Yankee Tycoon

"Splash—"

Water sprayed everywhere. Brian's hands gripped the pool's edge tiles like a vise as he burst out of the water like a dying beast, gulping down the cool early spring air.

His lungs burned, and his throat was full of the metallic sweetness of water.

"Cough cough... damn..."

Brian wiped the water from his face, his head buzzing. He clearly remembered lying on his rental apartment bed playing with his phone when his Samsung, charging while in use, suddenly became hot as a branding iron, followed by a deafening explosion and blinding light.

Blown up? Then where was this?

He dragged his weak legs out of the pool and looked around. A spacious outdoor heated pool, neatly trimmed bushes, and behind him, a modern three-story luxury villa.

This wasn't his rental apartment!

Brian shuddered and scrambled into the first-floor bathroom of the villa, jerking his head up to look at the large crystal mirror above the sink.

Beneath a mess of wet blond hair were a pair of deep blue eyes, a high nose bridge, and chiseled features. He estimated his height at somewhere between 5'10" and 6'3", but this body was way too thin, with a pale complexion that spoke of long days without sunlight, sunken eyes, like he'd been completely drained.

He'd transmigrated. Or rather, possessed someone's body.

The moment this thought emerged, before Brian could think further, a bone-chilling cold shot up from his tailbone straight to the top of his head. He stumbled out of the bathroom and collapsed heavily onto the white Italian leather sofa in the living room.

"Ugh—!"

Without warning, it felt like someone had shoved a red-hot poker into his brain and was stirring it violently!

The pain made his whole body convulse. His hands clutched his hair desperately as animal-like growls escaped his throat. Two warm streams of liquid poured from his nose, dripping onto the white sofa in a shocking sight.

His consciousness began to blur. Before falling completely into darkness, bizarre images floated through his mind—a gray-white electrified cloud violently tearing at and entangling with another pure white cloud, eventually devouring and merging with it bit by bit.

...

Who knows how long passed.

When Brian opened his eyes again, the headache had completely disappeared, replaced by an unprecedented clarity. He pushed himself up, walked to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, washed away the dried blood from the corners of his mouth, and looked at the face in the mirror with incredibly complex emotions.

He had completely absorbed the original owner's memories.

Brian Green, male, 21 years old.

The current time: April 2006.

This guy's reincarnation skills were enough to make anyone green with envy. His mother was Tiffany's chief jewelry designer, his father a partner at a top New York law firm. Because his grandfather was pure Germanic, Brian had one-quarter Germanic blood, which explained his blond hair and blue eyes.

Not only was his family background impressive, but he himself was a genius that heaven had spoon-fed.

At sixteen, he was not only fluent in German, English, French, and Chinese, but that same year, Brian wrote a novel called "Vampire Academy" that shot straight to the bestseller list upon publication, earning him royalties hand over fist. Right after, he wrote the young adult novel "Paper Towns," which was immediately snatched up by Hollywood giants waving checkbooks for film adaptation rights.

Flowers, applause, checks—they instantly flooded a minor's life.

Then came the turning point. Brian's agent convinced him that New York was too stuffy, that Hollywood was where geniuses belonged. So he moved to Los Angeles and enrolled at the University of Southern California.

But what kind of place was Hollywood? It was the world's biggest money pit and cesspool.

Brian stripped off his wet clothes and sank into the large massage tub, warm water flowing over his skeletal body.

Closing his eyes, the original owner's year and a half of "Hollywood life" flashed by like movie clips.

He hadn't touched a keyboard once. Instead, there were endless wild parties, Hollywood wannabes of all kinds throwing themselves at him, choking marijuana smoke, hard liquor, and those colorful prescription pills.

Drunken debauchery, complete degradation.

Just last night, the original owner had overdosed on drugs, downed half a bottle of whiskey, stumbled to the backyard in a daze, and dove headfirst into the pool, drowning himself. That's what gave Brian the chance to take over.

"What a wastrel..."

Brian stood up from the tub, dried himself off, put on a bathrobe, and began touring the villa.

Though he hadn't slept all night, the extreme mental excitement from the soul fusion left him wide awake. As he dug through the memories in his mind, Brian's heartbeat quickened.

Royalties plus film adaptation rights income—a total of 5 million dollars!

This poolside mansion in an LA wealthy neighborhood was a coming-of-age gift his parents had bought outright for 2 million dollars.

In the garage sat a bright red Ferrari F430, a gift from his grandfather worth $250,000; next to it was a silver Porsche Carrera GT, a gift from his maternal grandfather worth 460,000 euros!

He pulled out his bank card and checked the balance—over 2 million dollars in cash just sitting there!

Even more outrageous, his first two works had sold so well they'd been added to some states' education department recommended reading lists, meaning as long as American schools didn't shut down, he'd collect a steady stream of copyright fees every year.

"Whew—"

Morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the living room carpet.

Brian stood before the massive windows, gazing at the faint Hollywood sign in the distance. He took a deep breath of the fresh California morning air and stretched luxuriously. There was still a faint throbbing deep in his head, but it couldn't hide the wild joy in his heart.

In his last life, he was a struggling ghostwriter who'd died from staying up late for a few thousand yuan in fees.

In this life, he'd started out in the center of Rome!

An unprecedented excitement enveloped his entire body, like weak electrical currents flowing through his limbs, making him tremble slightly.

"Brian is dead." He looked at his reflection in the glass, a wild smile curving his lips. "From today on, I am Brian Green."

"Ring ring ring—!"

The shrill phone ring suddenly shattered the morning quiet.

Brian frowned, walked to the sofa, and picked up the landline. Before he could speak, an anxious roar came through the receiver.

"Thank God! You finally answered! I thought you'd died in some stripper's bed!"

It was the original owner's agent, Charles Miller.

"Calm down, Charles, I'm not dead yet." Brian replied flatly.

"You're not dead but you're about to be socially dead!" Charles's voice shot up an octave. "Brian, search your conscience—you haven't delivered a single word of manuscript in two whole years! The publisher's reminder letters have collapsed my desk! You took their advance, and if you don't deliver, they'll sue you until you don't even have underwear left!"

Brian rubbed his tightening temples. The original owner had left quite a mess.

"Get to the point."

"Listen, I don't care if your brain is full of weed and big boobs right now—Seventeen Magazine just contacted me. They want to invite you to write a blog column on their website, just write whatever about your daily life or thoughts! They're offering good money!"

Charles paused, then spat out through gritted teeth: "Even if you're creatively bankrupt now and can't write that crap anymore, don't refuse the gigs I find for you! You need exposure, understand?!"

Listening to the frantic voice on the phone, that suppressed throbbing in Brian's mind surged back up.

He had no time to argue with this mercenary bloodsucker of an agent right now. He needed rest, needed to completely adjust this body's condition.

"Fine, I got it. Accept the blog thing, I'll look at it later."

"Wait, Brian, are you serious? Are you sure you'll write..."

"Click!"

Brian hung up directly and unplugged the phone line.

The world was finally quiet.

He casually tossed the receiver onto the sofa and headed toward the spacious bedroom on the second floor.

Can't write crap?

Brian let out a cold laugh. With countless classic works from Earth as his arsenal, he wouldn't just write—he'd make all of Hollywood, and the entire American publishing industry, kneel down and call him daddy.

But for now, the top priority was getting some good sleep.