**Chapter One: Crimson**

Pain.

Intense pain.

His head throbbed with unbearable agony.

The strange, murmur-filled dreamscape shattered swiftly. Zhou Mingrui, deep in slumber, felt an intense, pulsing ache in his head, as if someone had struck him brutally with a bat. No—worse. It felt like a sharp object had punctured his temple and was slowly twisting, digging deeper.

Hissing softly, Zhou Mingrui tried to roll over, to clutch his head, to sit up—but he couldn't move. His limbs felt frozen, as though his body was beyond his control.

It must be that I'm still dreaming, he thought. I might even think I'm awake, only to find I'm still asleep… He was no stranger to this sensation and strained to focus his will, to break free from the clutches of darkness and illusion.

Yet, in that hazy realm between sleep and wakefulness, his mind floated like smoke, elusive and scattered. Despite his efforts, stray thoughts drifted in and out of his consciousness.

Why would I suddenly have such a headache in the middle of the night?

And why does it hurt this much?

Could it be something serious, like a brain hemorrhage?

Damn it, am I about to die young?

Wake up. Wake up!

Wait… the pain seems to be lessening. But there's still this dull, gnawing ache, as if a blunt knife were slowly scraping inside my brain…

Seems like I won't be getting any more sleep tonight. How am I supposed to work tomorrow?

Work? With a genuine headache like this, obviously I'd call in sick! No need to fear the manager's nagging!

Actually… that might not be so bad. Stealing a little respite from the daily grind… he chuckled weakly at the thought.

With each pulse of pain, Zhou Mingrui felt a flicker of strength building, as if gathering within him from some phantom source. Finally, he mustered enough energy, his body tensing as he forced himself to sit up, wrenching himself free from the murky threshold of slumber.

His vision blurred at first, then cleared with a faint crimson hue. As his eyes adjusted, Zhou Mingrui found himself staring at a wooden desk in front of him. Resting at its center was an open notebook, its rough, yellowed pages exposed. Across the top was an inscription in strange letters, the dark ink bold and almost ominously vivid.

To the left of the notebook, near the edge of the desk, sat a neat stack of books, seven or eight volumes in total. Mounted on the wall to their right was a network of gray pipes and a wall lamp connected to them.

The lamp had a distinctly Western, old-world charm, about the size of half an adult's head. The inner layer was transparent glass, while a black metal grate framed it in a crisscross pattern.

Below the extinguished lamp, a dark inkwell glowed faintly red, its embossed design forming the vague shape of an angel.

To the right of the inkwell, next to the notebook, lay a deep-hued fountain pen with a rounded barrel, its nib catching a glimmer of light. The pen cap rested beside it, close to a brass-colored revolver that lay gleaming with a quiet menace.

A revolver? Zhou Mingrui froze in place, utterly stunned. The scene before him was entirely foreign, not a single thing resembling his own room.

As his shock and confusion mounted, he noticed that the desk, notebook, inkwell, and revolver were all shrouded in a faint layer of crimson—a soft veil of red light streaming through the window.

Instinctively, he lifted his head, letting his gaze rise slowly.

Suspended in the dark "velvet" of the night sky was a blood-red full moon, hanging high and casting its tranquil, eerie glow.

What… Zhou Mingrui's heart raced with panic as he suddenly pushed himself up from the chair. But before he could fully stand, another jolt of pain shot through his head, draining his strength. His legs gave way, sending him crashing back down onto the hard wooden chair.

*Thud!*

Ignoring the pain, Zhou Mingrui pressed a hand to the desk, forcing himself upright once again. He turned around in a panic, taking in the room around him.

It was a small space, with a brown door on each side wall and a wooden bunk bed pressed against the opposite wall.

Between the bed and the left door stood a cabinet with dual doors on top and five drawers below.

At about shoulder height beside the cabinet, more gray pipes were embedded into the wall, connecting to a strange mechanical device with exposed gears and bearings.

In the corner near the desk, a small pile of coal-like items lay stacked alongside cooking utensils, including a stockpot and a cast-iron skillet.

Past the right door stood a cracked full-length mirror, its wooden base adorned with simple, modest patterns.

