Chapter 4 – A New Life, A New Era

Jack stared at the reflection in the puddle.

The face that looked back at him wasn't his.

The fuck?

His eyes widened as he leaned closer, rainwater dripping down his new features. His cheekbones were sharper, his skin smoother, his jawline not quite the same.

His old face had been rougher—a lifetime of fights and cigarettes had made sure of that. But this one?

This one looked like it hadn't even seen a proper bar fight yet.

He squinted.

"Wait. Am I… Asian? White? What the fuck am I?"

His new racially ambiguous features weren't helping.

Jack tilted his head to the sky, rain hitting his face, and let out a long, dramatic sigh.

"Wow. I did so much good in my life… so the gods rewarded me with a face no one can racially profile."

He let the rain soak him a bit longer, processing the sheer absurdity of it all.

Then—his brain clicked.

A very important question popped into his head.

His hands immediately shot downward.

He checked.

Then checked again.

Then—

"Holy shit."

His eyes widened in awe.

"This body has MORE than my past life."

For a brief moment, he forgot about everything else—the gunshots, the reincarnation, the fact that he was very much not in his own body.

Then, his brain caught up to the situation.

His thoughts started piecing themselves together.

He got shot the fuck up.

Somehow, he was alive again.

His soul must've been switched into this weakling's body.

That means—his gang must've thought he was still inside his original body.

They loved him so much that they went through the trouble of inventing new technology to save him.

Jack placed a hand over his heart, pretending to brush away a tear.

"Those bastards… they really do care."

He sniffed dramatically.

"They went to such lengths to switch my soul. But, since they don't know I'm already swapped… that means all I have to do is find my way back to my boss."

It all made perfect sense in his head.

Now—he just had to walk back to his gang and tell them he was alive.

Simple plan.

Except—

Jack pushed through the pain, staggering to his feet. Every inch of his new body hurt like hell, but pain was nothing new to him.

He stumbled out of the alleyway, rain dripping off his tattered clothes, and onto a dimly lit street.

Something felt… off.

The cars that passed by looked older. The billboards above him weren't right. The air even smelled different—less like pollution, more like cigarette smoke and cheap gasoline.

His gut twisted.

Jack spotted a street vendor, an old man grilling skewers under a plastic tarp.

He staggered forward, planting both hands on the vendor's cart.

"Uncle," Jack rasped. "What year is this?"

The vendor blinked. "Huh?"

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Just tell me. What year is it? Or else this world is in danger."

The vendor raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious of the half-soaked kid demanding the current year like a lunatic.

"2002, kid. Now get lost."

Silence.

Jack's eye twitched.

"…Excuse me?"

Not 2025.

Not the year he got shot up at the wedding.

No, no.

Twenty. Fucking. Years. Ago.

Jack just stood there, eyes vacant, brain buffering like a shitty internet connection.

Then, finally, he muttered—

"What the actual fuck?"

The rain continued pouring.

Jack stood frozen in the rain, his new reality sinking in.

He was in 2002.

Not 2025. Twenty. Fucking. Years. Ago.

But instead of panicking like a normal person, his brain immediately started doing mental gymnastics worthy of an Olympic medal.

He crossed his arms, nodding to himself. "Alright, let's break this down. My gang, out of sheer love for me, must've worked themselves to the brink of death to revive me."

He rubbed his chin. "BUT—because they were working so hard, they pushed the soul-switching machine to its limit… and it malfunctioned."

His eyes lit up with understanding.

"That's it! The soul-switcher must've overloaded, transformed into a goddamn time machine, and BOOM—my new body got flung back to 2002!"

He snapped his fingers, feeling immensely proud of himself.

"Damn, my boys really went all out for me. Even when they fuck up, they still put in the effort. Much love."

Jack grinned.

"Well, no use worrying about it. I'm young again. With a big dick. Might as well enjoy this leisure time!"

Then—his stomach growled so loud it startled a pigeon nearby.

Jack grimaced, placing a hand over his gut. "Jesus. How many nights has this body gone without food?"

He finally took a good look at himself. His clothes were damp and dirty, his limbs thinner than he was used to, and his stomach felt painfully hollow.

He sighed.

"Alright, guess first order of business—cash."

And there was only one thing Jack Hou knew better than gang politics and cracking jokes at the worst moments—

Pickpocketing.

Jack moved through the busy streets, eyes scanning the crowd like a predator hunting prey.

It was almost too easy.

Rich businessmen, distracted couples, tourists who had no idea how Chinatown worked—all perfect targets.

His fingers moved swiftly, slipping into coat pockets, brushing against belts, tugging wallets out like he was born for this.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, Jack had already collected several wallets, each heavier than the last.

"Damn," he muttered, flipping through the stolen goods. "Even my past self wasn't this efficient. Guess I leveled up in my past life."

But Jack wasn't careless.

He ducked into an alley, took out a plastic bag, and started sorting:

IDs, ATM cards, and important documents—separated neatly.

Cash—his, obviously.

Wallets themselves?

Jack grinned. He knew exactly what to do with them.

He strolled up to a wallet vendor, a grumpy old man selling cheap knockoff leather goods under a flickering neon sign.

Jack slammed a pile of wallets onto the counter. "Alright, boss, let's talk business."

The vendor squinted. "Where the hell did you get these?"

Jack smiled. "I'm in the recycling business. Trying to save the environment."

The vendor raised an eyebrow. "You're selling stolen wallets to a wallet vendor?"

Jack leaned in, lowering his voice. "I prefer the term 'pre-owned.'"

The old man exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "How much you want?"

Jack grinned, tapping the counter. "Nah, boss. How much are YOU willing to pay?"

The haggling began.

