Editor’s Note:

I didn’t realize another group had already started working on this novel last week, so I’ll pause publishing my translation for now. However, I’ll continue translating it privately for my personal enjoyment.

9 PM. Qinzhou Art Academy.

Lin Yuan lay on the grass beside the school field, hands behind his head, staring at the stars above. The starry sky above seemed no different from Earth’s, yet despite not being able to find the North Star, he knew this wasn’t Earth but a parallel universe called Blue Star.

“Lin Yuan, sophomore composition major at Qinzhou Art Academy.” This was his new identity after transmigrating. He had inherited everything from the original owner, yet didn’t remember his own name from the previous life, nor the reason for his transmigration. He vaguely recalled being a painter in his past life. Therefore, he could justifiably consider himself as “Lin Yuan.”

Sifting through the original owner’s memory, Lin Yuan unsurprisingly found that the historical trajectory of this world was vastly different from his previous life. History diverged at the Qin Dynasty, where Fusu continued Ying Zheng’s work, leading the Qin cavalry to sweep across vast lands, ultimately allowing the East to dominate the world until a more powerful nation, the Xia, replaced it a hundred years ago.

The world was unified globally, divided into eight continents. Lin Yuan was in a place called Qinzhou. On this war-free planet, art became a common pursuit. The culture here was profoundly rich, with unprecedented prosperity in every artistic field, including film, music, painting, literature, and calligraphy.

“An ideal nation.” That was how Lin Yuan described it, especially from an artist’s perspective. Yet, even in the most utopian societies, misfortune occurs. Such misfortune befell the original owner of the body Lin Yuan now inhabited—he was diagnosed with a terminal illness.

Yes, the kind frequently appearing on TV, always accompanied by melodrama: a “terminal illness.” This was what Lin Yuan discovered in his memory; he had inherited a body with a limited lifespan. The doctors had long pronounced a death sentence on the original owner’s condition: “This child won’t live past 25.”

This unbearable truth led the original owner to choose suicide by sleeping pills, allowing Lin Yuan to become the new inhabitant of this body. Nineteen years old, the original owner gave up on the little life he had left—was it fear of death? Choosing death out of fear of death?

Lin Yuan initially thought this was the reason for the original owner’s suicide until he delved deeper into his memories and discovered things were more complex than he had imagined. The original owner came from a single-parent family. His father passed away early; his mother single-handedly raised him.

He was frail and sickly since childhood, frequently passing out from high fevers. Hospital stays were routine, and only his mother bore the enormous expenses. She borrowed some money and earned some herself. To raise him, she endured untold hardships, especially considering the original owner also had an elder sister and a younger sister. Both sisters were sensible, despite never living a good life due to the original owner.

To earn money for the family sooner, the elder sister gave up her opportunity for graduate studies. To lessen the family’s burden, the younger sister wore her elder sister’s hand-me-downs from a young age.

The final straw that broke the camel’s back was the original owner’s lost dream. Originally a student of the vocal department, he had an incredibly powerful voice, the best in his field, with dreams of becoming a singer. Yet, during his freshman year, his illness relapsed, damaging his vocal cords. He could no longer endure the rigorous vocal training required, much less hit the highs he was proud of.

Helplessly, he transferred to the composition department, which he wasn’t particularly skilled in, and committed suicide in his sophomore year. Not just because his dream was shattered, but because he didn’t want to burden his family any longer. When life counts down, every passing second becomes torture.

Absorbing these memories, Lin Yuan empathized with the original owner’s decision. He couldn’t morally condemn the original owner for being too weak. It’s just that everyone has their own misfortunes, and some people’s misfortunes are harder to bear compared to the average person.

This echoes the Buddhist saying that “life is suffering.” Yet, Lin Yuan wouldn’t choose suicide. Even though the body he inherited might not live past 25, there were still a few years left to make something happen, right?

He could plagiarize some songs, books, transfer culture, earn money for the family. Lin Yuan likely couldn’t change his terminal fate, but in the limited time remaining, he might change his family’s fate. This thought was urgent.

Lin Yuan couldn’t distinguish if this was the original owner’s will or his own desire. Perhaps what he inherited included not just memories but all the emotions and a mysterious bloodline connection. Lin Yuan wasn’t resistant to this feeling.

But when he tried recalling previous artistic works from his past life, he was surprised to find that he remembered nothing, just like how he forgot his past life’s name. The previous life felt like an illusion. Once awake, nothing remained.

