2: Chapter 1 Ian_2 2: Chapter 1 Ian_2 Ian drew back the curtain, the light outside was bright, and no one walked at the street entrance.
The surrounding buildings were constructed from grey-white strip stones, rugged and sturdy, with walls covered in white vines and ivy leaves.
Underneath the leaves, the rocks were full of cracks from years of sea breeze erosion, revealing a sense of great age.
Following the road, one could clearly see a stretch of azure sea in the distance, with fishing boats coming and going—a classic scene of an ancient coastal port town.
“The view is really nice,”
Ian’s gaze returned from outside the window, and as he looked down, he saw his reflection in the water and exclaimed in surprise, “But I actually look a bit better.”
Appearance-wise, even with a bandage wrapped around his head, darkened with dried scabs, Ian could be considered very handsome.
Almost androgynous, the white-haired, green-pupil boy still had a youthful look, but one could already tell his future dashing charm.
“It’s quite good already, the average adjuster doesn’t reach this level.”
Accustomed to handsome men and beautiful women, Ian nodded.
His looks in this life were certainly clean and cute, which even in his previous world, where genetic modification was common, would have been considered quite superior.
But his obvious malnutrition and fatigue made him look exceptionally haggard.
Upon closer inspection, rolling up his sleeves revealed many injuries on the boy’s pale arms, both new and old, too many to count.
“My uncle really knows how to hit; I’m just a child under ten years old!”
Ian’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, he turned his head and pulled open his collar a bit, revealing the purple bruises around his neck above the collarbone.
In his mind emerged the memory of his uncle choking him, forcefully slamming him onto the ground, all because Ian hadn’t cleaned the house before his return.
—No one could possibly clean it; the place is falling apart.
Unless it’s demolished and rebuilt, it will always smell of rot!
Muttering inwardly, Ian’s hair was a bit long, hiding the bruises.
He gathered his hair back, feeling a coolness on his neck at last, and could clearly see the size of the purple marks.
did my cheap uncle really want to kill me at that time?”
His gaze was profound as he stared at the water while his hand rested on his collarbone, sliding down the side, feeling the pain all the way.
Although covered by clothes, the boy’s slim body and slender waist were covered with bruises and marks from beatings, varying in severity.
With every injury he touched, Ian’s mind replayed the corresponding memory—being beaten for buying liquor too late, for stuttering while talking, for using his left hand to wield a chopping knife, for stepping into the room with his right foot first…
The wound on his head was the most severe, but clearly, the boy’s daily life was not much better; even being beaten was routine.
Finally, when his hand pressed on his lower abdomen, Ian suddenly turned pale, gasping for breath.
The intense pain immediately brought him out in a cold sweat.
A bout of severe hunger mixed with the tearing pain of overworked muscles in his waist and abdomen …
obviously the result of too much work without rest, leaving hidden injuries.
“This is really bad karma,” he muttered softly, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, and Ian’s expression turned from annoyed to a wry smile.
Abuse and oppression, unreasonable scolding and beating, and even torture—if Ian hadn’t awakened, he might have indeed slept forever, never to wake up again.
If it was just that, it wouldn’t count for much.
He’s still alive, isn’t he?
Although Ian was an engineer in his past life, he did not fail history, and combining the memories of eight years in this Otherworld, which seems to be around the industrial era, there are countless similar encounters with children.
Even if it’s not Harrison Port, where is an apprentice not treated this way?
Since they lost their parents and had to live under someone else’s roof, they should bear it, at least the uncle provided them, the two brothers, with a meal.
It is known that for those child laborers who entered factories in the pre-industrial era, heaven knows how many could survive — the White Folks’ clan rule of taking care of one’s relatives truly helped a lot, if it weren’t for the uncle being a madman, the two brothers could have safely grown up.
The biggest problem still lay with their worthless uncle.
He was truly a scumbag.
The young Ian might not understand, but according to his memories, Ian could confirm that the limping man was a local native informant, or rather a controlled tool, keen on inhaling an extract from black mushrooms originating from the Bison Mountain Range.
This naturally addictive chemical substance is well known, and those addicted to it are practically insane, not to be treated as humans, but as animals.
Therefore, there were several days every month when his uncle, always looking for trouble to beat him, would shrink in his room to inhale the mushrooms, enjoying oblivion – those were the rare moments in the past when Ian could catch his breath and rest.
In the past, to indulge in the mushrooms, that man would not have any spare money left, and often needed to borrow from Ian’s parents.
After the death of Ian’s parents, due to blood relations and the White Folks’ custom of ‘valuing kinship,’ he had to take in the two brothers, which not only wasted his time but also his scarce money used to enjoy the mushroom extract.
The clan members were watching, he couldn’t shake off this responsibility, plus some personal reasons, so this man always vented his anger and hatred through violence against the Ian brothers.
At this point in his recollections, Ian couldn’t help but complain.
Before he regained his memories, Ian, still a child, was already unable to endure such senseless beatings and was afraid for his own life.
The boy even secretly hid a Talle silver coin in the corner of the wall, ready to find a chance to escape.
It might seem naive, but it was also a form of choice and bravery.
If it were the present Ian, he would likely take a similar action, only more meticulously planned.
Only a fool would want to live under the same roof as such a madman!
But the real drama wasn’t all of this.
As his thoughts deepened, Ian began to recall some more important, fragmented memories from his past.
With furrowed brows, Ian couldn’t help but straighten his back, his gaze turning to another room on the opposite side.
That was the room of his two-year-old younger brother.
Even if he himself was abused, Ian could laugh it off indifferently — how much lower can a person’s character be to abuse a child?
All he could do was submit to him, for he had terminal cancer.
If there’s no hurry, one could collect evidence and report to the clan elders or the city guards; if the situation became dire, one could just run away, for the uncle needed to indulge in his mushrooms, always leaving time for Ian to prepare.
He is not a real child, having lived for two lifetimes; just a child abuser, there are plenty of ways to deal with, he could be indifferent.
“Natives… trade… young children… blood sacrifice… offering?!”
As Ian recalled many details, for the first time, his tone became angry: “Sacrificing infants?!”