He was even smiling. He touched the tin box in his arms and felt a flicker of curiosity—would Rose like a hundred-year-old butter cookie?
The procedure was the same. He arrived in 2022.
The showerhead delivered steady pressure, an endless supply of hot water.
Victor took a proper bath for the first time in what felt like forever.
Midway through, Rose summoned the courage to step inside, then marched right back out, face aflame.
Outside came the rustling sounds of laundry being washed.
Victor found himself not wanting to leave.
By the time he finished bathing, his wounds had healed completely.
Rose caught sight of his bare chest and flushed all over again.
She had been so bold and familiar when they first met, pressing close without hesitation—and yet here she was, nothing but a paper tiger.
A paper tiger who blushed at everything.
He stepped closer to her.
Let out a soft sigh.
He was not blessed with fortune.
He was the son of General Vane. Sungate could not be allowed to fall into Declan's hands.
His sister's safety was still uncertain. He had to go back.
The girl's face was now red to the roots of her hair.
He leaned down, cupped the back of her neck with one hand, and gave her no chance to speak.
"I'm sorry. If you hold me back one more time, I might actually not be able to leave."
3.
He thought he would never see her again—but the person he believed lost forever had stumbled, quite by accident, into his world.
When he heard the rumors spreading through every street and alley: "Victor Vane's woman is at the General's Estate."
He frowned and seized a passing runner by the collar: "Where does Victor Vane have a woman?"
The man shouted: "He even gave her his watch!"
Victor's mind sharpened. It might be her—though it all seemed too convenient.
He told himself he would have to face home eventually.
He might as well seize this opportunity.
He did not wait for his old unit to rendezvous. He returned ahead of schedule, and sure enough, there she was.
He crushed out his cigarette. He still did not understand how she had gotten here, but one look at her was enough to lift a weight from his chest.
As though his oppressed, colorless existence had suddenly regained its vibrancy.
At worst, he would have her by his side, navigating this filthy, treacherous world together.
He traded a city defense map for a girl.
A girl who nestled against him, who trusted him completely, and who could never become entangled in the power struggles of this world.
She was from another world.
Only she was whole, only she would never betray him.
But the day Rose first arrived at the General's Estate, she made it clear she wanted to go home.
Victor's feelings were complicated. He understood her longing to return to a time of peace, and he knew that sending her away was the right choice—yet some stubborn part of him resisted.
After his conversation with Oliver, reason won out.
He brought a gun to her room anyway—intending to repay a life with a life, settling an enormous debt.
He had trained with firearms since boyhood. On the shooting range, he had worn lead weights strapped to his arms. No amount of unsteady hands could throw off his aim.
The only thing that could make him miss was that foolish woman, Rose Ouyang—who insisted on going home while simultaneously refusing to let him die.
It wasn't her life on the line. Why was she so terrified?
He found it amusing. And so, shamelessly, he stayed and squeezed into her bed.
The woman in his arms slept soundly. Her small hands rested lightly on his forearm, her breathing even and peaceful. He had invented the most absurd excuse, and she had believed it without question, turning her head and drifting off as though she trusted him completely.
As of tonight, they had only met four times.
The first time, he ate her breakfast. The second, he kissed those soft lips. The third, he'd stood half-naked and teased her.
Looking back on their encounters, he found them entertaining.
In those moments, he had felt besieged on all sides, his future opaque, everything hopeless—if he wanted to do something, he simply did it.
But now, Oliver's arrangement had provided substantial help. He no longer felt entirely alone.
He had never liked Oliver, but the man seemed genuinely devoted to Grace, without a trace of pretense.
This was the first time, since being abandoned by his birth father and betrayed by his adoptive one, that he had tried to trust another person. To call it trust was generous—it was more like choosing a co-conspirator out of sheer desperation.
And yet Rose lay in his arms, obedient and defenseless.
He could not fathom how this woman had grown up. What kind of world must hers be, that such a fragile creature could live alone?
That night, holding her, sleep eluded him. He didn't know what he wanted anymore. He reined in his instincts, redirected his thoughts, and began pondering something else entirely: could that piece of yarn actually work?
So while Rose slept the sleep of the untroubled, he rose quietly and drove to the wonton stall.
