Chapter 1: Rebirth in the Rain
Lin Yu woke up in agony.
The piercing pain of fractured ribs still lingered in his body, feeling as though someone had jammed a red-hot iron rod into his chest and slowly twisted it.
He snapped his eyes open, gasping for air as his fingers convulsed, clutching the bedsheets beneath him.
This wasn’t the cold pavement of an alleyway; it was coarse, mildew-scented cotton cloth.
He stared fixedly at the ceiling.
A moldy water stain marked the ceiling, its edges turned a sickly yellow, resembling an unblinking eye. That eye was watching him back.
It took him a full three minutes to confirm that he was still alive.
And another minute to confirm that this wasn’t a hospital—no scent of antiseptic, no rhythmic beeping of monitors. Just the smell of instant noodles.
That cheap, braised beef flavor of instant noodles, where the seasoning packet had been over-poured, leaving a cloying, heavy stench that mixed with the mold in the damp air like a declaration.
A declaration that he was alive, and that his life was in terrible shape.
He slowly pushed himself up.
The rental apartment was still the same rental apartment.
Takeout boxes and instant noodle cartons piled up in the corners, the curtains drawn tightly shut, keeping out even a sliver of light.
His phone lay discarded beside the pillow, the screen still glowing, reflecting a line of text.
He lowered his gaze.
It was the deposit page of a gambling website.
The bright red “Deposit Now” button loomed like an unexploded landmine.
He recognized this page.
In his past life, this was precisely the step where his downward spiral began.
First came draining his own savings, followed by borrowing, then borrowing more when he couldn’t repay, dragging himself deeper into the mire of rolling interest.
At the time, all he could think about was winning it back.
He believed that with just one winning hand, he could claw back everything he had lost, and finally stand before Shen Shiyan to say:
Look, I am no worse than you.
Later, he lost everything he possibly could.
Later still, he didn’t even have the qualification to harbor such a thought.
His hands were still trembling. Not from the cold.
He picked up the phone and closed the page before that red button could lure him in again.
Then he saw another notification.
It had arrived three days ago, sent by a friend he used to know at a bar.
Assuming people like that could even be called friends. The message was brief, its tone casual, as though casually forwarding some insignificant link.
“I signed you up for a variety show called ‘Reborn Life’, and you passed the initial screening.” “Don’t thank me. Buy me dinner if you make it.”
Attached below was a registration success page alongside a link to the show’s synopsis.
Lin Yu tapped the link. The screen shifted; the show’s logo featured a shattered wall with debris flying outward, a piercing beam of light spilling through the cracks behind it.
The promotional tagline was fiercely ambitious—
“Can life be restarted? Here, it can.”
Beneath it sat the prize money figure: Champion, three million.
He stared fixedly at that number for a long time.
The usurious loans he owed in his past life—principal combined with interest, compounding relentlessly until he eventually lost the courage to calculate the total.
He only knew that the debt collectors had cornered him three times.
The first time was outside his old apartment door, drenched in paint; The second time was outside an internet café, where they snapped one of his ribs; The third time was in that alleyway.
That alleyway.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Memories rushed forward like a shattered aquarium, water and glass spilling out together.
He had no desire to recall it, but those scenes flooded in unchecked.
That alley lay in the east side of the city, near a vegetable market that had long since closed down.
A street lamp stood at the mouth of the alley, its lampshade split in half, casting light onto the peeling tiled wall.
He had been running fast back then, barefoot, the soles of his feet shredded by shards of glass, leaving bloody footprints with every stride.
Footsteps echoed behind him—more than one person.
Then someone lunged out from a side lane, a club swinging down onto his back. He pitched forward, his knees slamming into the concrete ground as the weight of his entire body compressed against his chest.
The first kick landed on his ribs.
Followed by a second, and a third.
He curled into a fetal position, wrapping his arms around his head.
Bloody froth bubbled past his lips as he mumbled incoherently, “I’ll pay it back,” but no one listened.
Those people were talking, their voices sounding muffled as if filtered through a layer of water. He couldn’t catch much, only vaguely capturing a few words—“Running?” “Hiding?” “Thought we couldn’t find you?”
He hadn’t wanted to flee.
He genuinely had no money left.
He had bolted before being sold off to one of those underground clubs; once dragged into a place like that, death would be a mercy compared to what awaited him.
He would rather die in an alley than perish in a den like that.
Then his fingers brushed against his phone on the ground.
The screen was cracked, but intact.
With his final breath, he swiped the lock screen open, flipped to the very bottom of his contacts, and dialed a number he had never once called.
