Transmigrated as a Scumbag!?

Chapter 006

The presenter’s voice trailed off, hanging in the air of the gilded auditorium like a suspended sentence. For Ethan Gray, the silence was deafening. He sat rigidly in his velvet-covered seat, the scent of expensive cologne and floor wax filling his lungs.

"Roman Rowan!"

The name hit Ethan like a physical blow. Immediately, the row in front of him erupted into a cacophony of cheers and frenzied applause. A middle-aged man with a thin, greasy ponytail—a man Ethan had sparred with in the industry for years—leapt to his feet. Roman punched the air with both fists, his face flushed with the triumph of a conqueror. Before heading toward the stage, he paused, casting a slow, provocative glance back at Ethan. It was a look of pure, unadulterated malice, a silent sneer that said, Not today, and perhaps never.

Ethan’s lips twitched. He didn't speak, but in the depths of his mind, he let out a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush. His right hand instinctively drifted to the pocket of his bespoke tuxedo. He could feel the crisp edge of a small slip of paper—the acceptance speech he had spent three hours refining the night before. He had polished every syllable, balancing humility with just the right amount of professional pride. It was a waste of ink now.

They say bad luck comes in threes, but for Ethan Gray, the "Golden Boy" of the screenwriting world who never actually won the gold, this was the fourth consecutive year he had attended as a favorite only to leave as a spectator. He was the perennial bridesmaid, the man the Academy loved to nominate but refused to crown.

The surrounding applause felt like mockery. The gasps of surprise from some of the more seasoned critics in the audience suggested he wasn't the only one who thought the fix was in. He didn't stay for the rest of the ceremony. He couldn't.

He skipped the lavish after-party, opting instead for a dive bar in a dark corner of the city. He drank until the world blurred into a smear of neon lights and regret. He remembered stumbling out into the cool night air, the pavement rising to meet him, and then... nothingness.

When Ethan finally opened his eyes the next morning, the world was a jagged mess of pain. It felt as though several dozen sewing needles were being driven into his skull with rhythmic precision. He groaned, clutching his head and thumping his temples with the heels of his hands, trying to beat back the throbbing pressure.

"God, my head..." he rasped.

As the fog in his mind began to thin, he realized the sounds around him were wrong. Instead of the quiet hum of a hotel or the distant traffic of a luxury district, there was a chaotic clatter—plastic trays hitting tables, the screech of chairs on linoleum, and a hundred overlapping voices. Above him, a pale blue ceiling fan whirred lazily, its blades slightly out of balance, creating a low, hypnotic thrum-thrum-thrum.

He blinked, his vision slowly snapping into focus. He wasn't in a bedroom. He was lying on a row of pushed-together dining tables in what looked like a massive cafeteria.

He scrambled up, his movements clumsy. As he sat on the edge of the table, he realized he was the center of attention. Dozens of young men and women, most in casual hoodies and jeans, were eating breakfast and staring at him. Some were whispering behind their hands; others were laughing openly.

"Where the hell am I?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

The last thing he remembered was the bar, then the street, and then a vivid, feverish dream. In that dream, he had walked under the blinding heat of the spotlights, the world watching as he ascended the stage of the Riverport Grand Theatre. He had felt the cool weight of the Golden Screen Award in his hand, presented by the reigning Queen of Cinema herself.

Ethan shook his head, trying to dislodge the phantom memory. There were no spotlights here—only the flickering fluorescent tubes of a public building and that wobbling ceiling fan. He half-expected the fan to fly off its mount and decapitate him just to put him out of his misery.

"You're at the Northaven Academy of Cinematic Arts," a voice said nearby.

He turned toward the sound. A girl with short, bobbed hair was sitting at the next table, picking at a piece of toast. She looked at him with a mix of pity and amusement.

Ethan froze. "Academy? Why am I at the Academy?" He paused, his heart skipping a beat. "Wait... did you say Northaven? Not Beijing?"

"Beijing? Who calls it that anymore? You've definitely had too much to drink, Ethan," she replied, shaking her head.

He patted his pockets frantically. Nothing. No wallet, no phone, and certainly no tuxedo. He realized then that he wasn't wearing his designer suit. He was dressed in a wrinkled white shirt and a pair of worn-out denim jeans. The carefully prepared speech for the organizers was gone because the man who wrote it didn't seem to exist here.

The sun was high and unforgiving when Ethan finally stepped out of the cafeteria. The world outside was a vibrant, disorienting blur of red and gold. In the center of the campus plaza, the Crimson Star Banner snapped sharply in the wind atop a towering flagpole.

He walked toward a large corkboard covered in campus notices. His eyes scanned the flyers—ads for student films, lost keys, and tutoring services. One large, bold poster caught his eye:

BANK OF NORTHAVEN CAMPUS RECRUITMENT — JUNE 25TH, HALL 1!