His eyesight was exceptional. From a distance, he spotted a half-worn piece of yarn fluttering in a crack in the wall.
He tugged. Sturdy enough.
Following the yarn, he squeezed through the narrow passage and pushed open the door that a few scattered stones had obstructed.
Modern furniture and appliances filled the room.
Victor silently untied the yarn from the leg of the sofa.
As though addressing a child who had not yet learned sense, he exhaled deeply and murmured to the empty air: "How could yarn possibly work?"
Victor was certain of it: Rose had not yet seen herself clearly, but he had already learned her nature inside and out.
Her heart was soft. Sever this escape route of hers, and she would never let him take a bullet to send her home again.
He pushed forward by stepping back. She would concede and stay.
Subsequent events proved him right.
Even the mere mention of sending her home—
She would immediately imagine the worst, then cover his mouth with a heartbroken hand.
Her hands were just as soft.
After dealing with the traitor Declan, he saw Rose waiting for him downstairs.
Victor's mood lifted at once.
He was nearly certain now—Rose would never leave him.
Rose belonged to him.
4.
But Rose sometimes drifted off, lost in thought. Perhaps she was remembering the life she'd left behind.
He could understand that, but it made him jealous.
When he grew jealous, he wanted to kiss her.
He had no experience with romance. Raised in military camps and officer academies, he had little patience for superfluous gestures.
Local wealth saw value in his family name and status—saw him as a regional warlord with soldiers and guns at his command.
Those girls pursued him, dressed themselves to his preferences. In the past, he neither initiated nor refused. He knew a man needed a wife, needed heirs. But always, at the edge of his mind, there appeared a girl in a white mermaid dress.
Now, looking back, the girl in that vision—with her eyes full of despair and sorrow—looked a great deal like Rose.
Perhaps it was fate's design. Perhaps that was why he had loved her from the moment he saw her.
Rose was the same. She drew close to him, spoke of love freely.
But her love was unlike his—it was irresponsible, asked for no commitment, a fleeting impulse of affection.
Far removed from the lifelong partnership Victor desired.
Why didn't she want a formal commitment? What was she afraid of? Was she holding back because of who he was?
He turned it over in his mind until he understood: Rose was from a hundred years in the future. She knew how his story ended—and that ending was likely not a good one.
And yet she still loved him.
The only explanation, he decided, was that she had been drawn to his looks.
Primal and direct.
She had even given up a safe, stable life for love of him.
Then he had better protect that face of his.
He made up his mind: while his face was still young and handsome, he would bind Rose to him—make it so she could never take it back.
Unfortunately, under a sniper's crosshairs from the high ground, he died again.
And took Rose back to 2022.
His hypothesis was confirmed.
So she had known all along that he would be defeated within two years.
He had seen too many conquered generals lose their wives and families.
He shook his head with a bitter smile, staring at the three brief lines written about him in the book.
Rose knew there was no future. Was she pitying him?
Victor carried Rose out of the modern house, placed her in the car, and drove her to the military encampment.
His own mind was in disarray.
So, like Rose, he could only follow primitive instinct.
He wanted to possess her, even if it meant making her a widow.
Yet within minutes of setting her down, he regretted it. Found himself shameless.
Rose's forgiveness only made him more miserable.
It was the sympathy and tolerance one extends to the dying.
Victor had always loved on his own terms, proud and commanding. He could not accept being placed in such a position in a relationship. He was a man. He was the sky over Sungate.
He resolved to change the course of his predetermined fate.
After all—if resurrection and time travel could happen, why couldn't he turn defeat into victory?
Oliver supported his decision to launch a covert war.
Everything proceeded in orderly fashion.
The munitions factory ran at full capacity, stockpiling weapons and ammunition.
Additionally, the blueprints and machinery he had purchased were already in operation. He would become the most heavily armed warlord, striding ahead of his era.
He drew out the engagement ring he had prepared—a ruby carved into the shape of a rose.
He had consulted Grace the morning after the charity gala and commissioned it from a trusted jeweler. He was waiting for the right moment to propose.
But alas, a band of jumped-up thugs had thrown his plans into disarray.
Not a single one of them would be spared.
He unleashed a furious campaign against the Green Gang, confiscating their weapons arsenal. With the munitions factory as his mighty backing, the assault was relentless.