What’s the purpose of my transmigration, then? Lin Yuan asked himself internally. Then, a voice, not quite an answer, echoed in his mind: [Blood test in progress… Gene test in progress… Iris test in progress… Compatibility 99.36%… Meets criteria… Selecting database… Solar System, Earth… System binding in progress…]

A system? Lin Yuan understood. Although the details of his memory were hazy, he had some impression of system-themed online novels from his past life, and knew this was his golden finger, the purpose of his transmigration.

No longer overthinking, he patiently waited for the system’s installation. Soon, the mechanical electric sound echoed in his mind again: [Loading successful, Art System binding complete!]

“Hello.” Lin Yuan took the initiative to greet.

[Hello, host. Congratulations on binding the Art System. This system will endeavor to assist you in becoming an artist on Blue Star. You can communicate with the system through your thoughts. Below, your host information will be displayed in text form.]

The mechanical voice paused, and transparent subtitles appeared before Lin Yuan’s eyes:

[Age: 19]

[Lifespan: 22]

[Painting: 45]

[Literature: 105]

[Music: 1038]

[Overall: 1188]

[Other: Awaiting activation]

[Note: Aside from age and lifespan, the numerical values in each category represent reputation, i.e., recognition from the outside world and industry in that field. Theoretically, there’s no upper limit. The higher the reputation value, the greater the benefits the host receives…]

Lifespan… 22? The system seemed aware of Lin Yuan’s thoughts, and another line of subtitles appeared: [25 years is the theoretical maximum age the host can live. Considering actual circumstances, the host won’t live past 22, and will be completely paralyzed at 21.]

“Can it be cured?” Lin Yuan mentally asked.

System: [When the host’s reputation reaches the system’s standard, treatment is possible. Through several rounds of treatment, recovery can be achieved. Each time a certain reputation value is reached, the system will prompt the host…]

So it can be cured. Lin Yuan adeptly asked, “Is there a starter package?”

Perhaps Lin Yuan was too adept, the system momentarily couldn’t keep up with his pace, and after a few seconds, it responded: [The starter package has been sent to the host’s backend storage.]

“Enter storage.” As soon as Lin Yuan finished speaking, a virtual interface similar to a game inventory appeared before his eyes, and in the first grid was a small audio file—

Song: “Life Like Summer Flowers.” The starter package contained just one song? Could you please remove the word “big”? Lin Yuan internally mocked while listening to the song. As the prelude began, he confirmed that this was indeed a work from his memory.

In fact, the moment he clicked on the song, memories of it from his past life flooded his mind, though before that, he couldn’t recall the tune or lyrics.

Lin Yuan roughly guessed the system’s method. The so-called reputation values seemed like gaining enough recognition by releasing the songs or such, and when this recognition reached a certain level, he could get treated and not die early…

What a perfunctory setup. The system seemed quite displeased with Lin Yuan’s ridicule and promptly added a setting: [While gaining reputation values, the host can also earn raffle opportunities with extremely high chances of winning.]

“Oh,” Lin Yuan reacted calmly, considering the matter of the song. His vocal cords were damaged; even though “Life Like Summer Flowers” wasn’t demanding in its vocal range, doctors advised against singing for him.

However, this didn’t stump him. If he couldn’t sing, he could find someone else to sing. As long as he could gain reputation, it didn’t matter. Singers might get famous easier, but Lin Yuan didn’t like nor desired fame—in fact, he somewhat disliked it.

He didn’t know why, possibly an influence from his past life? Even though he couldn’t clearly remember his previous life, he faintly felt that he was quite impressive before, maybe even somewhat accomplished.

The song was quite meaningful, especially for the original owner’s situation. Suddenly curious, Lin Yuan asked, “System, when I transmigrated to this world, did I disappear from Earth in my past life?”

System: [Life exchange.] The system had figured out Lin Yuan’s pattern. His comprehension was robust, his acceptance high, preferring simplicity and directness, negating the need for elaborate explanations, hence the concise response.

“Life exchange, huh?” Lin Yuan’s gaze flickered slightly, then a soft smile appeared. The feeling that someone else is living instead of him wasn’t so bad after all. He was single anyway. Although many things were unclear, he could roughly sketch the vague contours of his past memories.

Not particularly good, nor awful. In reality, a life headed towards a countdown is still better than one’s life itself running out, right? I wish the unfamiliar you have a system too, instead of another summer flower life—

At least, we still exist.