I thought what I was doing would be different.
It would change the world.
I thought it would be extraordinary.
But I was wrong.
This world is too old, there is nothing new, everything has already been said.
—From *The Total Eclipse of the Heart* by Arthur Rimbaud.
…
10 July, 8573.
In a hotel in Brussels, France, two gunshots shattered the city's tranquillity.
One bullet struck the wall.
Another bullet struck Rimbaud's left wrist.
A man reeking of alcohol had bought a gun, intending to stop his lover from leaving. In his desperation and panic, he fired the gun, then regretted it, trying to feign suicide, shouting loudly, "Arthur! Arthur Rimbaud!"
The pain seemed to lag by a second or two.
Then, from Arthur Rimbaud's wrist, the pain spread throughout his limbs, and blood dripped from the fingertips that had once written poetry.
This scene was unprecedented in their shared history.
The blond youth, who insisted on leaving, was initially confused, his pupils contracting. After realising the meaning of the two shots, he looked at the man in disbelief, as if he had seen sweet cream suddenly spoil and rot under high heat.
The man was still the same man.
He had simply broken down, his soul shattering the last line of defence.
Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud had known each other for two years. Ten years apart in age, they were drawn together by their talent, became soulmates through poetry, and lovers in the realm of love, never once reaching the point of irreparable rupture. Arthur Rimbaud covered his arm, faced the gun barrel, and in an instant, his expression turned to intense hatred and fear. He fled without looking back.
Love vanished without a trace because of those two gunshots, leaving only regret for being blinded by it.
The former lover was left to mourn in Brussels.
"You cannot leave me—!!"
Two months later, in his hometown of Charleville, Arthur Rimbaud recovered from his injuries under his mother's care and celebrated his nineteenth birthday. Ignoring the turmoil outside, he completed his final work—the poetry collection *A Season in Hell*.
He left France and moved to London, England, to start a new life.
However, every time he ate, his arm would tremble involuntarily, fortunately his left arm, which could be concealed.
A rising star in London's social circles, a British gentleman resembling a playboy, was circling around him, speaking softly and endlessly about the cultural environment in England: "England is a place that embraces culture and is suitable for creation. You should continue to create; you shouldn't waste your talent. Even if you don't write poetry, you can write other types of works. England has readers for you—"
While Oscar Wilde chattered on, Arthur Rimbaud focused on eating, filling his stomach.
Though they were the same age, Arthur Rimbaud's family background was far inferior to Oscar Wilde's; he did not have a father who was a knighted doctor or a mother with a renowned reputation.
At the same age of nineteen, Arthur Rimbaud had already experienced the highs and lows of life and gained fame in the poetry world, while Oscar Wilde was studying at Dublin's oldest institution, Trinity College, with no notable works in the literary world yet, only school awards. He had gained a small reputation in London for his eccentric attire and witty conversation.
"Thank you for your generous invitation. Goodbye."
"Wait!"
Oscar Wilde grabbed the Frenchman's hand, felt its stiffness, and quickly let go, saying cautiously, "I'm sorry, did I hurt your hand?"
Arthur Rimbaud was tired of such exchanges and sarcastically remarked, "The British wouldn't welcome me either."
Both England and France had laws criminalising homosexuality.
Oscar Wilde said painfully, "I know you've been hurt by love, and you stopped writing because of that man. I've already looked into it for you. The man who shot your arm is guilty of intentional assault and is already in prison. His wife divorced him, and even if he is released after serving two years, he will be despised by the French literary world."
Arthur Rimbaud looked down at the red men's high heels blocking Wilde's path, his eye twitching.
He impatiently said, "What does that have to do with you?"
Oscar Wilde replied, "I cherish your unique talent, which shines like a meteor across France."
Arthur Rimbaud forced a smile, "I'm best at wasting it."
