In the quiet stillness of the early morning, a single, determined ray of sunshine forced its way through a narrow gap in the heavy velvet curtains. It sliced across the dim room, painting a streak of gold across the sleeping face of a young boy.
Albert Anderson was still deep in the realm of dreams, his breathing rhythmic and slow. However, his peaceful slumber was about to be unceremoniously interrupted.
The door to the second-floor bedroom, located just off the landing near the stairs, creaked open ever so slightly.
A girl with tumbled brown hair poked her head into the room. Her large, expressive brown eyes darted immediately to the figure bundled under the duvet. Seeing him still asleep, a mischievous glint flickered in her gaze.
"Albert," she whispered, her voice rising in a singsong lilt. "It's time to get uuuuup."
There was no reaction from the lump on the bed.
The girl pouted, puffing out her cheeks in exaggerated annoyance. She pushed the door open fully and marched in, her socks padding softly against the carpet. Trotting faithfully at her heels was a chubby British Shorthair cat.
"Tom, do your thing," the girl commanded softly.
She scooped up the heavy cat and deposited him onto the mattress. With a practiced hand, she grabbed the cat's fluffy tail and swept it back and forth across the boy's nose.
Swish. Swish. Tickle.
Albert, who had been enjoying the final moments of unconsciousness, frowned as something fuzzy and persistent assaulted his face. He swatted blindly at the sensation, his hand brushing against soft fur.
Groggily, he peeled his eyes open. The first thing he saw was his little sister's grinning face hovering above him.
He stifled a massive yawn, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Good morning, Nia."
"Dad says he's taking us to London today!" Nia announced, bouncing slightly on her toes, her eyes sparkling. "We have to get your Eton College uniform custom-made, and buy all the stuff on the list!"
"Right, right. I remember. I'll get changed." Albert covered another yawn with the back of his hand. He reached out and picked up the British Shorthair, who was currently kneading the duvet with his claws.
He set the cat on the floor, stretched his arms high above his head until his spine popped, and finally rolled out of bed.
After a quick wash to wake himself up, Albert dressed in casual clothes and headed downstairs to the living room, the smell of frying bacon guiding him like a beacon.
"Up late reading again last night?" his mother, Daisy, asked with a knowing smile as she slid a plate loaded with a hearty breakfast—eggs, bacon, beans, and toast—in front of him.
"Thanks, Mum."
"Son, we'd better look lively. Today's schedule is absolutely packed," Herb Anderson said from the head of the table. He smoothed out a piece of parchment that had arrived a few days prior—the acceptance letter from Eton College. His face was practically glowing with paternal pride.
It was a universally acknowledged truth in Britain that private schools were the factories of the elite, and Eton College was the crown jewel among them. To gain entry, a student needed two things: exceptional talent and substantial wealth.
The Andersons were a solid middle-class family. Herb and Daisy ran a successful law firm together and had built up a comfortable nest egg, satisfying the financial requirement.
As for the talent?
That was Albert. In the eyes of their neighbors, teachers, and peers, Albert was a bona fide prodigy. Not only were his grades consistently perfect, but he had also swept through various inter-school competitions, bringing home trophy after trophy.
But was Albert truly a genius?
Only he knew the truth.
A genius? hardly.
Albert never considered himself special. He harbored a colossal secret that he had never shared with a soul: he was a transmigrator.
The "genius" label baffled him more than anyone else.
Take the Rubik's Cube, for instance. A child who had never seen one might struggle for days. But Albert, who could solve a scrambled 3x3 cube in seconds, was hailed as a prodigy by the adults around him.
To them, it was brilliance. To Albert, it was just muscle memory. He had played with them in his previous life, knew the algorithms, and simply repeated them.
As for how he maintained this façade of brilliance without slipping up? Albert wasn't worried about being exposed.
Why? Because he possessed the ultimate weapon of any self-respecting protagonist: A Golden Finger.
Webnovels really don't lie to you, he often thought. Transmigrators always get the goods.
It had started when he was seven years old. One day, seemingly out of nowhere, a semi-transparent interface panel had materialized in his mind.
[System Panel]
The interface had two primary functions: Quests and Skill Allocation.
Occasionally, the System would issue quests. Upon completion, Albert would earn Experience Points (XP) or Skill Points. XP could be used to slowly grind a skill upward, while a Skill Point would instantly boost a skill by one whole level.
The first skill Albert unlocked was [English Mastery].
It had taken him years, but he had ground that skill up to Level 3.
