Chapter One: The Fall of the Family-Deuses Antigos, Rifles de Repetição e a Lei Seca(Zhang Yuchen, o Poeta Louco e a Espada Suprema)

The sound of the steam whistle startled Luen awake.

For a moment, he was at a loss as to where he was.

Before him stretched an old-fashioned ship’s cabin, a gently swaying chandelier casting its yellowed light onto glass windows, beyond which lay an endless expanse of sea. The wind howled across the water, seeping in through unknown cracks, chilling him to the bone.

He shivered involuntarily, his head throbbing with pain.

Just last night, he had been at home, pulling an all-nighter over a card simulation game called “Name of the True God.” Why was he here now?

Rubbing his temples with his forefinger, unfamiliar memories began to surge through his mind.

Ethan Polletta, a native of Winston, a coastal city in the northern part of the Kingdom of Antustat; third son of the Polletta family, one of Winston’s five major mafia clans; nineteen years old, a sophomore in the classical painting department at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts. Among his relatives, he was one of the few entirely uninvolved with the family's business.

As his father put it, “One among us must become a good man.”

At this moment, he should have been enjoying the moist warmth of the western coast, savoring the autumn in the capital and preparing for the fall exams. Yet a grim piece of news had forced him onto this homebound ship.

His father, Alberto Polletta, head of the family, had been gravely injured in an attack a few days ago and was now hovering between life and death. Ethan had to return home, to keep vigil at his father’s bedside, as tradition demanded.

So, was this a transmigration?

Luen drew back his thoughts and looked down at his hands—delicate, almost gemstone-like.

He turned to gaze at his reflection in the cabin window: a straight nose, deep blue eyes, a sharply defined chin—an exceedingly handsome face, bordering on gentle.

Now it belonged to him.

Ethan Polletta.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our long journey has finally ended. Welcome back to dry land—Winston awaits! Let us praise the Sea God’s name, and look forward to our next meeting upon the waves!”

“Praise Isis!”

The chorus of voices broke Luen’s reverie. A middle-aged man in an officer’s uniform stood at the cabin door, having just delivered his announcement, and began to perform a peculiar gesture.

He spread his fingers wide before him, quickly waving them upwards, as if imitating surging waves—or perhaps a tangle of unruly hair.

Everyone in the cabin followed suit without exception. Luen, not wanting to appear odd, joined in, praising Isis as well.

Suddenly, he felt a strange ripple, and everything around him blurred. A fierce light blossomed before his eyes; within it, something squirmed, alive yet fluid like mercury.

The Name of the True God?

He remembered the final scene of the game he’d finished last night—the ultimate ending, where he obtained the Name of the True God, and saw exactly this image.

Could it be real? Had it crossed over with him?

“Master Ethan, it’s time to disembark. I believe your family is waiting for you.”

A voice pulled Luen back to reality. The cabin was nearly empty, save for the officer standing before him.

He now recalled the man’s name—Carlos, a beneficiary of his family’s kindness, who had secured his urgent ticket for this voyage.

“Alright,” Luen—no, now Ethan—nodded, taking a deep breath. The glaring light had faded, like a hallucination. He could only try to acclimate himself to this new world.

“I’ve heard about your father’s condition. I hope he recovers—he’s such a generous and remarkable man,” Carlos said, following a few steps behind.

“Thank you.” Ethan didn’t look back as he stepped out of the cabin.

The air on deck was bitterly cold. It was afternoon; the sun hung low on the horizon. Perhaps due to the floating ice on the distant sea, even the sunlight seemed frigid.

Ethan exhaled a frosty breath, and as he approached the rail, someone called out to him.

“Master Ethan, over here!”

A girl of seventeen or eighteen, stern-faced, dressed in a tailored black hunting suit and matching newsboy cap, stood waiting. Her silver hair was tied in a ponytail, black leather gloves on her hands, calfskin boots on her feet—she appeared impeccably clean and efficient.

Anya—Ethan remembered her as his father’s adopted daughter, trained from childhood in assassination skills, destined to be his elder brother’s sharpest weapon.

Why was she here to receive him? Where was his second uncle?

Usually, it was his uncle who met him.

Ethan crossed the gangplank onto the quay, following Anya as she turned toward a waiting car—a sleek, vintage black automobile.

Of course, “vintage” was from Ethan’s perspective; in reality, this model was the height of fashion, with a prow-shaped front, the pride of Klaus Company’s latest design.

Once inside, Anya expertly maneuvered the car away from the dock.

Only when Ethan saw a parade of townsfolk escorting a giant wine bottle model past the window did Anya speak again.

“Master, aside from your father, all your family members are dead.”

“What did you say?” Ethan frowned.

“I mean it literally.” Anya paused, then continued, “After your father was attacked, he fell into a deep coma. Your brother Leonardo took over, swiftly uncovering the truth—the culprit was Joan, head of the rising Cabrera clan. Two nights ago, your brother led the family’s elite on a full-scale revenge assault, only for the entire force to be annihilated. If I hadn’t been returning to Winston that night, I would have died as well.”

Anya’s tone was detached, as if recounting someone else’s tragedy. Ethan caught her emerald-green eyes in the rearview mirror.

For a moment, silence hung between them. Ethan wanted to ask, can I return to the capital and never come back?

Anya seemed to read his thoughts and spoke again: “You need not worry about your safety. Yesterday, your father awoke and called upon Sandro of the Conti family to mediate. Joan has agreed to a ceasefire, on condition that the Pollettas withdraw from Winston entirely. You have returned to settle the family’s affairs, since your father is bedridden.”

The Conti family was Winston’s largest mafia clan, Sandro revered as the city’s saint of the underworld, possessing unmatched authority—his word was law.

Sifting through his memories, Ethan relaxed slightly.

But to transmigrate only to find one’s family destroyed was a bitter pill to swallow.

Especially when he had to take charge himself.

A long silence filled the car.

Ethan couldn’t help but glance aside.

A newspaper, carried by the wind, now covered the dusty window. Its headline read:

The Royal Parliament has passed the latest bill—Prohibition to be implemented nationwide.