New Year's Day, 1995 — Outside St. John's Welfare Home, Los Angeles
At the gate stood two people—one Black, the other white. The Black man was a middle-aged man in his thirties. Beside him stood a white-skinned teenager with an Asian face, greenish complexion, and blue eyes—clearly of mixed East-West heritage.
"John, let's go," the Black man said with a sigh to the boy beside him.
Li Feng gave a silent nod, turning one last time to glance at the welfare home where he'd spent his entire childhood. Then, without another word, he followed the man into an old pickup truck and slowly left that chapter of his life behind.
In the back seat, Li Feng sat expressionless, eyes closed, lost in silent thought and memory.
From the driver's seat, Zack glanced at the boy through the rearview mirror and chuckled softly. He had no idea that, behind those closed eyes, Li Feng's mind was spinning with thoughts too heavy for any normal fifteen-year-old.
My name is Li Feng. My English name is St. John Lee. I'm an orphan raised at St. John's Welfare Home in Los Angeles.
From the name alone, you can tell the place was affiliated with a church. That's why I chose "St. John"—to honor it.
Fifteen years ago, I opened my eyes and found myself in a new world. I was stunned by the frailty of my newborn body, soft and weak, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Like any fan of rebirth novels, I knew immediately—I'd been reincarnated.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But honestly, I had nothing tying me to my past life. I'd been a loner, and I wasn't exactly bitter about this second chance. I just sighed, wondering who had inherited my house, car, and savings after I died.
In my former life, I was born in a small mountain village in inland China in 1980. My father died early, my mother abandoned me, and I was raised by my grandfather. When I turned 16, my grandfather passed too.
With just 1,000 yuan from selling our home and land, I moved with some villagers to Hangzhou. From then on, construction sites and small eateries became my second home.
At 18, I got hooked on the internet and became a "network administrator" at an internet café. By 2000, I'd worked my way up to managing five cafés.
That job wasn't glamorous—I collected money, balanced books, and occasionally dealt with government officials. But it paid the bills.
As internet café regulations tightened, I left the legal business and opened a black-market café in the suburbs. In just a few years, I made a small fortune.
Later, I bought a legitimate café from an old contact, catching the final wave of the internet café boom. I sold it in 2012, paid off my debts, and by my early 30s, I had a house, a car, and a few million in the bank.
Still single in my 30s, I lived freely off the interest.
Then came June 2017. Ignoring all the warnings about not using phones during thunderstorms, I was struck by lightning—and lost consciousness.
When I woke up, I was a baby again. A swaddled infant with blue eyes, lying in the arms of a Western woman. That's when I knew I'd landed in the Western world.
Eventually, I found out I was in 1980s Los Angeles—a city known the world over.
Maybe rebirth brings its own perks. What I never expected was that I hadn't come alone. Somehow, in the chaos of the lightning strike, another presence had merged with me—a magical being named Einstein, once the god of magic in the world of Alist.
Whether he was related to the Einstein of physics or just shared the name, I don't know. But he was undeniably brilliant.
Einstein had lived a carefree life on the magical continent of Alist, conducting idle magical experiments out of boredom. One day, he accidentally triggered a spatial anomaly during an experiment—something even he couldn't control.
A space storm tore through reality, pulling his consciousness into the void. Somehow, it merged with mine during my rebirth, and we both ended up here—on Earth.
The god of magic is gone, but his memories remain… and they're now mine.
Just a few days ago, Sister Mary, the director of the welfare home and the only person who'd truly cared for me, passed away. With her gone, I asked to leave the home.
The supervisors agreed without hesitation. And so, here we are.
The truth is, I never formed any strong bonds over the years. My aloof nature kept others at a distance. I'd always been a solitary person.
After gaining Einstein's memories, I began to understand magic. By the time I could walk, I was already experimenting.
Three years ago, I became a trainee mage and could summon a small fireball. Now, I've nearly reached the threshold of becoming a full-fledged magician.
But magic isn't just about fireballs—it's about power. Real power.
At 15, I stand 1.75 meters tall. I may look slim, but I can punch with over 500 kg of force. If any boxing coach saw me, they'd beg to take me on.
Sometimes I wonder if I should become a boxer—Ali and Tyson were still legends in this era. But I'm a reincarnator. Wouldn't it be too underwhelming to just become a world champion boxer?
All those rebirth novels I used to read… the heroes always became billionaires, tech moguls, or Oscar-winning directors. So I scrapped the boxing idea.
The truck rolled into the eastern part of downtown Los Angeles, stopping in front of a shabby ten-story apartment complex in the slums. This would be home—for now.
Honestly, I barely know this city. I've spent most of my life in the welfare home, with only short rides on the school bus. Even after 15 years in L.A., it still feels unfamiliar.
"John, got any plans for the future?" Zack asked.
Zack never underestimated me. Since we met, he's noticed how calm and calculated I am—more like a middle-aged man than a teenager.
He also knows I'm already worth hundreds of thousands. And that my strength isn't normal. He once joked that I should go into sports and win Olympic gold.
"Not yet, Zack. Let's settle in for now and take it slow."
"Fair enough."
We walked into the building and took the elevator up to the twelfth floor.
There were four apartments on the top floor. Zack and I each got one.
Stopping in front of apartments 1201 and 1202, Zack opened Room 1202 and handed me the key.
"This one's yours. I'm across the hall in 1201. If you need anything, just knock."
He smiled and disappeared into his place.
Inside, the apartment was small but clean—one bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a tiny balcony. The appliances were all in place, and it was move-in ready.
I did a bit of cleaning, then dragged a chair to the balcony and sat down, thinking about my future.
For the past 10 years, I've lived low-key, slowly mastering magic while pretending to be an ordinary child.
I've only taken one big risk. Last year, during the 1994 World Cup, I used my memory of past results to bet with the $300 I'd saved.
Back in my previous life, I wasn't a football fanatic, but I liked Baggio. Working in internet cafés, I'd talked with many college students who worshipped him too.
I remembered every game from Italy's run in that World Cup—from the quarterfinals to the heartbreaking final. And I knew the exact odds.
Betting step by step, game by game, I turned $300 into over half a million dollars—even after taxes.
That memory of Baggio, walking off the field alone after his missed penalty, still lingers.
With the help of Sister Mary and Zack—both of whom I trusted—I managed to deposit the money safely. Neither of them was greedy. Zack, also raised at the welfare home, agreed to be my legal guardian so I could manage my assets despite being a minor.
"John, let's grab lunch. My treat!" Zack called.
"Sure thing. America, here I come!" I shouted in Chinese from the balcony, then followed Zack downstairs.