The vendor lowballed him hard, but Jack wasn't a fool.

He knew exactly what they were worth.

After a few minutes of arguing, fake walking away, and mutual insults, Jack finally sold off the wallets—except for one.

One for himself.

He pocketed the cash, flipping through the bills with satisfaction before tucking them neatly into his new wallet.

Jack stretched, cracking his knuckles. "Ahhh. Such a tiring day. All in a day's honest work."

The vendor stared at him blankly.

Jack winked. "Stay sustainable, old man."

And then he walked off, whistling a tune.

With cash in his pocket and nothing to do but enjoy his success, Jack sauntered up to a noodle stall, the scent of hot broth and garlic making his stomach cry tears of joy.

The noodle lady, an auntie with sharp eyes and a well-worn apron, glanced at him. "What do you want, kid?"

Jack slammed his hand on the counter dramatically. "Three portions of noodles, please!"

The auntie squinted. "Three? You sure you can finish that?"

Jack grinned, patting his stomach. "Auntie, I'm about to make those noodles fear for their lives."

She rolled her eyes but got to work.

Jack leaned back, hands behind his head, the smell of food filling the air.

New body. New era. Same bullshit.

And honestly?

He was kinda having fun already.

…

Jack leaned back in his chair, arms spread out, staring at the five empty bowls in front of him.

The noodle stall auntie watched him with a mix of amazement and judgment.

Jack patted his stomach. "Damn. I can still eat like I was in my last body."

The auntie scoffed. "Kid, you ate like you were feeding an entire village."

Jack grinned, flipping a few bills onto the counter. "You should be grateful, Auntie. I just funded your retirement."

She snatched the money, muttering something about "damn bottomless pits", but Jack was already up and walking.

The pain that had racked his body earlier was gone, replaced by a comfortable warmth.

Fresh body, full stomach, good weather.

For the first time since waking up in this mess of a new life, Jack actually felt great.

Then, of course, the universe decided to ruin it.

Jack strolled through the streets, hands in his pockets, whistling to himself, when—

"Hey, Bob!"

Jack kept walking.

"Hey, you deaf or something?!"

Jack frowned, looking around. Bob? Who the hell is Bob?

Then, a large hand clamped down on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

Jack turned slowly and found himself face-to-face with a group of kids—five of them, all around his new body's age, led by a taller, broad-shouldered brat with a shaved head and a cocky grin.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What do you want?"

The leader sneered. "Why are you still here, Bob?"

Jack blinked. "Bob?"

He looked over his shoulder—maybe there was someone behind him?

Nope.

The kid leader crossed his arms. "I'm talking to you, Bob."

Jack's brain lagged for a second.

Then it clicked.

They think I'm this Bob kid.

Jack sighed, shaking his head. "Sorry, wrong guy. I'm Jack Hou."

The kids stared at him like he just spoke alien.

Jack shrugged and walked past them, uninterested in dealing with child gangsters.

That should've been the end of it.

But the leader grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back.

Jack stumbled slightly, feeling that familiar heat of irritation rise.

He cracked his neck, letting out a long breath.

"Okay. Now you've done it."

He grinned, eyes flashing with something dangerously amused. "So? You guys gonna attack me or what?"

The kids exchanged glances—then lunged.

Jack sidestepped the first punch, his body moving on instinct—but the movement wasn't as fast as he expected.

Shit. This body's slower.

He ducked under a second swing and went for a counter-punch to the leader's gut.

WHIFF.

Jack's fist barely grazed the kid's stomach.

The leader didn't even flinch.

Jack blinked. "Huh."

Then a fist clocked him across the jaw.

Pain exploded through his face, and Jack stumbled back, touching his cheek in shock.

I… just got punched by a kid. And it actually hurt.

The leader laughed. "What's wrong, Bob? You finally get tired of being a punching bag?"

Jack licked the inside of his cheek, tasting a bit of blood.

He took a deep breath.

"Okay."

"Okay."

"New body. Weak as shit. Noted."

The second kid rushed him, throwing a sloppy but aggressive punch.

Jack caught the wrist and twisted, but instead of flipping the kid easily like he was used to—

The kid barely moved.

Jack had to use more effort, and even then, the kid just stumbled, not fell.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me."

Jack had spent years training in street fights, gang brawls, underground arenas. He knew how to fight. But this body?

This body wasn't built for it.

It was weaker. Slower. Less refined.

Jack had to throw three, four punches just to do the damage that should've taken one.

The kids piled onto him, fists swinging. Jack tanked most of them, countering where he could, but he had to work ten times harder to land solid hits.

He grabbed one kid by the collar and headbutted him—only for his own skull to ring in pain.

"FUCK—"

Another punch hit his ribs, making him wheeze.

Alright, enough playing.

Jack adjusted, using footwork instead of brute strength.

He bobbed and weaved, dodging just enough to keep from getting overwhelmed.

Then he fought smarter—targeting knees, throats, weak spots.

One kid went down clutching his shin. Another staggered back, holding his neck.

It wasn't pretty, but after a messy, drawn-out brawl, Jack finally stood victorious, panting, hands on his knees.

The leader groaned on the ground, clutching his stomach.

Jack wiped sweat from his forehead, exhaling. "Shit. That was embarrassing."

The leader gritted his teeth. "What the hell's wrong with you?!"

Jack grinned, ignoring the bruises forming on his arms. "Nothing. Just gotta get used to this new body."

The kids stared at him like he was insane.

Jack stretched, rolling his shoulders.

"Alright, that was fun. But next time, if you wanna jump me, at least bring snacks. Fighting makes my stomach empty."

And with that, he walked away, leaving the gang of kids in the alley, too confused and beaten to do anything.