Mythos Reboot

March 13, 1938 AD. Lunden City, Kingdom of Windsor. The departing winter brought little warmth to this city. Pedestrians hurried through the streets, the shadow of the Great Depression still lingered, and the looming clouds of war could descend at any moment – this city knew no joy. East District, Bailey Street, Wayne Detective Agency. A two-and-a-half story building with basement, street-facing, barely considered a happy asset in the not-so-prosperous East District. But this was the landlord's happiness, unrelated to Wayne. If rent went unpaid any longer, his next happy place would be the sewers. Ground floor office. Wayne smiled at his client as two investigation reports lay on the desk between them. “Dr. Lainer, regarding your two commissions, I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first？” “My luck's been terrible lately. Let's hear the good news first.” Lainer shrugged. He was middle-aged leek mercilessly harvested by time - years had taken his lush hair to gift young sprouts, while bestowing upon him the greasiness those youth rejected. As a doctor, he couldn't even grow a beard in protest. “The good news is that the used car you're eyeing has been confirmed to be an accident vehicle. You can use this investigative report to bargain down the price.” Wayne handed over the first report. After appraisal, it was found to carry a forty-year spirit ring, making it unsuitable for nighttime driving. The previous owner might grab the steering wheel. “That doesn't sound like good news at all. It was meant to be a gift for my child. Now I'll have to find another one.” Lainer sighed helplessly: "Now tell me the bad news. I hope I can handle it." “The bad news is… your wife indeed has a lover outside…” Lainer immediately interrupted: "Who is it？ That dim-witted dockworker, or that damned failed art student？" “To be precise… both.” “……” Both？ What does that mean？ Lainer looked utterly confused, completely stumped by this simple term. Noticing his client's bewilderment, Wayne patiently explained: "In the past week, Mrs. Lainer met with the dockworker three times, and the failed art student three times as well. Each time, she would meet the art student first before going to…" “Enough! No need to continue. Just give me the report.” Lainer interrupted again, grabbing the report to read for himself. The documentation was well-organized, detailing times and locations with attached photographs, making it thoroughly convincing. After a moment, Lainer sighed. He didn't fly into a rage, calming down after a brief surge of anger. “Wayne, your report is entirely correct, but there's one thing you got wrong.” “Which part？” “This is actually good news.” “Hmm, indeed it is. How about some more coffee？” “Of course.” Dr. Lainer readily paid the subsequent retainer fee, treating coffee as liquor while constantly complaining to Wayne about his unhappy marriage. Perhaps because the payment had been received and Lainer was no longer his client, Wayne showed no intention of listening to his grievances. He unceremoniously interrupted him and began promoting other services of the detective agency. Such as marital and family disputes. “Haven't we already investigated that？” “We have, but this one is yours.” Wayne pulled out a third investigation report from his desk drawer, containing clear evidence of Dr. Lainer's affair with a certain nurse. Beads of sweat formed on Lainer's forehead as he tremblingly lifted his coffee cup to hide his panic. The report was well-organized, detailing times and locations with attached photographs, making it utterly convincing. “W-Wayne, how could you treat your client like this？” “Don't misunderstand. This commission came from your wife. To be honest, she's much more generous than you are.” “Damn it, that's my money.” Lenard roared, but as a social elite, he quickly regained composure and probed: "She hasn't seen this report yet, has she？" "Dr. Lenard, professional ethics require me to maintain client confidentiality. I'm afraid I can't answer that question," Wayne sternly refused. “Give me the report, I'll pay double.” “……” “Triple!” “Hmph.” “Five times! Five times should be enough! With that much money I could even hire a professional hitman at the docks.” “Deal.” “Damn it, you're a disgrace to the detective profession.” Lenard paid for the report, cursing as he left the agency, yet swearing he'd hire Wayne again next time he needed something investigated. Simply because - the guy really knew his stuff. Most importantly, he got things done efficiently for the right price - a rare and valuable virtue in bureaucratic, sluggish Windsor. Wayne counted the bills, and only when the office was empty did he say: "Dr. Lenard, forgot to remind you - since your wife didn't get what she wanted from me, she definitely won't let this go. She'll hire other detectives. Good luck." “……” “Tch, left in quite the hurry!” After tallying up his earnings, Wayne began organizing the day's case files, casually pulling out his diary to jot down the client's praises for him. The words overflowed with lavish compliments. Judging solely by this diary, he appeared to be nothing short of a helpful, broad-minded, and passionate young man making positive contributions to society. As for the quick cash earned by bending professional ethics, Wayne felt no guilt. Though he'd seized the opportunity to make a killing, hadn't he suffered significant losses too？ He had to refund half of Mrs. Lainer's deposit, and the failed investigation would damage his detective agency's reputation. Risking both his professional credibility and potential assassin visits, he'd tearfully earned five times the standard fee - clearly, he was the one getting the short end of the stick. Money earned through skill is fair game - the butcher willing, the lamb consenting. No need for guilt. By the time Wayne finished his work, the sun had set, darkness enveloping the city as the streets quickly grew quiet. With the darkness came a hazy, creeping fog. Calculating how much rent he still owed while preparing dinner in the kitchen, Wayne said sincerely: "Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Lainer. Thanks to your harmonious marriage, I won't have to eat potatoes tomorrow." Not tomorrow, but today was unavoidable - at least tonight he'd have to wage war against potatoes once more. Potato chunks, fried potatoes, pan-fried potatoes, potato salad, mashed potatoes… At first glance, it seems quite lavish with several dishes. Wayne speared a potato chunk with his fork, catching in the mirror on the bookshelf the reflection of a black-haired, black-eyed face. Nothing much to say - it pairs perfectly with potatoes! Take Mrs. Lainer for example - if Wayne hadn't stubbornly refused, he could have received long-term financial aid just like those who failed exams. This was Wayne's third month in the Chosen Continent. He had inherited everything from the unfortunate 'Wayne' - from the detective agency to the rent, right down to the potatoes measured by the basket in the kitchen - nothing was left out. When he first arrived, seeing he owned a small building on a commercial street complete with attic and basement, Wayne quickly adapted to the change based on his money-oriented life philosophy. That was until the landlord came demanding rent and took away the radio. Learning he was in debt, Wayne couldn't smile anymore, though considering he owed banks even more in his previous life, it didn't seem unacceptable. Then it became unacceptable again. 1938, Europe, Kingdom of Windsor, London… There were some minor variations in details, but it clearly looked like bombing was imminent. Just waiting for someone to raise the national flag. What was even harder to accept came next - Wayne hadn't traveled through time, but through space. This Earth only had two continents: one called the Chosen Continent, and another called the Frozen Continent. There was no familiar homeland, nor that white-headed eagle that went around banging gongs and stealing oil everywhere. The Frozen Continent was essentially Antarctica, which had been called the Dark Continent or the God-Forsaken Continent centuries ago. The Chosen Continent extended partially into the Arctic, where it remained frozen year-round with extremely limited living conditions. Beyond this, the planet was overwhelmingly blue - looking at the world map revealed nothing but water. Wayne spent a long time convincing himself that life is what it is, with everyone having their own difficulties. He resolved to keep his spirits up and look forward, figuring he could always give up later if things became truly unbearable. And then he saw the potatoes. “I hate potatoes!” While dissecting the potato chunks on his plate, Wayne recalled the difficult past three months. His predecessor had been an extreme romanticist - no, more accurately, a complete fool. Despite being an amateur, he had confidently opened a detective agency. Despite having a detective agency, he spent all day neglecting his duties, splurging at various social venues. Despite having zero clients, he had still hired a secretary as if it were perfectly normal. Wayne couldn't understand it and was utterly shocked. When he first arrived, the room was plastered with posters of female celebrities. The original owner wasn't just brainless, but a brainless star-chasing fanatic. For the sake of the female celebrities' golden, wavy long hair, Wayne didn't throw the posters directly into the trash after tearing them down. Instead, he stored them all in his second-floor bedroom. Perhaps due to post-transmigration side effects, Wayne didn't inherit much of the original owner's memories. The sporadic memory fragments were too chaotic to piece together into a coherent storyline, so he just skimmed through them and set them aside. The clearest memory fragment was in a dark room with a desk lamp on the table, surrounded by whispers, threats, and even curses and torture - suggesting the original owner was a repeat offender in social rehabilitation. Besides this, the original owner also had a "future diary," resembling a summer vacation journal. The writing was completely illogical, with most pages fantasizing about marrying a female celebrity and living a shamelessly happy life. Three times a day, occasionally five. Being too artistic, this diary was stored by Wayne in his bedside drawer, occasionally taken out during quiet nights to study its grammar. The original owner