Pain.
Excruciating pain.
An unbearable ache throbbed in Zhou Mingrui's head as his fragmented, kaleidoscopic dreams dissolved into whispers and shadows. It felt as if a sharp object had been plunged into his temple and twisted mercilessly.
Hissing in discomfort, Zhou Mingrui instinctively tried to roll over, press his head, or sit up, but his body refused to obey—his limbs were utterly immobilized.
I must still be dreaming, he thought hazily. Maybe it's one of those dreams where you think you've woken up, but you're still asleep.
Familiar with this unsettling phenomenon, Zhou Mingrui mustered all his willpower to break free from the darkness and the haze. Yet, in the half-conscious state between sleep and wakefulness, his thoughts scattered like smoke, unyielding to his efforts.
Why does my head hurt so much in the middle of the night? Could it be… a brain hemorrhage?
A chill ran through him at the thought.
Am I about to die young? No way, wake up! Wake up!
The pain began to ease, fading into a dull sensation like a blunt knife scraping at his brain.
I can't sleep like this. How am I supposed to work tomorrow?
Then another thought intruded: Forget work—this is serious! Just call in sick. No need to worry about the manager's nagging.
The idea of shirking work sparked a fleeting sense of glee in his mind: Maybe this isn't so bad after all—a stolen moment of freedom, so to speak.
The surges of pain accumulated, each wave bolstering his resolve. Finally, Zhou Mingrui gathered enough strength to sit up abruptly, breaking free from the twilight state that gripped him.
At first, his vision was blurry. Then, a faint crimson hue clouded his sight. As he blinked to clear his eyes, he realized he was staring at a wooden desk. At its center lay an open notebook, its pages rough and yellowed. Strange letters, bold and inky, were scrawled across the top of the page, their dark intensity almost dripping off the parchment.
To the notebook's left was a neat stack of seven or eight books, while to its right stood a wall adorned with gray-white pipes that led to a wall-mounted lamp.
The lamp exuded an old-world charm, resembling a Western classic design. It was about half the size of an adult's head, with a transparent glass interior surrounded by a lattice of black metal.
Beneath the unlit lamp sat a black ink bottle, faintly glowing with a crimson sheen. The embossed surface bore a hazy angelic motif.
Next to the ink bottle, on the notebook's right, rested a round-bodied fountain pen. Its nib shimmered faintly in the dim light, while its cap lay beside a brass-colored revolver.
Revolver? Zhou Mingrui froze. The unfamiliar objects before him had no resemblance to anything in his room.
As he stared in astonishment, he noticed that everything—the desk, the notebook, the ink bottle, and the revolver—was shrouded in a crimson "veil," illuminated by light seeping in from a nearby window.
His gaze instinctively followed the source of the glow.
In the sky beyond, suspended against a velvet-black backdrop, hung a crimson full moon, serene and unyielding.
A chill surged through Zhou Mingrui. Panic-stricken, he scrambled to stand, but a sudden jolt of pain shot through his head. His legs buckled, and he fell heavily back into the wooden chair with a resounding thud.
Snap!
The ache didn't stop him for long. He steadied himself against the desk and rose again, turning in alarm to survey his surroundings.
The room was small, with two brown doors on opposite sides. Against the far wall stood a wooden bunk bed. Beside it, wedged between the bed and the left door, was a cupboard with double doors on top and five drawers beneath.
At waist height, a set of gray-white pipes embedded in the wall connected to a peculiar mechanical device, its gears and bearings partially exposed.
In the corner near the desk was what appeared to be a coal stove, accompanied by cookware such as pots and pans.
Past the right door was a standing mirror with two cracks running through it. Its wooden base was adorned with simple, unassuming carvings.
When Zhou Mingrui glanced into the mirror, the figure reflected back took his breath away.
A young man with black hair, brown eyes, and a thin frame stood in a linen shirt. His features were ordinary yet defined, with a scholarly air about him.
This… is me?
Zhou Mingrui's thoughts spiraled. A revolver, Western-style furnishings, and that crimson moon… Could it be?
Have I… traveled to another world?
His mouth fell open, disbelief and bewilderment flooding his mind.
Growing up reading web novels, he'd often fantasized about such scenarios. But now that it seemed real, he found himself utterly unprepared.
So this is what they call being all talk and no action, he thought bitterly, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
The lingering pain in his head kept his mind sharp and clear, sparing him from dismissing this as a mere dream.
Stay calm. Stay calm.
Taking several deep breaths, Zhou Mingrui willed his frayed nerves to settle.
And then, like a dam breaking, unfamiliar fragments of memory began pouring into his mind:
Klein Moretti, a recent history graduate from Hoy University in the Kingdom of Ruen, North Continent…
His father, a sergeant in the Royal Army, had died in a colonial conflict in the Southern Continent. The compensation from his death had afforded Klein an education at a private grammar school, paving the way for his university studies…
His mother, a devout follower of the Goddess of the Night, had passed away the year Klein was admitted to Hoy University…
He had an older brother and a younger sister, all living together in a modest two-bedroom apartment. The family's financial situation was dire, sustained only by his brother's clerical job at an import-export company…
As a history major, Klein had mastered Old Feysac, the supposed root language of Northern Continent nations, as well as the Hermesian Script often found in ancient tombs, used for rituals and prayers…
Hermesian Script? Zhou Mingrui's mind sharpened as his gaze fell on the notebook atop the desk. Gradually, the strange letters on its yellowed pages transformed, shifting from alien to familiar, until their meaning was clear.
Written in bold, dripping ink was a simple yet ominous phrase:
"All men must die, including me."
A chill gripped Zhou Mingrui. Instinctively, he leaned back, as though the words themselves were dangerous.
He staggered, nearly losing his balance, and had to brace himself against the desk. The air around him seemed heavier, filled with faint whispers, like a lingering shadow of childhood ghost stories.
Shaking his head, he steadied himself and took a deep breath, tearing his gaze away from the notebook.
That was when his eyes fell on the brass revolver.
How could Klein's impoverished family afford such a weapon? Zhou Mingrui frowned.
As he pondered, he noticed a crimson handprint at the desk's edge. Its hue was darker than the moonlight, thicker than the veil of red.
Blood?
Startled, Zhou Mingrui flipped his right hand over, revealing a palm and fingers stained with crimson.
At that moment, the persistent throb in his head intensified.
Did I hit my head? He speculated as he turned toward the cracked mirror.
Taking a few steps closer, his reflection grew clearer: medium build, black hair, brown eyes, a scholarly presence. This was now his reality.
He leaned in until his face was nearly pressed against the glass. Under the faint, scarlet moonlight, he examined his temple.
Reflected in the mirror was a gruesome wound etched into his temple. Its edges were scorched, the surrounding skin smeared with blood. Within the wound, grayish-white brain matter writhed faintly.