The street, riddled with shell craters, looked like a pockmarked face. The houses lining both sides had been reduced to rubble, and a haze of smoke floated over the city. Across the road lay the wreckage of destroyed buses and cars, scattered in a chaotic ss. In the larger craters, broken water pipes and sewage mains gushed clear water and foul sludge, rging together and turning the streets into filthy cesspools.
The shrill air raid sirens had finally fallen silent.
Pierre wandered aimlessly through the streets. Staring at the apocalyptic scene before him, he desperately hoped it was all just a nightmare.
But it was all too real.
Just a mont ago, he'd been carrying a bag of goods, on his way to deliver them to his roommate, who usually set up a small street stall after work. Sotis, he would swing by and help her out.
And now, in the blink of an eye, he found himself on a completely unfamiliar street.
The red double-decker buses, the bright red phone booths, the policen wearing black helts and blowing whistles — it was like stepping straight into an old film about London.
After all, in the London of the 21st century, there would be no air raid sirens blaring, no panicked crowds dashing about, and certainly no propeller-driven fighter planes screaming across the sky.
Although he was completely disoriented, Pierre's instincts for survival kicked in. He followed the fleeing crowds into a nearby underground station.
Then ca the deafening roar of explosions. The shockwaves rattled his bones and left him in a daze.
It was impossible to tell how much ti had passed. When the air raid finally ended, and he was carried out of the station by the restless crowd, Pierre found himself wandering the streets of London like a headless fly, crossing one ruined street after another.
Eventually, utterly exhausted, he slumped onto a bench at the side of the road, trying to catch his breath.
Ti to face reality.
He glanced down and noticed a tattered newspaper floating in a puddle at his feet. The bold headline read:
"From One Victory to Another! German Forces in North Africa Surrender to the Allies!"
German surrender in North Africa?
Squinting, he found the date on the paper: May 13, 1943.
rde... I've actually ti-travelled!
The truth hit him like a slap in the face: he had nothing to his na, no place to stay, and no way to blend in.
Wandering the streets of London clearly wasn't going to be a sustainable plan.
What next?
Now that was a tricky question.
Pierre had read plenty of web novels and knew all too well that physical ti travel — body and all — was the worst possible version. No debate.
A physical crossing ant he had no legal identity in this world. Forget about the easy tropes where so long-lost billionaire father conveniently appeared — that wasn't happening here.
No, here the only thing waiting for him was likely a noose.
During warti, an unidentified foreigner roaming the streets... it didn't take a genius to imagine what people would assu.
Spy.
And if anyone was destined for the gallows, it would be him.
The longer he walked, the heavier his heart grew. Hunger and thirst gnawed at him.
Fortunately, London had just been hamred by a bombing raid. Fire engines and ambulances raced everywhere, and no one had the ti to worry about a solitary stranger. Even the police barely glanced at him.
Besides, anyone still able to wander the streets of London at this ti — and visibly Asian — clearly wasn't Japanese.
Japanese expatriates had been rounded up and thrown into British prisons years ago.
What now?
Bah, one step at a ti.
After all, Pierre, a recent university graduate who had battled it out with classmates in the cutthroat world of a major city, was no stranger to adapting on the fly.
In truth, worrying wouldn't solve anything.
Thrown into this chaotic era without warning, he could already count himself lucky not to have been arrested yet.
Though judging by how things were going, it might just be a matter of ti.
Night was falling. Once it was dark, the police who had ignored him so far might find themselves with more free ti to "deal with" such suspicious characters.
Sighing, he reached into his satchel, pulled out a crumpled cigarette, and lit it with a practiced hand.
One smoke to clear the head — then figure it out.
Just then, a British man ca striding toward him. As Pierre took out a cigarette, the man caught sight of the cal on the cigarette pack — and his eyes instantly lit up.
Pierre hadn't even lit his cigarette yet when the man stepped forward eagerly and asked:
"Sir, are those Cal cigarettes?"
He slled it?
In truth, Pierre was smoking Arican-made Cal cigarettes — the strong, unfiltered kind.
According to his tomboyish roommate, one cigarette was potent enough to last two hours.
Still, to call it out by na from just a whiff... That seed a little far-fetched, even for a bloodhound's nose.
Pierre nodded slightly.
At once, a joyful expression appeared on the Englishman's face as he exclaid:
"Real Cal cigarettes? Haha, I knew it the mont I slled it! Haha..."
In reality, he'd spotted the cal logo on the pack earlier. Now, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the cigarette in Pierre's hand.
Tentatively, the man asked:
"Sir, do you happen to have any more Cals?"
"...Pardon?"
The man got straight to the point:
"If you do, sir, I'd be willing to pay a penny for each cigarette. What do you say?"
"A penny?"
The offer might have seed bizarre under normal circumstances, but to Pierre — penniless, hungry, and thirsty — it felt like a gift from heaven.
"A penny each..."
He hesitated for a mont.
Looking at the naked longing in the man's eyes, Pierre casually flipped open his lighter.
Ding!
The crisp tallic sound as the lighter snapped open made the Englishman's eyes widen in awe.
That sound — it could only be a ZIPPO.
Cal cigarettes and a ZIPPO lighter — pure, genuine Arican goods!
Luxury items you couldn't even buy, no matter how much money you had.
The man swallowed and made a bold offer:
"Sir, if you're willing to sell that ZIPPO lighter along with the cigarettes, I'll give you four pounds and six pence for everything you have left. What do you say?"
Pierre could almost feel the man's heart racing with excitent.
Owning a pack of Cal cigarettes and a ZIPPO lighter? In this era, that was a badge of honor — a symbol of status.
With those two treasures, you could walk into any pub and be the flashiest guy there.
"Hmm..."
Seeing the desperation practically written across the man's face, Pierre thought for a mont and said:
"I've got seventeen cigarettes left in my pack.
How about this — I'll keep five for myself and sell you the other twelve, along with the lighter, for five pounds flat. Deal?"
After all, he had to keep a few for himself.
Any smoker would understand — this was a matter of personal dignity.
The Englishman's face lit up with pure joy.
"Of course, of course!"
No doubt about it: when a man sees sothing he truly desires, he can be just as powerless as any woman.
Twelve cigarettes and a ZIPPO lighter — sold for five pounds!
Pierre accepted a few bills from the man's hand. The notes were almost the size of an A4 sheet of paper.
Looking at the cash in his palm, a small thrill ran through him.
Finally — he had money!
At least now, he hadn't disgraced the honor of being a ti traveler.
On the very first day after crossing over, he had earned his first bucket of gold.
The timing of this new life couldn't have been better — It was a great upheaval, a reshuffling of the old world order. The old powers had fallen, and new ones were rising. In tis like these, there were endless opportunities waiting to be seized!
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