was undoubtedly a failure. In Wayne's eyes, he had proven just how outstanding the detectives in their city were through his own lack of dedication. To put it in Wayne's words, unlike those dark horses who solved bizarre cases right after entering the profession, the original owner was more like a dark donkey in the detective world. But it couldn't be denied that the original owner had worked hard—hard at avoiding real work. Had he not "worked hard," he wouldn’t have ended up like this today! Initially, Wayne rejected the identity of a detective. The original owner was a latecomer to the profession, and so was he. He planned to take a shortcut by becoming an inventor, relying on patents to live comfortably for the rest of his life. The results weren’t great. When it came to inventing, he was still a novice. All the small items he could think of—like rubber bands, paper clips, mosquito coils, zippers, and band-aids—had already been patented by others. It was downright absurd. Why were the locals so damn smart？ Left with no choice and desperate to fill his pockets before starving to death, Wayne had to reluctantly pivot and learn how to become a proper detective. Here, credit must be given to the original owner—he was extravagant with his spending, equipping himself with all kinds of detective gear. His bookshelf was packed with criminology books, spanning from beginner-level to "how to end up in prison. There were also plenty of famous detective novels. Though Wayne’s professional skills were limited, he embraced the principle of loving what you do. Fueled by his hatred for potatoes, he worked exceptionally hard. Perhaps a benefit from the transmigration, his learning ability became astonishing, and his thinking much sharper than before. Simple investigations couldn't trouble him at all. His agile body allowed him to easily scale walls into compounds, hiding outside balcony windows to secretly take photos. The physical agility wasn't related to transmigration - it was the original body's muscle memory. Considering his experience in the "little black room", it's clear the police didn't arrest the wrong person, though the detention period was too short. Wayne's transmigration came with another benefit. A book! It quietly floated within his body, its exact location unknown - possibly in his brain, heart, or somewhere among his internal organs or even the philtrum. 【Book of Avarice】 Mentioning this book inevitably brings up that stormy night. Before transmigrating, Wayne was a programmer. Seeing colleagues quitting before turning 35 by firing their bosses first, with many achieving great success, he and a coworker decided to resign together and develop small games. José: "We should start our business early. Rather than waiting for the boss to fire us, let's quit first to make games. Wayne: "Makes sense. The Book of Avarice was an in-game item. Out of mischievous delight for creating Easter eggs, the two developers put tremendous effort into it, stuffing it with numerous bugs that made the code self-contradictory yet surprisingly functional. A single bug is a flaw, but a cluster of bugs becomes a feature! After completing their work, the two men before the screen cheered excitedly, discussing over the phone while eagerly awaiting the platform launch, dreaming of becoming CEOs and going public to reap profits. Whether Hosea could succeed in profiting remained uncertain, but Wayne definitely wouldn't get the chance—whether by lightning strike or electrical leakage, he suddenly found himself transported to the Continent of the Chosen when he opened his eyes. “Hosea, Hosea… if you strike it rich, don't forget your old friend. During holidays, make sure to burn some offerings for me…” “Maybe I should be the one burning offerings for you.” Wayne closed his eyes, and with a thought, the Book of Avarice appeared in his vision—its black cover veined with crimson threads. Its material was unidentifiable; the cover undulated with bumps and grooves, slightly damp and slippery, eerily resembling a toad's back. “It wasn't like this before. Has it mutated？” Wayne tried to flip through the pages but, as with all his previous attempts, failed. Only the eyeball embedded in the cover slowly focused its gaze upon him. There were many similar eyeballs—the densely raised bumps covering the book's surface were all tightly shut, with only the large central eye responding to his gaze. Only through eye contact. Transmigrated, got a cheat, but can't activate it! The more Wayne thought about it, the angrier he became. Forkful after forkful, he mashed the dismembered potato chunks into paste. Even angrier now—one less dish! Wayne set down his fork and lamented, "Why is my life just downfall after downfall, with nothing but endless struggle？ Why is Mrs. Lina the only one offering long-term financial aid？ Couldn’t some runaway noble lady get lost and show up at my door, begging to stay while handing over money？" Knock-knock-knock—— The office door rattled. Through the dim glass, a black shadow lurked outside. “Gulp!” Wayne inexplicably felt a chill crawl up his spine. Swallowing hard, he shoveled a mouthful of mashed potatoes to steady himself. If he remembered correctly, he had locked the door.