Chapter One: The Shuttle Bus

The mountains were lush, the waters tranquil, and the fields shone yellow—it was the height of July, the sun blazing in the summer heat. A small bus, having just bumped its way over rutted and rocky roads, finally turned onto a smoother stretch of cement, much to the collective relief of its passengers, who no longer had to endure the jarring ride that felt as though they were flying through clouds.

The bus was cramped, barely accommodating more than twenty people squeezed together, making the space feel all the more confined. If it hadn’t been for the wide-open windows letting in the breeze—warm as it was—some of the more frail passengers would surely have lost their composure and emptied their stomachs from the previous day.

“Keep an eye on your bags, everyone—don’t let anything go missing,” the ticket collector called out, gripping the handrail as she moved through the bus.

“Oof... my head hurts!” groaned Zhang Ye, leaning back against his seat. Suddenly, he slapped his forehead with a heavy hand.

Zhang Ye was clearly a student, about fifteen or sixteen years old, sporting the popular close-cropped haircut of the late nineties. His shirt, a cheap, ill-fitting plaid, somehow suited his fair and handsome face, making him rather striking. At this moment, he held his head in both hands, his fine brows knit tightly, his face quivering imperceptibly. Deep within his skull, pain throbbed and chaotic images flashed, making him feel as though his head might explode.

He clutched at his hair, his fingers white with tension. “Where is this? Why am I here… Didn’t I… die…?”

Suddenly, Zhang Ye’s eyes snapped open. The slight jostling of his body confirmed he was still on the bus—but the unfamiliar surroundings brought him to full alertness.

The bus was old-fashioned despite being somewhat new, with a ticket collector and driver who looked a dozen years younger. The passengers’ clothes were outdated, styles that had long since disappeared even in remote mountain villages.

Everything felt both dreamlike and real.

“Is this my life flashing before my eyes before death?” Zhang Ye muttered, recalling with a start the incident on a bus when he was sixteen.

“No—that’s not right!” He took a deep breath. He could feel the wind.

This was far too real. How could there be wind and the stifling heat of summer in a dream?

His expression changed. He quickly touched his face, searching specifically for a scar—the one that, twisted and terrifying like a centipede, had marked him for life.

Though it was indelible, he was always compelled to touch it, hoping vainly it might fade away.

He would never forget: in 1995, at age sixteen, during a bus ride, there had been an armed robbery. In a burst of youthful courage, he had fought back, only to have his face slashed, the scar a permanent legacy.

“How…?” The smoothness of his skin startled him. With trembling hands, he felt his entire face.

When he was certain there wasn’t a single scratch or mark, Zhang Ye began to tremble, his cheeks flushing with irrepressible excitement, his blood surging so fiercely he nearly shouted aloud.

How many years had he borne that hideous scar, enduring every day the strange, disdainful, mocking, pitiful, or even fearful stares of others? For someone with his pride, it had been agony beyond words.

Tears slid down his cheeks without his realizing. His heart had never been fragile; even after the incident, he had not shed a single tear. But now, overcome with joy, he wept.

Reincarnation? A second chance at life?

Zhang Ye had never believed in the supernatural, but now, he was lost in wonder—and more than anything, exhilarated.

“Wait—why does this scene feel so familiar? This bus, these people, the mountains outside the window…”

Suddenly, his expression changed as memories began to align.

“I’ve been reborn—right before the robbery.” Zhang Ye drew a deep breath, his heart swiftly regaining its composure.

Understanding his situation, he instinctively turned his head, glancing at the two people seated before him and another just behind.

“Of course—it’s them,” he thought.

Though he wished he could forget, the pain of that day was unforgettable. He was certain: these three were the robbers.

Especially the burly man seated behind him, whose fierce gaze and brutish features could frighten any child into silence. Zhang Ye remembered clearly—his scar came from this man.

