The down-and-out magician Henry Clark transmigrated into a book.

He entered a horror infinite flow talent show novel, becoming the cannon fodder pretty face who died miserably in the first round of evaluations.

If it were someone else, they’d probably be scared to death on the spot.

Unexpectedly, Henry Clark not only wasn’t afraid, but swaggered his way through, pulling off wild stunts one after another.

After a series of maneuvers, he survived safe and sound, and also formed a grudge with the biggest villain in the whole story.

Today you scheme against me, tomorrow I’ll strike back—tit for tat, and it’s actually kind of fun.

But swaggering as he was, he really did crash and burn once by accident.

Facing his enemy pinning him to the ground, Henry Clark lazily lifted his eyes, "If you’re going to kill me, just do it. Don’t waste words."

At a disadvantage, yet showing not a trace of fear, he continued to provoke recklessly.

That person’s cold fingers rubbed against his earlobe, the motion pressing toward his carotid artery suddenly pausing.

"What a pity. I’ve changed my mind."

-

He once delighted in personally granting Henry Clark death.

Regretted day and night not having carved out his flesh, not having strangled his neck with his own hands.

But when he truly had this man pinned beneath him, another, more urgent desire grew wildly like weeds.

More than winning or losing, he wanted to see him crying, gasping, eyes red at the corners, begging for mercy.