You can listen to the whole novel on my channel: https://shorturl.at/KPrKZ
"This transmigration isn't all bad!"
After another half-hour or so of moving between buildings, Ryan decided to revise his opinion of the whole situation. No phone, no computer — but this more than made up for it. This was far more entertaining than parkour, and with essentially no risk.
"I wonder what the highest mountain in this world is." He was already quietly thinking about something more exciting.
For him now, jumping off a mountain peak was barely even extreme sports territory. No special preparation required — he could do it whenever he felt like it.
But first, actual business. He released the eave and dropped silently to the ground.
He'd been running through the southeast district this whole time — partly because he'd gotten carried away, partly because nobody would find your sudden appearance anywhere in this part of the city suspicious. Though barely anyone called it the southeast district anymore. Everyone just called it the slums.
The Kevin bar, sitting on the edge of the Docklands, wasn't far from here, and he reached it quickly.
More precisely, it was the other way around: the Kevin bar was the landmark that divided the Docklands from the slums. Moen didn't have an officially designated slum quarter — it was just where the most desperate people had ended up clustering.
He pushed open the bar's door and walked into immediate noise. Only seven or eight men inside, but dockworkers were accustomed to yelling, and they did everything at volume.
The bar wasn't large. With winter coming and no gambling happening at midday, the space usually reserved for card games had been filled with tables, so it wasn't cramped.
Plenty of the dock crowd liked to gamble, but the stretch of the Tasok River beside Moen froze over in winter, and a Moen winter had a way of teaching a lesson to anyone who kept gambling after losing a major income. So even after dark, this time of year saw only a few itch-fingered regulars sitting down for a hand or two of Down with Evil.
He walked to the bar. Before he'd even sat down, the bartender called out:
"You again, big fella. The usual?"
"The usual." Ryan flicked a pence across the counter.
"Big build, small tips," the bartender muttered.
Ryan, whose hearing now made that perfectly audible, didn't react — just signaled for the bartender to lean in, then lowered his voice:
"Little Schneider. I hear you've known Old Schneider for close to twenty years?"
The bartender was nearly thirty, but his baby face had earned him that nickname — at least until he had children of his own, there was no escaping it.
"Spit it out." The bartender set a mug of rye ale on the counter in front of Ryan with a flat expression.
Kevin Schneider, the bar's owner, had no wife — only a child he'd taken in seventeen years ago. That child was the man now standing behind the bar.
"Just curious. Does Old Schneider really have that kind of ability?"
"Since when are you interested in that?" The bartender gave him a sideways look.
But Ryan had been coming in for a year, and this wasn't exactly classified information.
"Obviously he does," the bartender said, keeping his voice down. "Otherwise how would the business run?"
"Do you know when he first got it?"
"He had it before he took me in. Why — you want some too?
Drop it. The old man's never sold it to anyone."
"No, I want to ask him some questions. Is Old Schneider here today?"
"Questions?" The bartender glanced at Ryan, who had gone quiet, clearly understanding that this wasn't the right place for details.
"Wait here. I'll go ask."
He motioned the dealer — who was moonlighting as a server since the gambling tables were closed — to cover for him and headed off.
Ryan watched him go, then picked up his rye ale and took a sip.
The taste was exactly what he'd expected. Cheap was cheap.
"You should be called 'south-grain' ale," he thought to himself, playing on a Chinese homophone to take the edge off his nerves.
Fortunately the bartender was quick, and was back before long.
"Upstairs, first door on the left." He said it briskly and gestured Ryan toward it.
"Thanks, Schneider."
"Next time be more generous, big fella."
"Next time for sure."
The bartender didn't catch the full meaning and didn't overthink it — just gave a nod.
Ryan didn't explain either. He headed straight through the bar and up the stairs.
He heard a hearty, satisfied grunt before he even reached the second floor.
"Old man's enjoying his meal." Ryan, who didn't like talking while eating, silently extended a mental middle finger. Not out of any real grievance — his ears were just a little too good, and he'd happened to be focusing on what Old Schneider was up to.
At the top of the stairs, he found the old man hadn't even bothered to close his door. Before Ryan could say anything, Old Schneider waved him in.
Inside sat a man whose build wasn't much smaller than Ryan's, eating with obvious gusto. His face was weathered and worn, the deep lines beside his broad nose etched long and hard, his back slightly stooped — but no one who looked at him would doubt that if he wanted to, he could pull out an axe and lay flat a room full of men without breaking a sweat.
On the table sat three sizable plates of fish, a large bowl of fish soup, and a bottle of strong rauqi — rauqi being the local term for a potent malt-distilled spirit, of which there were many varieties. The strong kind was a particular favorite among sailors.
Most of what appeared to be a rather lavish lunch had already been demolished.
"Still going strong." Ryan thought, genuinely impressed, as he took a seat.
He'd barely settled before the old man spoke:
"It's you, big fella." Old Schneider recognized him immediately.
Ryan was mildly surprised.
"You know me, sir?"
