Chapter One

In the final second before losing consciousness, Wang Xuejiao’s last thought was: “Am I about to die? At least I won’t have to go to work anymore…”

Wang Xuejiao’s brief life had truly been eventful.

Economic downturns meant she was always caught between layoffs and companies going bankrupt.

To make a living, she had worked in countless fields—whatever was popular, she tried it.

Her greatest strength was her quick learning and remarkable resilience; when pushed to the edge, she could master almost anything except mathematics.

All in all, finding entry-level jobs was never difficult for her.

When she had a job, she complained about it; when she lost a job, she scrambled to find another.

Her life toggled endlessly between “How annoying, I have to get up for work again” and “Oh no, better hurry and find something to do.”

Before the thought of “no more work” could fade, she suddenly heard a strange voice:

“It’s already eight o’clock, why aren’t you up yet? You haven’t gotten the milk, and you want to be late on your first day?”

So, sudden death was only a dream after all. She still had to work, still had credit card bills to pay; Wang Xuejiao sighed inwardly, helpless.

She remembered there was a meeting this morning, something about advancing a project, and arguing with several departments?

The presentation was finished; she’d stayed up working until two a.m. She sent it to her boss, but hadn’t received any feedback… Oh, wait, it wasn’t that her boss didn’t reply—she’d gotten up to pour water, felt a surge of heat in her head, and her whole body lost strength.

She thought it was a cerebral hemorrhage—but maybe it was just exhaustion.

Habitually, Wang Xuejiao reached for her phone by the pillow, wanting to see if her ever-awake-at-3am boss had sent any revision notes, so she could curse him a bit to wake herself up.

Left and right, she found nothing.

In that instant, the drowsiness vanished; she was wide awake—her entire life was in that phone!

She hurriedly opened her eyes.

That startled her again—everything around her was unfamiliar. The ceiling light in her home was a minimalist flush mount, just a round disc.

But the lamp before her now was gaudy, dangling with many small glass balls, five sockets but only one bulb installed.

On the wall facing the bed, crooked stickers of “Saint Seiya” were plastered, alongside a poster of a masked man in a wide-brimmed hat riding a black horse—an anime-style Zorro, with faded print below: “ZORRO, 1981.”

Only then did Wang Xuejiao feel a torrent of memories not her own flooding her mind.

This wasn’t her world—it was the setting of a male-oriented ensemble novel, where the villainous gang from the leader, his brother, to his woman, all possessed loyalty and emotion, richly written, their deaths evoking pity and regret.

The story’s time was 1991, in Haicheng District, Lvteng City, Handong Province… Clearly, something major was about to happen.

The original owner of this body was also named Wang Xuejiao, just eighteen years old. After graduating from technical school, her mother, Zheng Yuezheng, arranged for her to join the security department at the electronics factory where she worked, making her the only female officer.

Her main duties involved sorting documents, noting any anomalies, arranging shifts and such.

In truth, there was little to do, except to consider who wanted which shifts when making the roster.

Most days consisted of “go to work, brew tea, read newspapers all day, go home.”

The factory was doing quite well at the time—even her family’s apartment was allocated by the factory.

In recent years, every married employee, male or female, would receive an apartment within three years.

It was a dream workplace for many locals.

But after just a few days, she realized it wasn’t the life she wanted. She cried and protested, claiming the job was idle and brainless; most colleagues were uneducated, and during lunch breaks, married women clustered to discuss strategies against mothers-in-law, those nearing retirement discussed how to deal with daughters-in-law, and the unmarried talked about men, shopping, and the latest fashions.

After all, she was a technical school graduate—her entry score was higher than for high school. If she stayed here any longer, she’d become useless; she refused to live a life whose end was visible from the start.

Zheng Yuezheng was nearly infuriated, demanding to know if her daughter thought she could reach the stars with such a good job.

The original Wang Xuejiao grew up reading martial arts novels, her mind filled with dreams of heroic justice; her childhood ambition was to become a soldier or police officer, and she trained persistently—running long distances, building strength, even learning kung fu from a martial arts coach downstairs.

She’d thought joining the security department was a compromise, only to find it wasn’t about intimidating wrongdoers but idly passing days in an office.

Her mother watched her once energetic daughter, who used to rise at six for runs, now languish in lethargy and tardiness.

Feeling sorry for her, Zheng Yuezheng managed to transfer her from the factory’s security department to the police station.

Normally, the station didn’t recruit female officers, and it wasn’t hiring season.

But recently, their peer units had suffered repeated mishaps—one night the city bureau’s leader called in to report a robbery, only to find the four on duty were playing cards; the phone handler told the director, “It’s too late to see anything, come back tomorrow.”

In another case, a leader came to report a stolen bicycle and was met with extreme impatience and hostility, treated like a suspect, told, “Isn’t it normal for bikes to be stolen? Mine was stolen too.” Not even a police receipt was issued.