Back then, Zhang Ye and another strong passenger had managed to subdue two of the robbers, but they never expected a third accomplice, lurking behind, ready to intervene. In a moment of carelessness, Zhang Ye was slashed across the face. Although the robbers were eventually subdued and handed over to the police, the wound on his face became a lifelong mark.

“If fate has granted me a second chance, then change must begin now.”

Starting over, Zhang Ye would never allow the old tragedy to repeat—especially when his entire life was at stake.

“Is it starting?”

There was no fear or anxiety, only excitement in his heart.

He watched as the two men in front exchanged glances and stood up. Zhang Ye tensed, ready to act at any moment.

“Everyone, get down!” the two youths shouted as they sprang to their feet and each drew a knife.

“Pull over! Stop the bus!” The one in the black T-shirt strode to the front, pressing his knife to the driver’s throat. With an earring glinting at his ear, he had an unmistakable air of menace.

Cold sweat beaded on the driver's brow. He dared not argue and hurriedly pulled over, pressing himself flat against the steering wheel, too terrified to move.

In such a moment, thoughts of resistance vanished; life was paramount. He only hoped these men would take the money and go.

Panic swept through the passengers. Cries of fear erupted as no one knew what to do.

“Quiet! Anyone makes a sound, and I’ll stab them!” barked the youth in the blue vest, flashing his muscular arms.

As if to prove his point, he slashed his knife into a seat, leaving a long, deep gash.

“Damn it, trying to run?” Another young man, panicked, tried to leap through a window but was dragged back and stabbed in the thigh for his trouble.

A scream split the air, and bright red blood stained his trousers. He barely dared make another sound, remembering the threat, and endured in silence, his face twisted with pain.

The power of example worked swiftly—no one dared make another noise. Heads bowed and hands atop their heads, the passengers lay still as insects in winter. The only child aboard, terrified by the tense atmosphere, burst into tears, but his mother quickly scooped him up and clamped a hand over his mouth, terrified his cries would attract the robbers’ attention.

Zhang Ye made no rash move, following the crowd and keeping his hands on his head as he observed the assailants carefully.

He waited for the right moment; to act prematurely might allow him to subdue one, but it would inevitably provoke retaliation from the others—especially the one lurking behind. Without certainty, he would not risk his life.

“Hand over all your valuables—necklaces, rings, earrings, anything worth money. If you don’t want to be stabbed, do as you’re told. We only want money; don’t throw your life away,” the youth in the blue vest continued.

In those days, a cell phone was a status symbol, costing tens of thousands; he doubted anyone here had one, so he made his demands boldly.

As soon as he finished, the youth with the earring sprang into action, stabbing his knife into the driver’s seat so forcefully it pierced right through. His eyes were cold as he stared the driver down, making his meaning plain.

Though not perfectly synchronized, the two worked in concert, clearly having planned this beforehand.

With a cry, the driver, already pale and trembling, broke out in a heavier sweat and hastily handed over all his belongings, including a pager issued by his company.

The youth’s eyes flashed with greed at the thick wad of cash and snatched everything, stuffing it into a black bag he’d brought along.

Meanwhile, the youth in the blue vest kept his attention focused, watching the stronger passengers closely. Zhang Ye, looking like a mere student, was largely ignored.

The ticket collector, trying to be clever, quickly handed over a fistful of small change with a fawning smile when the youth approached. But he was unimpressed, delivering a hard slap and yanking the black leather purse from her shoulder, tossing it into the bag without a glance.

“Trying to be smart with me? Looking for a beating,” he spat, kicking her before moving on.

The ticket collector, cowed, dared not react.

Due to his position, Zhang Ye didn’t see this, but his memory supplied the details.

At that moment, the robber in blue stepped to Zhang Ye’s side, his back turned toward him.

Zhang Ye’s heart pounded, and he restrained himself just in time. He remembered: last time, another strong passenger had acted first. Only then had he seized his chance. So, he waited.

“Sir, I don’t have any money... I’m going to the city for work, they provide room and board, I didn’t bring any money,” whimpered a young girl, her voice quavering with fear.