Zhou Mingrui was jolted awake by a piercing headache, like someone stabbing through his temples. Dazed and immobilized, he tried to move but felt trapped in a dream. Confusion clouded his thoughts as the pain throbbed relentlessly.

Suddenly, the pain subsided slightly, and Zhou Mingrui managed to open his eyes. Before him was a wooden desk, a revolver, and a crimson-lit room he didn't recognize. His heart raced—this wasn't his world.

As fear crept in, memories flooded his mind. He wasn't Zhou Mingrui anymore; he was Klein Moretti. Transmigrated. The realization shook him, but the searing headache kept his thoughts grounded. He spotted a bloody handprint and saw his own blood-stained hand. The mirror reflected an unfamiliar face, with a gruesome wound on his temple.

Was this real?