With the new leader’s arrival, there was a push to reform and improve the station’s image.

Thus, the Tianjin Street Police Station near Wang Xuejiao’s home decided to start with appearances—placing a young, pretty woman at the reporting desk.

Such a rare opportunity was seized by Wang Xuejiao’s father, Wang Jianguo, since the station chief, Du Zhigang, lived in their building and practiced tai chi with him every morning in the community green space.

Wang Xuejiao’s subsequent life in the novel was summarized in about six hundred words.

Essentially, her family suffered a gas leak, poisoning everyone; Wang Xuejiao, on night duty at the station, survived, but Wang Jianguo died and Zheng Yuezheng became a vegetative state. Wang Xuejiao needed a lot of money to keep her mother alive.

The loyal brother of the gang leader pitied her, gave her money without asking for anything in return.

She took his money again and again, was further provoked by the cold justice group, and thus turned dark—wholeheartedly following the villains, leaking all station meeting content to them, and ultimately died shielding the gang leader’s brother from gunfire.

At this point, the novel was only at chapter twenty.

Since her character died, Wang Xuejiao could no longer access further information.

Wang Xuejiao: “……”

Really, are all male-oriented novels this wild?

Whether she could accept it or not, she had to.

That’s how it is—since she’s here, she can’t just leave without a fight. She might as well try.

The original Wang Xuejiao wanted to be a hero; Wang Xuejiao didn’t, but she thought being a household registration officer was a decent job. She’d seen the station’s registration officers—messy, dramatic affairs, but not as dangerous as narcotics officers.

She wondered if the original soul of this body now occupied her world… Wang Xuejiao silently wished her good luck—no more presentation revisions, victory in office arguments, no messy cleanups, and remembering to pay her credit card.

As she dressed, Wang Xuejiao surveyed her room.

North-facing, about ten square meters, furnished with a single bed, a desk, a chair, and a chest-high five-drawer dresser.

On the dresser was a family photo, the backdrop an obviously fake landscape, likely a studio prop—a girl sat between a couple, beaming brightly.

On the photo, it read: “Wang Xuejiao’s fifteenth birthday.”

A small alarm clock on the desk displayed a bold 7:10.

Well… it was seven ten; not quite eight yet.

Wang Xuejiao washed up in the bathroom, then grabbed a small plastic basket with empty glass milk bottles to fetch fresh milk from the neighborhood dairy kiosk.

Stepping out of the building, a howling winter wind slapped her face like a brick.

At that moment, Wang Xuejiao dearly missed the twenty-first century, when fresh milk could be delivered to her door. Even if she had to go out eventually, a little delay was always welcome!

This neighborhood was built in the early eighties, inhabited by employees of three major local work units, all allocated apartments as benefits.

People from the same unit lived together; Wang Xuejiao’s neighbors were all colleagues from her mother’s factory, and had watched her grow up.

“Good morning, Grandma Li.”

“Going for milk, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Good morning, Uncle Feng.”

“I hear you’re working at the police station now?”

“Yes!”

“That’s a government job—be steady and diligent.”

“Yes.”

“Wang Xuejiao, starting work today, right?”

“Good morning, Aunt Qiao.”

This woman in her forties with permed hair was Qiao Shan, wife of station chief Du Zhigang and Zheng Yuezheng’s colleague.

According to neighborhood gossip, Du Zhigang married her because Qiao Shan worked at the electronics factory—married for three years and already had an apartment, a much shorter wait than the police station’s five to eight years.

But the couple had a deep bond; when Du Zhigang died in the line of duty, Qiao Shan fainted from grief several times.

Now, Qiao Shan beamed at Wang Xuejiao: “Your parents worried a lot about your job. This time, you can’t quit after a few days.”

“Don’t worry, Aunt Qiao—I won’t let you down!” Wang Xuejiao grinned playfully.

At the dairy kiosk sat an elderly woman, a welfare recipient who had watched over the milk stand for many years.

“Good morning, Grandma,” Wang Xuejiao greeted, handing over her milk card.

The old woman took the card with trembling hands, drew a slanted line on today’s date with a ballpoint pen. “Tomorrow you need to pay for next month’s milk.”

“Yes!”

“Tell your mom—the man who fixes metal sheets will be back next month, so use tape to patch things up for now.”

“Oh…?” She didn’t know what the woman meant, but agreeing seemed safest.

Wang Xuejiao carried the fresh milk home, relayed the old woman’s message to her mother, then asked, “What needs to be patched with tape?”

While scooping porridge, Zheng Yuezheng replied absent-mindedly, “The temperature’s about to drop. We’ll use the coal stove—one section of the chimney has a crack. I’ll get some wide tape today.”

In this region without central heating, winter temperatures could drop below minus ten degrees. Many families used coal stoves for warmth and to dry clothes that would otherwise never dry.

Coal stove, cracked chimney… Instantly, Wang Xuejiao saw the origin of the original’s tragic fate: gas poisoning.