As his gaze swept over the room, Zhou Mingrui caught sight of his own reflection—a glimpse of himself, as he now appeared:

Black hair, brown eyes, wearing a linen shirt, a slight, slender build, ordinary facial features but with deeper-set contours…

This… Zhou Mingrui gasped, a chill running through him as a chaotic flood of desperate thoughts filled his mind.

The revolver, the old-fashioned Western decor, and the strange, blood-red moon so unlike anything on Earth—all pointed to one unsettling conclusion.

Could it be… I've transmigrated? His mouth fell open, the thought taking shape slowly.

Having grown up reading online novels, he'd often daydreamed about such scenarios. But now, faced with the real thing, he found it almost impossible to accept.

So… this is what they mean by "a man who loves dragons, yet trembles when he sees one." After a few tense seconds, Zhou Mingrui managed a wry smile, chuckling at his own misfortune.

If not for the persistent pain in his head, keeping his thoughts sharp and clear, Zhou Mingrui would undoubtedly have believed he was still dreaming.

Calm down. Stay calm. Stay calm… Taking a few deep breaths, he struggled to rein in his panic.

At that moment, as he centered himself, fragments of memories abruptly surfaced, playing slowly in his mind.

Klein Moretti, a resident of Tingen City, Ahowa County, in the Kingdom of Loen, North Continent. A recent history graduate from Hoy University…

His father had been a sergeant in the Royal Army, lost in a colonial conflict on the Southern Continent. The compensation from his death had afforded Klein the chance to attend a private grammar school, laying the foundation for his path to university…

His mother, a follower of the Goddess of the Night, had passed away the year Klein was accepted into Hoy University…

He had an older brother and a younger sister, with whom he shared a modest two-bedroom apartment…

The family wasn't well-off—in fact, they were barely scraping by. For now, they relied on his brother's job as a clerk in an import-export company to make ends meet…

As a history graduate, Klein was fluent in the ancient Fusac language, known as the origin of Northern Continent languages, as well as Hermes, an archaic script often seen in ancient tombs and used in rituals and prayers…

Hermes? A thought stirred within Zhou Mingrui. He pressed a hand against his throbbing temple and shifted his gaze to the notebook lying open on the desk. The strange letters on the yellowed pages morphed in his mind—from peculiar to vaguely recognizable, then from familiar to something he could read.

The words were written in Hermes script.

The dark ink, as if it were bleeding from the page, conveyed a chilling message:

"Everyone will die, including me."

Hissing in shock, Zhou Mingrui instinctively leaned back, his body recoiling from the notebook and the ominous line written upon it.

He felt weak, almost stumbling as he reached out to steady himself on the edge of the desk. The air around him seemed to throb with a strange energy, faint whispers filling his ears like the eerie tales told by elders in his childhood.

Shaking his head, he dismissed it as an illusion. Once he steadied himself, he took a deep breath, tearing his gaze away from the notebook.

His eyes landed on the brass-colored revolver, gleaming faintly on the desk. A troubling question suddenly rose in his mind.

"With Klein's financial situation, how could he afford—or even obtain—a handgun?" Zhou Mingrui frowned, a sense of unease gnawing at him.

As he pondered, he noticed a red handprint smeared along the edge of the desk—a deeper shade than the moonlit glow, thicker than the crimson "veil."

It was a bloodstain.

"A… blood handprint?" Instinctively, Zhou Mingrui lifted his right hand, the one he had used to steady himself. Looking down, he saw that his palm and fingers were smeared with blood.

Meanwhile, the throbbing pain in his head persisted, slightly dulled but constant.

"Did I hit my head somewhere?" he wondered aloud. Turning, he made his way toward the cracked full-length mirror.

A few steps later, he found himself staring at the reflection of a medium-built figure with black hair, brown eyes, and a scholarly air.

So… this is me now? Klein Moretti?

Zhou Mingrui froze, momentarily stunned. The dim light made it hard to see clearly, so he took another step closer, nearly brushing against the mirror.

In the soft, crimson glow from the moon outside, he tilted his head to examine his temple.

The reflection revealed a ghastly wound at his temple, the skin around it scorched, smeared with dark blood. Inside, something grayish and viscous—brain matter—pulsed faintly, a horrifying testament to his current state.