The contact name consisted of a single character: Ge (Older Brother).
He placed the call.
Busy tone.
Beep... beep... beep... Every single interval dragged out endlessly, taut like a tightrope pulled slowly to its breaking point.
No answer.
He hurled his phone into the pouring rain; the screen flashed once before going dark.
He lay sideways in the rain, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth and ears, blending into the puddles and trickling down the gaps between the cobblestones.
The last image he saw was that street lamp.
The light was agonizingly faint, like something so distant it could never be reached again.
Then he died.
Then he woke up.
Lin Yu opened his eyes. The ceiling of the rental apartment was still the same ceiling, the mold stain still the same mold stain, the instant noodle scent still the same instant noodle scent.
Yet his back was drenched in cold sweat.
He rolled out of bed, hurried into the cramped bathroom, and twisted the faucet open.
Cold water splashed across his face, and he raised his gaze to the mirror.
The reflection stared back significantly thinner, cheekbones sharper than in his past life, dark bruises pooled beneath his eyes.
Yet those eyes remained the exact same.
The same facial features inherited from his mother—delicate contours, pretty enough to have drawn praise since childhood, yet pretty enough that others had constantly compared him to his stepbrother.
People used to say: “What good is a pretty face? Look at his older brother, he goes to Korea University.”
Good looks—a hand of cards that had never once been played right in his possession.
He turned off the faucet, returned to the bedside, and picked his phone back up.
He reread the message.
The variety show Reborn Life, initial screening passed, champion’s prize three million.
In his past life, he had been entirely oblivious to this variety show.
Even if he had known, he probably would have dismissed it with disdain.
Not until his ribs were shattered and he died in that rainy alley did he hit the metaphorical southern wall, lay eyes on his own coffin, and realize he had played a decent hand of cards into an absolute trainwreck.
A trainwreck sunk deep into the abyss. And he had nearly perished within that abyss.
He had no idea that when he was cornered against the wall by debt collectors, such an escape route had once been laid out right before him—only for him to shut the door on it himself.
In this lifetime, he was going to seize this opportunity tightly. He still had a way back; he wouldn’t allow himself to be sold off to an underground parlor.
He flipped through his phone contacts, located the friend who had sent the message, and typed out a reply:
“How do I confirm my participation?”
The other person replied swiftly: “You finally came back to life? Just reply directly to that number to confirm.”
They added another line: “By the way, the PD for this show is a big deal, supposedly a graduate from Korea University, last name Shen.”
Lin Yu’s fingers paused over the keyboard.
Last name Shen.
A name flashed through his mind, but he refused to dwell on it.
He told himself there were plenty of people with the last name Shen who went to Korea University; he was overthinking it.
He sent the confirmation message to the production team.
Then he opened the calculator app and began crunching numbers.
Principal, interest, deadlines.
He drafted a schedule on his notepad; the numbers kept growing larger, feeling heavier with every calculation, but the ultimate conclusion remained clear.
If he could make it to the finals and win the championship, the prize money would be just enough to clear all his debts.
No need to scurry and hide, no need to run for his life from pursuers, no need to repeat the fatal misstep of his past life.
He closed the calculator, flipped his phone face down on the mattress, and lay back flat.
The mold stain on the ceiling retained its exact shape.
That eye was still watching him.
Only this time, he felt that eye wasn’t gazing at a dying man.
It was observing someone reborn.
Someone who had gambled once, but had managed to turn back in time, hadn’t given up on himself, and still had the chance to whisper “Don’t die” to his own reflection.
He closed his eyes.
The sound of rain drifted in from outside the window. Not the bone-chilling freeze of his past life’s rain, but a sudden summer downpour—arriving swiftly and clearing just as fast.
Raindrops battered the exterior air conditioning unit, producing a muffled, irregular drumbeat.
Listening to the rain, a memory surfaced.
Before his death in his past life, he had placed that single phone call.
Shen Shiyan hadn’t answered.
He had no way of knowing whether Shen Shiyan ever saw that missed call later on.
Nor did he know if things would have turned out differently had he picked up.
All he knew was that in this lifetime, he had no intention of dialing that number ever again.
Not because the debt was gone, but because he owed too much—too much for a single phone call to ever repay.
The rain outside the window stopped.
Lin Yu turned over.
The glow of the phone screen illuminated his face, making those eyes—identical to his mother’s—shine with brilliant clarity.
He stared unblinkingly at the show’s synopsis page, his fingers slowly tightening into a fist.
Three million.
The first path of his rebirth. He had chosen it.
