August blinked as a cold droplet of water hit his forehead, jolting him awake with an unpleasant shiver. His eyelids fluttered, expecting to see the familiar blur of his penthouse ceiling, the sleek lines of glass and marble in his Dubai sanctuary. Instead, the rough, uneven texture of a dirt ceiling filled his vision.
Wait… sharp?
He squinted, blinked again. His vision was perfect—crystal clear without the usual haze that came from years of avoiding glasses. A clarity he hadn't experienced in years. He sat up abruptly, feeling a wave of dizziness roll over him, disoriented by the sudden shift.
Where the hell was he?
The plush sheets, the weighty comfort of his silk duvet, the faint hum of climate-controlled air—gone. Replaced by something cold, unyielding. His body ached from lying on hard, uneven ground. The chill seeped into his bones, making him shiver. He reached down, his fingers brushing the surface beneath him. It was a gritty mix of packed dirt and jagged rocks.
Definitely not the heated marble floors of his penthouse.
His pulse quickened as his eyes swept over his surroundings. Dirt walls, crudely reinforced by wooden beams that looked so ancient, so brittle, they might collapse if someone so much as sneezed too hard.
Thin, twisted roots dangled from the ceiling like skeletal fingers, adding to the suffocating claustrophobia of the space. The air was damp, heavy with the sour stench of mold, thick enough to stick in the back of his throat. It wasn't just uncomfortable—it was primitive.
"What in the…?"
The words left his lips in a breathless murmur. Panic gripped his chest, tightening like a vice as his breath quickened.
He scrambled to his feet, stumbling on the uneven ground, his head swimming with disorientation and fear. A growing sense of claustrophobia pressed in on him as he turned and faced the other side of the cramped space. Iron bars—twisted, worn, and covered in a thick layer of green moss—formed a crude gate across the far wall. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.
He was in a cell.
A cell.
"This has to be a joke."
He ran a trembling hand through his hair, trying to still the rising tide of panic in his chest. Maybe it was some kind of elaborate prank. Or worse, maybe his father's enemies had finally caught up to him.
A kidnapping wasn't out of the question. It was the kind of world he lived in, after all.
But this setup??
The dirt walls, the moss-covered bars, the medieval aesthetic—it didn't feel like the handiwork of corporate rivals or disgruntled enemies from the business world. If this was a ransom situation, it felt… unnecessarily dramatic.
Over the top.
He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing mind. What had happened? Last thing he remembered, he was lying in his penthouse bed, still fuming over the inheritance fiasco. He had lost.
What had he done before falling asleep? He retraced his steps mentally.
He'd read the latest chapter of Halfway Through Black and White, his favorite webnovel. He'd been obsessed with it recently, using it to distract himself from the mess his life had become. And then… nothing. He had just drifted off.
He opened his eyes again, his pulse still thudding in his ears. This was wrong. So wrong. He wasn't supposed to be here, in some dirt-floor cell with collapsing walls and mossy bars. He was supposed to be in his penthouse, probably still brooding over his losses.
"Great, I fell asleep reading about someone else's life, and now mine is going full psycho."
"Okay… think." He forced himself to take deep breaths, pacing the small cell. His footsteps made a soft scuffing sound on the dirt floor, the noise too loud in the unsettling silence. He tried to ground himself, to find some logic in the insanity.
Was this some kind of vivid dream? A hallucination? Maybe he had hit his head. He'd had plenty of lucid dreams before, but nothing like this. The more he tried to connect the dots, the more surreal everything felt. The air, the dirt, the cold—everything was too real.
His pulse spiked again as his gaze fell on his clothes. The tailored suit he had fallen asleep in—gone. Instead, he was wearing something rough and scratchy, unfamiliar to the touch.
His hands, too—his hands were wrong.
He held them up in front of his face, the sight triggering a sharp pang of confusion and alarm. His hands were paler than usual, the skin smoother, softer than the tanned, slightly calloused ones he knew.
He froze. No. This was impossible.
Before he could fully process the mounting panic clawing at him, a flickering light appeared in the corner of his vision, just outside his field of focus.
His breath hitched as his eyes darted toward it. The light shifted, warped, forming the edges of a window. But not a real window. It was like something straight out of a video game—a HUD, an interface that floated just at the periphery of his sight, translucent yet solid.
What the hell…?
Suddenly, the window glitched. Wild flashes of incomprehensible symbols and code filled the air, flickering before freezing in place. Then, without warning, a bright, cartoonish smiley face popped into view, obnoxiously cheery in the middle of the chaos.
