In 1943, war was raging across the world. Even remote regions were shrouded in smoke, and the hinterland was suffering too. In February, Chicago was cold in more ways than one. The whole business district was nearly deserted, as everyone feared a bomb might fall on their heads any day. In an alley, a boy wrapped in oversized clothes sighed. Qiao Qiao had fallen asleep at his desk and, for no apparent reason, become one of the transmigrators. But he got none of the usual perks: his parents were gone, and he hadn’t gained any magical powers. He had simply joined the ranks of orphans. Today, he saw a poster on the wall. The grinning man with the pert backside made his heart skip a beat. Oh no.