The Bank of Northaven!

The realization hit him like a physical weight. This wasn't just a different city; it was a different reality. Ethan felt a wave of vertigo wash over him. He leaned against a brick pillar, his breath coming in shallow hitches.

As students passed him, they didn't just stare; they glared. He felt something fluttering against his back. Reaching behind him, he peeled off a piece of paper that had been taped to his shirt.

On it, in elegant, feminine handwriting, were three words: "DIE, YOU SCUMBAG!"

Ethan stared at the note. Who the hell put this here?

Suddenly, a memory that wasn't his own surged to the forefront of his mind. A beautiful girl with deep, charming dimples appeared in his mind's eye. She was standing in the rain, her eyes brimming with tears of pure loathing. She spat on the ground at his feet, her voice trembling with rage: "You're a disgusting scumbag, Ethan Gray!"

Then, another face appeared. This one was different, more aggressive. She didn't spit at the ground; she spat right in his face before turning on her heel. "Scumbag!"

A parade of faces followed—a montage of heartbroken women, angry exes, and betrayed friends. The mental onslaught was so intense that Ethan had to squeeze his eyes shut and shake his head violently.

The old Ethan Gray is dead, he thought grimly. I’m just the poor soul inhabiting his corpse. Don't waste your breath on me, ladies.

He found a secluded wooden bench by the campus lake and sat down, desperate to organize the fragments of memory cluttering his brain. It was undeniable now: he had transmigrated. He was in a parallel world, occupying the body of a man who shared his name but none of his professional discipline.

Across the water, a group of graduating seniors were taking photos. They wore black academic robes, their laughter carrying across the breeze.

"Look, isn't that The Ocean King?" one of them whispered, loud enough for him to hear.

Ethan looked over. He recognized them. They were his—no, this body’s—classmates. Today was their graduation day. A milestone that should have been filled with pride and hope. Instead, he was sitting on a bench, smelling like a brewery, an outcast in his own life.

He instinctively stood up to join them, but stopped after two steps. He looked down at his disheveled clothes. He didn't belong in their picture. He searched his mind for any memory of an invitation to the graduation shoot. Nothing. No one had told him. He had been intentionally left out.

As he hesitated, the group finished their final shot. A cheer went up as dozens of mortarboards were tossed into the blue sky, spinning like black birds.

"Oh, look who finally showed up. It's Ethan," one guy remarked with a smirk.

"Ugh, he reeks of cheap liquor," a girl added, wrinkling her nose.

"You're late, Ocean King. Did you spend the night in a gutter or a different girl's bed?"

The taunts came from all sides—mockery, spite, and the cold satisfaction of seeing a "golden boy" fall from grace.

Ethan realized then that his predecessor had been the ultimate "player." His nickname, The Ocean King, wasn't a compliment. It was a title bestowed by a particularly vengeful ex-girlfriend. The saying in the school was: You thought you were walking into Ethan’s heart, but you were just swimming in his fish pond. You thought he only had a pond, but he’s The Ocean King, and he rules all seven seas.

He was a world-class Casanova, a man who kept a harem of "fishes" while making each one feel like she was the only one.

"Even I think you're a scumbag," Ethan muttered to his own reflection in the lake.

The following morning, Ethan woke up in his cramped dorm room. The headache had finally receded to a dull hum. His phone, lying on the pillow, was vibrating incessantly.

He opened the messaging app to find the class group chat exploding with over 999 unread messages. It was a digital wake—students saying their final goodbyes, sharing nostalgic photos, and promising to stay in touch. The latest message was from his roommate, a sentimental paragraph about brotherhood and the bright futures ahead of them.

Ethan sat up and surveyed the room. It was stripped bare. Desks were empty, posters torn down, suitcases gone. He was the only one left. Not a single person had stopped by to say goodbye to him. He was a ghost in a room he had lived in for four years.

He stood before the communal mirror in the bathroom, staring at his new face. He was tall, comfortably over six feet, with a lean, athletic build. His face was pale but strikingly handsome, with sharp features and deep-set eyes that held a new, weary intelligence. His hair was long—far too long—and pulled back into a messy ponytail.

This Ethan Gray was twenty-two, a fresh graduate of the Department of Directing. He had spent four years chasing skirts and zero years honing his craft.

Why had he been sleeping on a cafeteria table?

A memory surfaced. He had recently used some family connections to land a job as an assistant to a prominent director. It was his big break, a chance to actually do something with his degree. But one of his jilted exes had found out and made it her mission to destroy him. She had shown up on set, caused a massive scene involving the director's wife, and got Ethan fired on the spot.

In a fit of despair and self-loathing, the original Ethan had drank himself into oblivion.

"A face like a movie star and the soul of a loser," Ethan told the mirror.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled slip of paper. It wasn't a speech this time. It was a train ticket.