Pushing aside the Englishman, Arthur Rimbaud said he would stop writing and completely ignored the person chasing after him. Oscar Wilde chased him all the way to the door of the temporary apartment Arthur Rimbaud had rented. The blond youth turned around and glared at him, his sky-blue eyes like a lake reflecting sunlight, shimmering with a stunning beauty.
He was utterly rebellious, and even after breaking up with the French poet Paul Verlaine, he did not appear dull or gloomy, but instead embodied the epitome of using beauty as a weapon.
Oscar Wilde's encounter with Arthur Rimbaud was a coincidence within a coincidence. After arriving in England, Arthur Rimbaud kept a low profile, not flaunting his identity as a poet, yet he was still recognised by some literary acquaintances.
Because everyone praised Arthur Rimbaud's appearance, especially his unforgettable eyes, Oscar Wilde decided to befriend him.
In this world, there is no one you cannot befriend—that was Oscar Wilde's belief, and he sincerely felt that it was a pity for Rimbaud to leave the literary world.
Oh, even though he didn't read Rimbaud's poetry collection much.
But for someone who was both good-looking and talented—he genuinely radiated Irish kindness.
Arthur Rimbaud stood at the door and suddenly said, "Since you know he was imprisoned, do you also know that I applied to have his trial overturned?"
"Ah?"
Oscar Wilde was taken aback.
The Irishman Oscar Wilde had golden-brown hair parted in the middle, a high nose, thick lips, and a lively, cunning gaze. His broad shoulders and handsome face exuded a dignified elegance, making him a prominent figure at school.
However, Arthur Rimbaud had no interest in Oscar Wilde.
Oscar Wilde's social circle had nothing to do with him.
He pursued a world that was new, free, and allowed him to burst with love and vitality at every moment. He despised people who married without love, mocked those who found no happiness in marriage, and opposed a conventional lifestyle. Accepting Oscar Wilde's advances was merely a repetition of a previous event.
He left Paul Verlaine not because the latter no longer loved him, but because he had grown tired of feeling bound by love. Paul Verlaine could not accept this, so he turned the gun he had intended to use for suicide against him.
"I have not forgiven him, nor do I take pleasure in his misfortune. I will not wait for an indecisive person. Simply put, I have grown tired of life in France."
"Writing—what a boring thing."
"You, with your clever little remarks, should go drink your milk."
Arthur Rimbaud sneered at him, speaking rudely and casually, completely unlike the refined elegance that London society admired. Roses are vibrant, with prickly thorns, growing wildly in any soil. At nineteen, Rimbaud wouldn't be as easily swayed as he was at sixteen.
Arthur Rimbaud pinched Oscar Wilde's stunned face hard. Compared to himself, the Englishman looked much older.
Oscar Wilde winced in pain: "Ouch—! You—!"
With a loud slam, Arthur Rimbaud fiercely shut the apartment door.
Oscar Wilde covered his still-aching cheek and mumbled, "You actually look down on me like that?"
He was furious. He should be the one looking down on the other, but when he thought of Rimbaud's daring decision to drop out of school and participate in the Paris Commune revolution, he suddenly felt a sense of admiration.
If he had done the same, he might have died on the battlefield.
After much thought, Oscar Wilde still felt that Rimbaud, who was so different from his classmates, was particularly unique.
A man without a background, yet proud.
"What a pity," Oscar Wilde mused as he walked away. Rimbaud did not believe in religion or God, like a brilliant light from France. Though not a nobleman, he was more noble than nobles, looking down on everything else, even gems as common as stones by the roadside.
Oscar Wilde felt a sense of loss, a subtle stir in his heart. When his friends asked him about his impressions after the meeting, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind—
"Mr. Rimbaud is very handsome!"
The following year.
In 1874, Oscar Wilde graduated and entered Magdalen College, Oxford University, for further studies.
Oscar Wilde could no longer find Rimbaud; the apartment had been sublet. Whenever he attended gatherings and discussed the French, he would inevitably mention Rimbaud, followed by Victor Hugo, Charles Baudelaire, and Paul Verlaine. He deeply admired Rimbaud's wild beauty and praised Verlaine for his discernment in discovering such a person as Rimbaud.