"Ha! A build like yours isn't easy to forget. So — what is it you wanted to ask me?"
Aside from the laugh, Ryan had mostly caught only the final question — the old man spoke fast, and even with the big idiot's memories, he could barely follow it.
"Old Schneider isn't drinking a Storm Church potion, is he?" Ryan wondered privately.
The Storm Church prized an approach as fierce as the storm itself. Its Punishment Vessels were no strangers to aggression — the type to go straight for the kill if you didn't comply, without a second thought. And the more common Sequence 9 and 8 formulas did occasionally surface for sale, even the ones matching a church's lineage — you just couldn't always tell real from fake.
Ryan didn't hesitate. Even if Old Schneider had some connection to the church, this didn't feel like a sting operation. If it were, they'd have moved on the big idiot before he ever became an Extraordinary.
"Here's the situation, sir. I gathered everything I needed yesterday and became an Extraordinary.
When I was adding one of the secondary ingredients — the live spider — it bit me. I yanked it off with a bit more force than intended and tossed it into the potion. Looking back… I may have used a little too much force. The spider might have been a little bit dead by that point…"
The rest of the sentence died in his throat under Old Schneider's increasingly peculiar stare.
Even with the less-embarrassing cover story, Ryan had to admit — it still sounded spectacularly stupid. This was the first time in his life he'd been looked at quite like that.
"Is that what you came to ask me?" Old Schneider stopped eating entirely, leaned back in his chair, and asked at a more measured pace.
Ryan nodded. He could have sworn he detected, in that single question: thirty percent exasperated amusement, thirty percent genuine astonishment, and forty percent the particular pity reserved for the monumentally dim. The old man had been so struck he couldn't even speak at full speed.
"But I didn't DO it!" Ryan screamed internally. This was the most egregious injustice he'd ever had no way to explain away.
"You're very lucky, young man. There are those who've become Extraordinary without using the secondary ingredients at all. But surviving the pain the potion brings — without becoming a monster — you're genuinely lucky." Old Schneider spoke slowly.
"A monster?"
Ryan immediately thought of the scale-like things burrowing into his arm when he first woke up. So the big idiot had already been dead — and in the process of turning. And his own transmigration had interrupted it?
"You didn't know?"
Reading the surprise on Ryan's face, Old Schneider continued at the same unhurried pace:
"Then let me tell you something else that's not great news. Even after successfully becoming an Extraordinary, some people break down under the potion's ongoing influence — the most obvious sign being mysterious whispering in the ears. Others lose their reason through the corruption or temptation of evil gods. Either way, the result is the same: they become a raving lunatic or a horrifying monster.
It can happen over something as simple as losing your temper — letting rage swallow your reason for one moment. And you might never find your way back.
This is called losing control. Aside from being killed, it's probably the most common way an Extraordinary dies."
By the time Old Schneider finished, Ryan had exactly two thoughts in his head:
What kind of cursed path is this?! Is it too late to quit?
"Does this happen to the churches' Extraordinaries too?" He asked, face pinched.
"No one is exempt. Not a single person. Some say it's the necessary price of power. Others say it's the lingering resentment of the supernatural creatures killed for the primary ingredients. Still others say it's a curse laid by the Creator upon those foolish enough to covet divine power — that potions carry supernatural force precisely because they are fragments of the Creator's own divine energy.
Heh. So, young man — do you regret becoming an Extraordinary?" He looked at Ryan's expression with a warm, grandmotherly smile.
"I didn't CHOOSE this!!" Ryan thought, on the verge of tears. In everything he'd read about dangerous cultivation paths, this ranked among the worst — who in their right mind would pick something like this willingly? You could just be practicing normally, and then one day, without warning, lose your mind and become a monster. That was insane.
"Mr. Schneider — this morning I had another episode similar to drinking the potion, though much milder. There's also been a strange voice whispering in my ear. Is that the potion's influence you're describing?"
"Yes. That's the potion trying to change you. Outside of moments when your focus is completely absorbed — like combat — or when you're particularly content, the potion's influence can surface at any time. Especially when you're not in good shape."
"So the key is keeping yourself in a good state — that keeps you from losing control as much as possible?" Ryan glanced at the old man's substantial lunch as he asked.
Old Schneider caught the look and laughed out loud:
"Good attitude, kid. That's also why some Extraordinaries who can't handle the potion turn to heavy drinking, gambling, or addictive substances — even though none of it changes the outcome."
He knocked back another long pull.
"One more thing — keep your curiosity in check, young man. Extraordinaries are far more likely than ordinary people to attract the attention of evil gods and other strange entities."
That was Old Schneider's parting addition.
Author's Note (this chapter):"When I was adding one of the secondary ingredients — the live spider — it bit me. I yanked it off with a bit more force than intended and tossed it into the potion. Looking back… I may have used a little too much force. The spider might have been a little bit dead by that point…"
Tianjin The original body owner died in mortal combat with a spider. XD
· Shandong So the original owner was also a little bit dead.