NORTHAVEN WEST ——> RIVERPORT EAST. JUNE 28, 11:00 AM.

That was today. In exactly ninety minutes.

His parents had died when he was young, leaving him to be raised by his grandparents in Riverport. They had passed away the previous year, leaving him two properties: an Ancestral Estate and a school.

The old Ethan had bought this ticket in a moment of impulsive rage, intending to flee his failures. He probably would have lost the ticket or changed his mind, but for the new Ethan, it was a lifeline. Riverport was the equivalent of the Shanghai he knew. He understood that city. He knew its rhythms, its smells, and its people.

He packed his meager belongings into a single duffel bag, shut the window, and locked the door. As he walked through the campus gates for the last time, he gave a small, ironic wave to the brick and mortar that had witnessed four years of wasted youth.

The train ride was a five-hour blur of changing landscapes. When he stepped onto the platform at Riverport East at 4:30 PM, the humid air and the distant salt-tang of the Amber Tide River felt like home.

He wandered into the subway, his feet moving on autopilot.

"Next stop: Riverport Grand Theatre," the automated voice announced.

Ethan looked up, startled. He realized he had instinctively taken the line toward the theater. Just forty-eight hours ago, in another life, he had been standing outside a theater with that exact name, preparing for the most important night of his career.

He got off the train. As he emerged from the station, the sun was setting, casting long, orange shadows over the massive, modern architecture of the theater. The plaza was quiet, illuminated by the first glow of the evening lights.

He walked up to the grand billboard. It didn't list the Golden Screen Awards. Instead, it advertised a symphony concert titled The Crimson Star and a local comedy play. There was no trace of his former life here. No Roman Rowan, no 30th annual ceremony.

"New world, new rules," he whispered, looking up at the towering glass facade.

He turned back to the subway, taking Line 1 toward West Longpeace Avenue. This was one of the most expensive districts in Riverport, a place of soaring skyscrapers and luxury malls. Yet, hidden right in the center of this neon jungle was The Old Quarter—a sprawling, stubborn patch of history that had survived the city's rapid development. His family’s Ancestral Estate was buried deep within its narrow lanes.

The estate itself was a five-hundred-square-yard plot of traditional housing, but it was in a state of total disrepair, the roof sagging under the weight of decades of neglect.

Ethan didn't go inside yet. Instead, he ducked into a small, cramped barbershop on the edge of the quarter. The shop was a relic of the past, smelling of talcum powder and cheap tobacco. An old man in a faded white undershirt was sitting on a small wooden stool, meticulously peeling peas into a plastic bowl.

The barber looked up, squinting through thick glasses. When he saw Ethan, a slow grin spread across his wrinkled face.

"Heh. Finally decided to come home, eh?"

The old man stood up, discarded the peas, and grabbed a pair of heavy professional shears. Without waiting for instructions, he lopped off Ethan’s ponytail in one clean motion.

"I’ve been wanting to do that for years," the barber grumbled. "You looked like a damn girl with that tail swinging around."

Ten minutes later, Ethan looked in the mirror. The transformation was startling. With a clean, short crop, the "Sea King" persona was gone. He looked sharp, focused, and undeniably more masculine. The change in his aura was so profound that he doubted even his closest classmates would recognize him at first glance.

"How much do I owe you, Good Sir?"

"Owe me? I’ll pay you!" the old man laughed, digging into his pocket and handing Ethan a five-crown note. "Seeing that ponytail on the floor is worth more than the haircut."

Ethan laughed—a genuine, easy sound—and stepped back out into the night.

A few blocks away, he found the second property: Little Red Pony Academy.

While the rest of the city was winding down, the Academy was just waking up. It was a red-brick tenement building with a large, gated courtyard. Unlike a normal school, this was a midnight academy, a place for the children of the city’s night-shift workers—couriers, cleaners, and security guards—to stay while their parents worked.

A pink electric scooter pulled up to the gate. The driver, a man in a weather-beaten yellow delivery vest, hopped off and gently lifted a three-year-old girl from the front seat. He adjusted her tiny backpack and patted her head.

"Go on, Rosie. Go find your friends," the man said, his voice thick with exhaustion.

The little girl, Rosie, didn't move. She clutched her father’s pant leg, her eyes welling with tears. She didn't want friends; she wanted her dad.

The man sighed, kneeling down on the cracked pavement to look her in the eye. "Daddy has to go to work so we can buy those stickers you like, okay? You'll stay at the Academy, play some games, and I'll be back before you know it. We had a hooked-finger oath, remember?"

Rosie sniffled, wiped her eyes with a tiny fist, and slowly trudged through the gates of the school.

Ethan watched them from the shadows, the weight of his new reality finally sinking in. He wasn't just a failed screenwriter or a reformed playboy anymore. He was the guardian of this strange, nighttime sanctuary in the heart of the city.