"In Mr. Rimbaud's eyes, there is the starry light of a beast chasing freedom."
This connection was also severed.
Arthur Rimbaud went to Vienna, Austria, but the process of publishing "A Season in Hell" was not smooth, and he felt a sense of defeat. Fortunately, he did not expect to have much influence in the literary world, so if it couldn't be published, it couldn't be published.
He did not expect that after inviting a coachman to drink in Vienna, he was robbed. Out of concern for his own safety, he watched helplessly as his money and coat were taken away, and he joked bitterly, "This is Vienna."
Arthur Rimbaud was penniless and ended up on the streets. Using his good looks and charm, he quickly began selling keychains and shoelaces. During the day, he enthusiastically ran a small stall. At night, he carelessly slept in the corners of the streets, unaffected even when invited with suggestive language.
Love.
That was a satisfying meal.
Sexual desire.
That was a one-time fast food, always choosing the best to eat—what's the point of eating trash?
Arthur Rimbaud could pick up and put down dignity at will, mysteriously unlocking his business acumen. Unfortunately, he couldn't stand too many things in the world, got into a dispute with Austrian police, and his business journey was cut short. He was deported back to France by Austrian authorities without a second thought.
On the way back to France, Arthur Rimbaud shouted loudly, "I'm going to travel the world! I will measure the earth with my own feet!"
When Arthur Rimbaud was twenty, Paul Verlaine was released from prison. Arthur Rimbaud, who was travelling, met his former lover in Germany.
Facing Paul Verlaine's pleas for him to change his mind, Arthur Rimbaud remained resolute, refusing to look back, putting an end to his wild youth: " You speak so sweetly now, but it's all empty words. How would I know when your wife will appear, or whether you will reunite with her? Verlaine, this is meaningless."
From the moment Paul Verlaine dared to pull the trigger, Arthur Rimbaud's heart turned to ashes.
This man is such a coward!
He met Paul Verlaine when he was seventeen. At the time, Verlaine was married, and he believed Verlaine had fallen in love with him and would eventually divorce his wife. But he never imagined that this man wanted to keep his wealthy wife while also being with him.
If you have the guts, just kill yourself! I'd at least respect you for that!
Arthur Rimbaud left without tears, replaced by a sense of freedom.
He began planning his new life—a European hiking trip!
Travel requires money, so he started trying other professions to survive. His mother and family supported his transformation. Arthur Rimbaud was torn inside but optimistically began his new life.
During a boat trip abroad, Arthur Rimbaud suddenly thought, "I want to be a sailor."
He was mocked by the crew on the ship, who said it was impossible.
Arthur Rimbaud, with his youthful mindset, ignored the obstacles and learned for a few days. However, before he could go ashore to seek a master to learn from, a sudden storm left him helplessly falling into the sea.
When he woke up again, Arthur Rimbaud lay weakly in the hospital, seriously ill, unable to speak, and was regarded as a survivor of the tsunami.
The ward was so bright, with a comfortable temperature, and the ceiling had circular recessed lights powered by electricity—a technology not yet invented in Arthur Rimbaud's time.
The days of recovery passed in the blink of an eye, but the confusion it brought to Arthur Rimbaud never ceased. Arthur Rimbaud watched the petite Asian nurse blushing as she cared for him, blinking his clear blue eyes. Realising he couldn't communicate in French, he asked in English.
"Where am I?"
"Tokyo, Japan. This is a special intensive care ward for foreign friends."
The nurse replied with sympathy.
In 2011, Japan was hit by a once-in-a-century magnitude 9 earthquake, triggering a massive tsunami and a nuclear power plant leak.
Tens of thousands of people went missing in the disaster, and many were left homeless.
When he woke up, Arthur Rimbaud found himself in the 21st century.
He had crossed two centuries…