August's mouth fell open in disbelief, unable to reconcile what he was seeing.
A voice followed. Chirpy, mechanical, and entirely too enthusiastic.
"Greetings! Welcome, User. I hope you have arrived safely."
August jerked back as if the voice had physically struck him. His heart raced, his eyes darting around the cell, searching for the source of the voice.
"What the hell?!"
The voice, unbothered by his panic, continued smoothly. "I am System 2.347E. You may call me Ciel."
"Ciel?" August repeated, his voice catching. His mind scrambled to make sense of the situation, the absurdity of it all threatening to overwhelm him. "What are you, some kind of game tutorial?"
"Close!" the voice chirped happily. "I am here to assist you with the mission ahead."
Mission? The word rang in his ears, each syllable more nonsensical than the last. Here he was, stuck in some damp, medieval prison cell, and now he was being told he had a mission?
The sheer absurdity of the situation had him on the verge of laughing—hysterical, perhaps, but laughter nonetheless. He clenched his fists, feeling the rough fabric of his clothes dig into his palms as he tried to keep control of his spiraling thoughts.
"What… tasks?" he asked through gritted teeth. "Where am I? And why are you in my head?"
There was a brief pause, and then Ciel spoke again, its tone playful, almost as if it were enjoying the situation. "You are in the world of Halfway Through Black and White, a parallel realm based on the novel that you were reading. As for your current location—you're currently in a holding facility beneath the outskirts of the kingdom of Cretia."
August's mind stuttered to a halt. Halfway Through Black and White? The novel he'd been reading? He couldn't be serious. That was a story. A piece of fiction. Not a place where he could actually be.
"Wait, wait—what?" August's voice rose in disbelief. "You're telling me I'm inside a book? The book I was reading?"
"Correct!" Ciel's voice remained as chipper as ever, completely unbothered by the monumental implications of what it was saying. "There was a slight glitch during your transfer, which is why you're here four years earlier than the story's start, but don't worry! I'll guide you through everything."
Four years early? In a story?
"Goddamn it," August muttered under his breath, running a hand over his face. This couldn't be happening. None of this made any sense. "I'm losing it. This is insane. I'm not—"
"You are not insane, User," Ciel's cheerful tone interrupted, as if reading his thoughts. "I assure you, this is all very real. And you, August Us Mervalus, are a crucial part of the story now."
August froze at the sound of the name. Mervalus? That name… it was familiar, too familiar. He had heard it before, in the novel.
Oh, hell no.
His chest tightened as the realization dawned on him. He slammed his fist against the wall, the sudden burst of anger shaking him from his paralysis. "Mervalus? He's some throwaway character who dies before the plot even starts!"
Ciel chuckled, completely unbothered by his outburst. "Not anymore. You've taken his place, which means you have a chance to change his fate—and, perhaps, the fate of this world."
August's head throbbed, a dull ache pounding at his temples as the weight of the situation finally hit him. He was stuck here, in some bizarre, twisted version of his favorite novel. And to make matters worse, he had been placed in the shoes of a dead man walking—a character doomed to die before the main story even began.
"Great," he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes at the sheer absurdity of it all. "Just freaking great."
Before he could respond, the door to the cell swung open with a loud creak, and a burly man stepped inside, filling the space with his towering presence. Tattoos covered his arms and neck, snaking up to his jawline. His expression was anything but friendly, and his voice boomed through the small room.
"Get up, scum," the man barked, his voice harsh and grating like the scraping of metal. "You're coming with me."
The man didnt hesitate to open the fragile looking cell door.
August barely had time to react before the man yanked him by the collar, dragging him upright with brutal efficiency, as if August weighed nothing more than a bag of feathers.
"Hey! Watch it!" August snapped, instinctively trying to wrench himself free, but the man's grip was like iron. He had the kind of strength that didn't need to exert effort; it was just there—natural, brutal, and unyielding.
"Let go, you big—"
The man grunted, a low growl of impatience vibrating from deep in his chest. He continued dragging August through the now open cell door, his steps methodical, uncaring.
August barely registered his surroundings as they passed a series of equally grimy, makeshift cells, their inhabitants too cowed or weak to react. A chill hung in the air, colder than the damp cell he'd just been yanked out of, and the faint clinking of chains echoed as if the place itself was alive with misery.
They moved through a narrow corridor, ascending a small flight of stone steps that felt like they hadn't seen daylight in years. August stumbled on the uneven stone, his head swimming as he struggled to keep up with the relentless pull of his captor.
