Lying in the VVIP hospital room, Jermaine Anderson had already gone through two operations. Both his testicles had been removed—he was basically a eunuch. But even that couldn’t save his life. The cancer had spread too far.

As he shut his eyes for the last time, tears welled up in his cloudy, aging eyes—they were tears full of regret.

Out of everything he’d done in life, the thing he regretted the most was how he’d treated his wife and kid.

Crystal Harland, so beautiful when she was young—if he hadn’t schemed against her, there was no way she would've ended up married to him, broke as he was at eighteen.

He'd staged the whole incident, pushing her into the reservoir and then jumping in to "save" her. People saw her soaking wet, clothes clinging to her, with him carrying her out like a hero.

She married him to save her reputation. Had no choice.

From the moment she entered his home, she'd never had a single good day. Four months after their daughter was born, she simply couldn’t take it anymore. He was always drunk, hitting her. On top of that, they were so poor she couldn’t even feed the baby—no milk, nothing. Their daughter cried every day from hunger.

In the end, she saw no way out. Holding the wailing infant in her arms, she jumped into that same reservoir and ended her suffering.

His older brothers and sister never spoke to him again after that. Said he’d driven his wife to suicide.

Everyone in the village treated him like a monster. After borrowing money to bury them both, Jermaine left his childhood village, full of shame.

He went to the city, started from scratch—bit by bit, he made money, and with a little luck, caught the big wave of economic reform. By middle age, he was rich, running a successful company listed on xxx.

But even with all that money, he never married again. He brushed off every beautiful woman who came knocking.

Wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry. He just... couldn’t. Ever since Crystal died, he hadn’t been able to function as a man.

He tried everything—pills, doctors, even the strangest therapies. Nothing worked.

He ended up dying of testicular cancer. In the end, only his assistant and lawyer were there.

Jermaine figured he had it coming. No wife, no kids, cancer eating him alive? That was karma.

Right before he died, he clutched Crystal’s charm—the only thing she’d left him.

Then, suddenly—he opened his eyes again. His head was pounding, ringing so loud he could barely think. Everything felt wrong.

Hang on... didn’t he just die in a hospital?

Why did the ceiling above him look just like the one on his old house, cracked and peeling?

Confused, he sat up slowly. And then he saw her.

Crystal Harland, curled up at the foot of the bed, not a stitch of clothing on her. Her pale, pretty face looked completely lifeless, like all the light had gone out. Her bare skin was covered in bruises, crisscrossed in every direction.

Jermaine felt like someone had punched him in the chest. His eyes went red instantly. Were his eyes fooling him? Was this some cruel dream?

He rubbed his eyes and couldn’t help whispering, “Crystal…”

He moved toward her, wanting to hold her, but she suddenly shrieked and thrashed wildly, panic in her eyes.

“Get away from me! Don’t touch me!” Her voice cracked from anguish.Seeing how his wife reacted, Jermaine Anderson froze. Watching her tremble all over, the memory hit him like a truck.

Back then, Crystal had borrowed some money from her folks to buy baby food. But he… he’d found out and snatched the cash to buy booze, already neck-deep in gambling losses. Then, drunk and furious, he came home and took it all out on her—rough hands, harsh words, and insults he didn’t even remember saying.

Jermaine cursed himself under his breath. Scum. Without hesitation, he slapped his own cheeks, hard. One, two—over ten times. The sharp smacks echoed in their dingy room. Soon his chiseled face was swollen and bleeding from the corner of his mouth.

Crystal, tear streaks still on her cheeks, just stood there watching him. Then that mocking smile crept up.

Heh, how many times had she seen this act?

Every time he sobered up, it was the same performance—kneeling, crying, promising the sky. And every time, he'd swear to change, even smack himself like he meant it. But did anything ever really change? Not once.

She could stomach his rough ways, his yelling and bullying, but letting their kid go hungry? That she couldn’t take.

But she had no milk, no way to feed the child…

The baby started wailing again, faint like a kitten, piercing the silence. A glimmer stirred in Crystal’s weary eyes. In a panic, she grabbed some clothes to half-cover herself and snatched up their little girl. The baby tried to nurse, failed, and started crying even louder.

From the bed, Jermaine stared at the scene. His eyes wide, disbelief written all over his face. His wife, his child… alive. This didn’t feel real.

Could it be… that talisman?

Right before he died, he thought he saw it glow.

