How to Survive Seventeen Days Under the White-Haired Man
Also known as: What should a retired employee do when they run into their old boss?
Back when I ran away from Gin, I did it in style: crashed a car, scattered the money, leaped off a cliff, and shouted sadly, "Big Brother, let's have a drink together next time, "
Then, splat.
I kicked a hundred-pound pig off the cliff. Its landing sounded so convincing that it must have turned into minced meat, scattering like flower petals. I wasn't worried they'd find a piece and run a DNA test, because they had the pig's DNA, but not mine.
Nothing more to say. Professional pride as a hitman. Thanks to the distillery for its careful training.
I transmigrated five years ago, into the body of an eighteen-year-old girl in her prime. I was horrified: all those years of education I'd struggled for were gone. At the same time, the corners of my mouth curled up.
If nothing else, an eighteen-year-old girl has hair.
Anyone who's transmigrated knows this, and if you don't, you've probably seen it somewhere: transmigrators each get a System, a superpower, a pocket dimension, and a tiny chibi Kyubey. But my System kicked the bucket especially fast. It said exactly one thing to me
"Go save the world, "
Then it was gone.
Hello? Set the title in Founder Small Standard Song, size 2; use Times New Roman for the numbers; set second-level headings in KaiTi GBK; then add page numbers and rewrite it. Okay? Even a college student's thesis written like this would get delayed graduation, okay?
.
Nothing much else happened. Later, I got hungry, so I went to a nearby distillery hideout, ate a meal, and killed everyone there. When Big Brother came to take my life, I hugged his long legs.
.
"Here's the thing, Big Brother. I can eat as much as a hundred people by myself. Don't you think I'm more useful than all of them put together?"
Big Brother must have thought I had a point, because three minutes later I was in the trunk of a Porsche 365A.
.
I worked for five years before I couldn't take it anymore. Being Big Brother's workhorse was harder than doing research under my department chair. Thanks, Big Brother, for curing me of my white-haired-man fetish.
Once my five years were up, I found a cliff with excellent feng shui and ran for it, parkouring all the way.
.
I retired from the business and went back to my old profession. Using the fake credentials I'd made at the distillery, I got a job as a teacher at a technical college. I watched my future construction-engineer students thrive. Every day they grinned as they lugged tripods around to survey elevations and concrete, and struggled desperately with soil mechanics and advanced mathematics. During their winter surveying practicum, each one wrapped a balaclava around their head to keep warm. There were electric mice and garlic turtles.
Though it was a different world, my fondness for college boys was cured by my students too.
Two years later, after I'd gotten to know the kids well, the System came online.
Its timing was quite something. I was crouched beneath the department building, half dead, when the class rep from Class Three slapped me on the back. "Quit slacking, Teach. It's time to work."
I turned around and swung a hammer at him. He staggered, still smiling, as a bullet pierced his brow.
Gin's men jumped out of a truck. Three undercover agents were unloading cargo, while Gin held the Beretta I'd maintained countless times. He looked on indifferently as I and my students stood before him.
The next second, a bullet pierced my brow.
.
I opened my eyes and returned to the day before I died.
.
[First: When the Host dies, they can revive infinitely, going back to the previous day. Anyone can kill the Host, including the Host themself, except Gin.
Second: The Host must ensure that Gin does not die on any night other than a night of the full moon.]
Theme: What else can I do? Keep moving forward