Then they emerged outside.
August gasped involuntarily as the air hit him—a crisp, biting cold. The sky above was nothing like the smog-filled horizon of Dubai that he was used to. Instead, three luminous moons hung above, casting an eerie silver light over the barren landscape. Their pale glow reflected off the desolate ground below, giving everything an almost otherworldly, dreamlike quality.
It was beautiful in a way that shook him to his core, and for a moment, he forgot his predicament. The moons in the world of Halfway Through Black and White. The reality of where he was finally started to settle in.
This wasn't a dream. This was real.
He was dragged along again before he could fully process the weight of it, stumbling over rocks and debris as they made their way to a massive truck—one that looked like it belonged more in a dystopian wasteland than any medieval fantasy. The vehicle loomed in front of him, its dark metal frame covered in dents and patches of rust, its engine rumbling with an unsettling, low growl.
It looked out of place from the rest of the stuff that August had seen so far, yet it was so fitting for HTBW.
The man tossed him into the back like a sack of potatoes. August hit the cold, hard metal floor with a grunt, the impact rattling his bones. He rolled over quickly, sitting up with a groan, trying to get his bearings. His palms were scraped raw from the fall, and his body ached from the rough handling.
He wasn't alone.
Across the truck, another boy sat with his back against the wall, his arms resting on his knees.
His head was tilted down, casting shadows over his face, but what caught August's attention immediately was the boy's dark purple hair—almost black in the dim light.
His skin had a faint sheen, the kind that hinted at something tougher than regular human flesh, and then there were his eyes—piercing orange with slit pupils, just like a cat's.
August's heart skipped a beat.
No way...
The kid was Drakshal—one of the races from Halfway Through Black and White. The Drakshal were known for their resilience, born to survive in the dark and endure hostile environments. They had thicker skin than humans and were recognized by their distinctive purple-tipped fingers and glowing eyes.
In the story, they were a rare sight that only appeared a few times even during the event when all the races were present for.
But every single moment they were in was cool as hell.
This one looked every bit the part, though a little younger than most of the Drakshal he had imagined from the story.
August's mind reeled. Seeing a Drakshal in person was like coming face to face with a character pulled straight from his favorite book.
As much as this whole situation was terrifying, he couldn't help the spark of excitement that flared inside him. Here he was, in a world he had spent so many hours reading about, with one of its rarest races sitting across from him.
But that excitement quickly faded when he noticed the boy's posture—rigid, tense, and definitely not friendly. The Drakshal's eyes were narrowed, glaring off into the distance with a look that could cut through steel. His whole demeanor screamed stay away.
Grumpy, August thought, fighting back a smirk. The kid looked like someone had permanently etched a scowl on his face. He was like a mix of a sour teenager and the most disgruntled cat in the world.
"Congratulations, August!" Ciel's cheery voice rang out inside his head, the obnoxious chipper tone making him cringe. "You've met your first person in this world. Now you just have to talk to them. Who knows maybe he knows more than I do."
August rolled his eyes at the system's overly optimistic suggestion. He glanced at the Drakshal boy again, who had yet to acknowledge his existence, much less offer a warm welcome. This wasn't exactly going to be the easiest conversation starter.
"Well, this is just great," August muttered under his breath. "Stuck in here with Mr. Sunshine."
The Drakshal boy didn't even flinch. His orange eyes stayed fixed on some indeterminate point beyond August, as if the world around them was beneath his notice. His expression was a perfect blend of indifference and mild annoyance, the kind that spoke volumes without saying a word.
August sighed internally. So much for breaking the ice.
Determined not to let the silence win, August shifted on the hard metal floor, scooting a little closer. "So... what's your deal?" he asked, casually enough. "You know why we're here?"
No response.
"Hey, I'm talking to you," August pressed, raising his voice slightly.
Still nothing. The kid didn't even blink, his gaze staying fixed on the wall of the truck as if August were invisible.
In the corner of his vision, Ciel's interface popped up again, this time with a pixelated avatar of the system munching on popcorn, clearly enjoying the show.
"It seems I've been assigned to the wrong user. Is it possible to be this bad at talking to people?" Ciel snickered.
August's brow twitched in irritation. "At least I have arms. What do you have? A floating interface and an inflated ego?"
Ciel's screen animated a pair of pixelated arms that waved at August mockingly. "No, rather, I have a rich user, two arms, and a very reasonable ego."