He’d died all alone, nothing but regret. And now, seeing his wife and child again, he didn’t dare even blink, afraid they’d vanish into thin air.

As the baby screamed again, Jermaine snapped out of it. No more just sitting there.

He sprang off the creaky bed, yanked his clothes from the floor, and hastily pulled them on as he hurried to comfort his tearful wife.

"Crystal, hang in there, I’ll go find something for our girl to eat,” he said, his voice tight.

With that, he ducked under the tattered curtain and shuffled out the door in worn-out cloth shoes, sprinting toward the village’s little supply shop run by old Mr. Smith.

Man, having a young body again made a difference. He ran with light steps, no aches, no chemo-induced fatigue weighing him down. The cancer treatments in his last life had wrecked him, inside and out.

Yeah, he deserved every bit of it.

At the shopfront, Mr. Smith looked up. The old man’s wrinkly face broke into a grin, exposing yellowed teeth.

“Back again for more booze? Same kind as usual?”

Last time around, Jermaine had been worth billions, had his fingers in a dozen industries. Baby formula? He could’ve bought a whole factory.

But now? He didn’t even have a few coins to feed his daughter. Burying his shame, he spoke up.

“Uh… Mr. Smith, could I, maybe, grab a bag of baby rice on credit? I swear I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

Hearing the word “credit” again, Mr. Smith’s murky eyes widened. He squinted at the red marks on Jermaine’s swollen face.Jermaine Anderson stood tall at over six feet, built like a brick wall. Folks usually didn’t dare get close—it was like he had some invisible force field. Judging by his bruised-up face, he’d probably been on another drunken spree and decided to take it out on himself.

What a waste of a good-looking guy. You wouldn’t find another young man as sturdy and clean-cut in miles around.

Too bad under that decent exterior was a man who, for years, rarely acted like one. If it hadn’t been for his sister arranging that marriage swap, no way he would've landed a smart and pretty wife with a high school education. That was rare in these parts.

Just picturing Crystal Harland huddled in thin clothes, baby in her arms and shaking from the cold...

Mr. Smith sighed as he bent down to grab a sack of rice cereal stashed under the shelf.

Jermaine couldn’t believe it himself—he actually managed to talk Mr. Smith into giving him food on credit, even with everyone thinking his word wasn’t worth a cent. He'd done a bunch of sweet-talking and ran all the way home.

As he approached, he could hear his daughter crying inside the mud-walled yard. That faint, whimpering sound tore right through him.

He hurried in.

There stood Crystal, just like when he’d left—bare legs and bruises all over. His heart felt like knives were carving it up. How could he have treated her like this when he was drunk? No wonder she ended it all in his past life...

She was barely covered by one of his old coats. Bet all those nice clothes she'd brought from the city had already been traded for liquor.

Jermaine’s chest tightened again, eyes going red as he croaked out, “I’ll go boil some water. You... feed our girl the rice cereal.”

Crystal's face paled when she realized he really had gotten some food. She clutched the baby close like a hen protecting her chick, eyes filled with fear.

“I’m warning you, Jermaine Anderson—if you so much as think about selling our daughter, I swear I’ll die fighting you. May your whole bloodline rot away!” Her voice cracked with despair, full of rage and hopelessness.

Jermaine froze, jaw tight. It was true. He’d once planned to sell their daughter to an older, childless couple in town—for drinking money.

The thought made his gut churn. What the hell kind of monster had he been?

No wonder he died of testicular cancer. Serves him right.

He bent down and placed the cereal on their rickety old table—one leg missing, propped up with a rock.

Eyes rimmed red, voice choking, he said, “I was scum. The worst kind. But believe me, I ain't selling our girl. Tomorrow I’ll go to town and find work.”

With that, he lifted the dark curtain and stepped outside.

He stood there for a moment, then slapped himself across the face—a few times hard. Blood trickled down his cheek.

He turned to look at the three shabby straw huts they called home—empty, no furniture worth naming. Cold pots, empty food barrels... nothing left.

Then he remembered—it was this very month, in his last life, that his wife had tied rocks to herself and their daughter and jumped into the reservoir.

His whole body trembled. But there was no time to crumble now. Night was falling. The house was out of food. Again.

He dashed out, heading toward the mountain out back.

On the way, he swiped a fish net and a rag of a pair of shorts, triggering the village dogs to bark like mad.

After half an hour of trekking, he reached the foot of the mountain, stripped off his clothes, revealing a lean, bronzed body hardened by years of tough living.