To put that in perspective:
Level 2 was the proficiency of an ordinary native British citizen.
Level 3 was the level of a seasoned English Literature professor.
The logic was simple. If he maxed out technology-related skills, he could become the next Einstein. If he maxed out athletic skills, he could act as an Olympic champion.
But Albert had no desire to be a scientist, nor an athlete. He hadn't wanted those things in his previous life, and he didn't want them now.
In his past life, he had been a simple creature. He loved reading and had eventually become a mid-tier webnovel author. He wrote a few books, saved a little money, and lived a carefree, slacker lifestyle, doing exactly what he pleased.
He was, in essence, a salted fish—someone with no desire to move or struggle.
And his death?
It was frankly embarrassing to think about.
He had been lounging on his sofa, watching a Mr. Bean movie, munching on a crisp apple. The movie was hilarious. He had laughed at the exact wrong moment, inhaled a chunk of apple, and choked to death right there in his living room. He was thirty years old.
When he opened his eyes again, he was a baby, crying in a crib.
He lived in a daze for several years, adapting to this new reality. Eventually, the family adopted a cat, which Albert insisted on naming Tom, a nod to the timeless Tom & Jerry cartoons of his past.
When the System Panel appeared at age seven, Albert had briefly spiraled into an existential crisis. Am I an NPC in a video game? Is this a simulation?
But after years of searching and finding no other "players," he accepted the panel for what it was: a blessing.
Transmigration + Golden Finger = A Winner in Life.
Albert's ambitions remained modest. He wanted to grow up, maybe date a few people, and land a simple, low-stress job after university. Ideally, he would marry before thirty, amass enough wealth to live luxuriously for a century, and spend the rest of his days enjoying true freedom.
To achieve this "Salted Fish Dream," Albert had a plan: Wall Street.
He intended to head to the United States after graduation. With his [Economics] skill maxed out, combined with his foresight from his previous life, he was confident he could rake in a mountain of dollars in record time.
The only catch was that leveling up skills was a grind. After Level 2, the XP requirements skyrocketed.
To get the Skill Points he needed, he had to complete quests. Getting accepted into Eton College was one of those quests.
"Son, you're miles away," Herb's voice cut through his thoughts. "What are you thinking about?"
Albert snapped back to reality. He shoveled a forkful of fried egg into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing.
"I'm thinking about my future career."
"Oh?" Daisy perked up, looking at her son with curiosity. "So, what do you want to do? You rarely talk about it."
"Finance," Albert said without hesitation.
Herb and Daisy exchanged a surprised glance.
"We thought you'd want to be a scientist," Herb said. "Or perhaps an astronaut."
"Finance makes good money," Albert replied simply, looking up from his plate. "Speaking of which, could you buy me a few university-level economics textbooks while we're in London? Consider it an early birthday present."
Herb's face twitched slightly. He coughed into his fist to hide his amusement. "Son, don't mislead your sister. Making money in finance requires a shark's instinct. Besides, it's not as if our family is poor."
"Right, that's enough chatting," Daisy interrupted, clapping her hands. "Eat up. And Nia, drink all your milk. Don't think I can't see you hiding it behind the juice jug."
"Ugh," Nia groaned. She hated milk.
Albert took a bite of his toast and sighed internally.
Life after rebirth was undeniably wonderful. He had a cute sister, harmonious parents, a wealthy background, and a cheat code for life.
If there was one thing that truly depressed him, however, it was British Food.
In his past life, he had read jokes about Britain being a "culinary desert." He had been skeptical. Surely it can't be that bad, he had thought. People like simple food, right?
After living here for over a decade, he no longer doubted the internet. The stereotypes were painfully accurate.
After breakfast, the family worked together to clear the table. Windows were latched, doors were locked, and the Andersons prepared to head out.
The morning air was crisp and cool as they stepped onto the driveway. Albert opened the back door of the family's silver Ford, ready to slide onto the seat.
Suddenly, Nia let out a gasp of surprise.
"Look! Up there! Is that... is that an owl?"
The family froze. Herb, Daisy, and Albert all looked in the direction Nia was pointing.
Sure enough, against the pale morning sky, a large barn owl was swooping down toward them. It was flying low, unbothered by the daylight.
As it passed directly over their heads, it released something from its talons.
Thwack.
A heavy envelope landed right at Albert's feet.
The driveway fell silent. The expressions on the faces of the Anderson family froze in unison.
An owl? Delivering a letter?
Since when did birds start moonlighting as postmen?