August let out a frustrated breath, ignoring Ciel's taunts. He turned his attention back to the Drakshal boy. The silence between them was starting to feel oppressive.
Alright, let's try a different approach.
"I'm August, by the way," he offered, trying for a friendlier tone. "And you are...?"
Nothing. The boy didn't even twitch.
August's frustration mounted. "Look, I'm just trying to make conversation here. We're stuck in the back of a truck together. We might as well chat, right?"
For the first time, the Drakshal boy moved. He lifted his head slightly, his orange eyes narrowing as they locked onto August. For a split second, August thought he saw something flash behind those eyes—anger, maybe, or just plain irritation. Either way, it wasn't a welcoming expression.
Fantastic, August thought sarcastically. I'm stuck in a truck with an emo lizard kid.
"So, do you know where they're taking us?" August tried again, hoping to get some kind of response.
The Drakshal remained silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. The kid was about as talkative as a rock. August couldn't help but feel like he was being tuned out entirely. The lack of communication was starting to grate on his nerves.
Ciel's pixelated avatar popped up again, now holding up a sign that read "FAIL" in big, bold letters. August glared at the screen.
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"
"I'll admit, it's more entertaining than I expected," Ciel replied with a smirk.
August ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "Alright, fine. Be like that," he muttered, more to himself than to the Drakshal boy. "Guess we'll just sit here in awkward silence until they decide what to do with us."
For a moment, the truck rattled over the uneven ground, and the low hum of the engine was the only sound between them.
August leaned back against the cold metal wall, staring at the darkened landscape outside the barred windows. The world beyond the truck looked barren and unfamiliar—distant mountains and flat plains stretching out beneath the glow of the moons.
"So," August said, breaking the silence once more. "Any idea where they're taking us?"
This time, Grumpy finally reacted. He turned his head slowly toward August, his eyes narrowing even further.
"You talk too much," he said, his voice rough and gravelly, like he hadn't used it in days.
August blinked, taken aback. "I—what?"
Grumpy rolled his eyes and settled back against the wall of the truck. "I said you talk too much. Shut up and stop asking so many questions."
August opened his mouth to retort but quickly bit back his words.
Okay, point taken.
He was talking a lot, but could anyone blame him? Being thrown into a fictional world and kidnapped without a clue tends to do that to a guy.
At least now he knew the kid could talk. He wasn't completely catatonic.
"Alright, alright," August muttered, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I'll dial it down a notch."
The Drakshal boy returned to staring at the wall, his body relaxing slightly, but August could tell he was still on edge. The truck continued to rumble along, each bump and jolt a reminder of their precarious situation.
Minutes passed in silence, and August took the opportunity to gather his thoughts. He couldn't help but feel that he needed to figure out how to survive in this world, and the Drakshal might be the key.
"Okay, I'll keep quiet," August said after a while, leaning back against the wall and trying to appear casual. "But you have to at least tell me your name, right?"
Grumpy turned his head again, one eyebrow raised in skepticism. "Why should I?"
"Because if we're going to get out of this mess, we might as well know who we're dealing with," August replied, hoping to appeal to whatever shred of camaraderie might exist between them.
Grumpy gave him a weird, disbelieving look and then shook his head a little.
"Fine," the boy said, his voice still laced with annoyance. "It's Zarek. Just don't expect me to hold your hand."
"Zarek," August repeated, testing the name on his tongue. "Nice to meet you, I guess."
Zarek's expression remained stoic, but August felt a flicker of tension ease just a little. "Don't get used to it."
"Fair enough," August said, a half-smile creeping onto his face despite the gravity of the situation. "So, do you have any ideas on how we're getting out of here?"
Zarek shifted slightly, his sharp gaze assessing August. "You really think we're getting out?"
"Of course we are!" August replied, trying to inject some optimism into the conversation. "I mean, how can we not? We're the heroes of this story, right?"
He totally didnt copy that line from Gaius when he went undercover, which was a blessing in disguse because thats where he found his third party member, Treble.
Zarek's lips curled in a scornful smirk. "You've read too many tales, kid. There are no heroes here. Just survivors. If you're not strong enough, you'll die."
August blinked at him, suddenly aware of the weight behind those words, and ignoring the "kid" part. "What do you mean?"
Zarek leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing to slits. "You think this is a game? Out here, it's the real deal. You'll either learn to fight or become fodder for someone stronger. It's that simple."
His orange eyes squinted and looked deeply into August's. Then he spoke with an absolute calm to his voice as if what he was saying was a known law.
"You'll die"