kiu Man had safely escorted them to the nearest highway, parting ways to continue his solo trek across the desert.
Ever since Lin Nan had passed away, all the journeys and expeditions they had once planned together were left for Kiu Man to finish alone.
This desert crossing was meant to be his final stop. Once completed, he intended to return to the ordinary rhythms of daily life, living fully and quietly just as Lin Nan had always wished for him.
Yet halfway through the expedition, an unexpected sandstorm struck.
Gale-force winds swallowed the sky in blinding yellow sand. Buried beneath the suffocating dunes, his breath grew shorter and more labored until absolute darkness dragged him under.
He knew his life was ending.
His only lingering thought was whether he might cross paths with Lin Nan on the other side.
"Ah Man! Ah Man! Wake up! Do not die on me!"
A frantic, tearful shriek pierced his ears, accompanied by violent shaking that yanked Kiu Man straight out of the suffocation.
A metallic taste rose in his throat, forcing him into a violent fit of coughing. He gasped desperately for air, sucking in huge gulps like a drowning man breaking the water's surface until the choking sensation finally receded.
"Ah Man... you... you are not dead?!"
Kiu Man forced his heavy eyelids open. A tear-streaked, unfamiliar teenage boy was leaning over him, gripping his shoulders and shaking him with frantic force. Kiu Man finally understood why he felt so dizzy -- this kid had nearly shaken his brains loose.
Drawing two steadying breaths, Kiu Man croaked, "Ah Ho... are you trying to shake my soul out?"
Ah Ho?
Kiu Man froze. It was not just the fact that he had instinctively named this complete stranger -- it was the realization that he had blurted it out in fluent Cantonese.
Before he could process the shock, a violent rush of foreign memories flooded his consciousness.
A moment later, he took in his surroundings with disbelief.
He was inside a cramped, dim room. In all his travels, he had never seen a place so impoverished and dilapidated. Peeling yellow walls, a single window with cracked panes, and a few unpainted wooden stools surrounding a table cluttered with blackened clay pots used for brewing herbal medicine. The air was thick with the bitter, sharp stench of boiled remedies.
On a side table, an ancient electric fan rattled violently as its blades spun.
Dark. Humid. Stuffy. Filthy.
The newly absorbed memories told him where he was: an unlicensed back-alley clinic in 1970s Hong Kong, deep inside the lawless labyrinth of the Kowloon Walled City.
Seeing him awake, Ah Ho finally let go of his shoulders, wiped his running nose on his sleeve, and bellowed toward the outer doorway, "Uncle Wah! Come quick! Ah Man is awake!"
The cloth curtain parted, and a gaunt old man in his late fifties stepped inside.
The man had a round nose, beady eyes, and a wisp of a goatee. He wore a traditional skullcap reminiscent of the Republican era -- looking less like a licensed physician and more like a roadside fortune-teller operating under a flyover.
Staring in shock, Uncle Wah hurried over, lifted Kiu Man's eyelids to examine them, and seized his wrist to take his pulse. As his fingers rested on the pulse point, his small eyes widened into round saucers.
"Bizarre... truly bizarre," the old doctor muttered, clicking his tongue in disbelief. "His breathing stopped and his pulse had completely ceased moments ago. How on earth did he breathe back to life?"
Beside them, Ah Ho sniffled, voice trembling with leftover panic. "Uncle Wah, when you said Ah Man passed, you nearly scared me to death!"
Kiu Man leaned back against the rickety wooden cot, silently letting the old practitioner prod and poke him while his mind raced to piece together his situation.
He had clearly been swallowed by a desert sandstorm. How had he opened his eyes inside this alien world?
Having just read Tycoons of the Seventies, he realized quickly that through some inexplicable phenomenon, his dying soul had crossed into this fictional realm, inhabiting the body of the doomed side character who shared his name -- the sworn brother whose early death pushed the novel's arch-villain, Chan Ka Nam, over the edge.
This was Hong Kong in the early 1970s -- a fictionalized version in all its gritty, chaotic, and dazzling glory.
He rapidly aligned the timeline.
In the book, when Chan Ka Nam met his bitter end, the narrative dedicated a long passage to his past, the core of which was the day his childhood friend Kiu Man died.
The original Kiu Man had been sickly since childhood. At age eighteen, a catastrophic illness landed him in this squalid clinic. When herbs failed, the quack doctor gave a final piece of advice: that perhaps an expensive Western hospital could save him. But as two impoverished youths surviving in the Walled City, where could they ever find such astronomical funds?
Desperate to pay for Kiu Man's medical bills, Chan Ka Nam accepted a hit contract from a local gang boss to assassinate the father of the novel's future male lead, Lam Tsz Fai.
It was his very first kill. He executed it cleanly, yet when he rushed back clutching the blood-stained cash to take his friend to the hospital, the boy lying on the wooden cot had already turned cold and stiff.
That day became the darkest turning point of Chan Ka Nam’s life. From that moment on, he resolved to rise to the top at any cost, stepping onto an irredeemable path of blood and ambition that ultimately led to his downfall.
If Kiu Man was not mistaken, today was the exact day the original body was meant to expire -- and the day Chan Ka Nam crossed the point of no return.
The original Kiu Man had indeed died moments ago. But now, another soul filled the vessel.
I promised Lin Nan I would live well, Kiu Man thought, steadying his breathing. Even in a different world, wrapped in a different body and identity, being alive was always worth fighting for.