After settling into the rickety chair, Jayeon—or now Clark—took a deep breath, his thoughts swirling like a storm. The memories, the poison, and the weight of this unfamiliar world bore down on him. Yet, as he sifted through his emotions, he arrived at a single conclusion:
There was no choice but to survive.
Perhaps if he'd had something, or someone, waiting for him back in his original world, he might have felt the pull to return. But he had no attachments, no unfinished business to anchor him. This was, in a way, a rare gift—a once-in-a-million chance to start over.
Clark clenched his fists, determination flickering in his eyes. "No other way," he murmured to himself. This world was his now, for better or worse, and he would carve out a place within it.
The first step was clear. As a civil servant, he still needed to formalize his appointment. Wasting no time, he quickly donned a neatly pressed three-piece suit that hung in a corner of the room—surprisingly well-kept, given his humble surroundings. With a final glance in the cracked mirror, he stepped out into the brisk air of the town.
The Town of Buleria
Buleria was a bustling town, alive with the energy of its residents. It was home to the lower and middle classes, its main road weaving through tightly packed buildings and leading to a sprawling market that sprawled like an intricate maze. The market was the town's heartbeat—a chaotic mix of vendors shouting over one another and townsfolk navigating the labyrinth of stalls.
The scents hit him first—spices mingling with the aroma of roasted meats, the tang of fresh produce, and the faint sweetness of pastries. The sights followed: stalls adorned with colorful goods, merchants bartering animatedly, and workers rushing to and fro with purpose. It was a scene of vibrant life, yet one misstep could leave a newcomer hopelessly lost in its endless alleyways.
"Hello, hello! Fresh wild boar meat, caught just this morning!" a middle-aged woman called out from her stall, her voice cutting through the din. She gestured enthusiastically toward a display of slabs and cuts, her smile as sharp as the knife in her hand.
Clark's gaze fell on the carcass behind her. Wild boar? No, this was something else. Its claws looked unnervingly sharp, and the curled horns on its head gave it an almost demonic appearance. A chill ran through him. How in the world do they even catch something like that? he thought, equal parts amazed and unsettled.
Moving along, he took in the lively scene—vendors peddling their goods, laborers hauling supplies, and shopkeepers arranging their stalls in the early morning light. It was a town teeming with life, a sight so rich and chaotic that it felt like a painting in motion.
As he wandered, the smell of freshly grilled skewers caught his attention. Succumbing to temptation, he approached a small stand run by a wrinkled old man, whose skillful hands turned skewers over a smoking grill. Clark handed over 10 seri—the local currency—and received a skewer in return.
The savory taste of the meat was comforting, grounding him in this new reality. As he chewed, he observed the market once more, feeling a strange mix of apprehension and excitement. This was no longer a life he could take for granted. Every step he took here mattered.
The Civil Office
Here's a more concise, natural version:
"Finally," Clark muttered as he pushed open the creaking wooden door.
Inside, the office was a whirlwind of activity—men rushing between desks, papers piling high, and the constant scratch of quills on parchment. The air was thick with the smell of ink and sweat. Dark eyes with deep bags told stories of sleepless nights, overworked bodies moved mechanically, and stern faces rarely softened. The faint scent of oily snacks lingered, a reminder of meals hurriedly eaten at their desks.
There was no time for themselves here.
This is just like back there, he thought bitterly, gripping the paper in his hand.
He glanced down at the 10 seri left in his pocket. It wasn't much. Two choices lay before him: stick to the safe, predictable path of a civil servant or abandon it all to forge something new.
His jaw tightened. Survive or risk it all?
Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.
"Oh… young man, may I ask why you're here?"
An old, balding man with a tired expression approached Clark, his sharp eyes catching the civil office stamp on the appointment letter in Clark's hand. Quickly connecting the dots, he asked, "You're the new hire, aren't you?" His tone was flat, lacking any real enthusiasm.
Without waiting for Clark's response, the man handed him a booklet and a small badge. "Write your name in this booklet. It contains your duties. Go through those stairs," he gestured vaguely, "and ask the lady there to guide you to your office. You'll have access to food and commodities provided by the office. The room you're assigned is strictly for working, not staying. You're expected to complete your duties promptly. Failure will result in immediate termination—no exceptions."
The man spoke with a clipped finality, then walked away before Clark could even thank him.
Clark pinned the badge to the pocket of his coat and made his way upstairs. As instructed, he found a woman behind a desk who handed him a set of keys. She gave him a curt nod before directing him to his designated office.
The room was dark and smelled of stale air. Dust clung to every surface, and papers were haphazardly stacked in tall piles, threatening to topple. So much for a warm welcome, Clark thought wryly as he stepped inside.
Taking a seat on the creaking chair, he instinctively reached for the nearest pile of documents. As he opened the first paper, his eyes widened. The words on the page weren't about mundane tasks or office policies—they were about him. Or, more precisely, the previous owner of his current body.
Clark Arcieus… illegitimate son of the Duke of Arcieus, dismissed for attempting to murder his brother's fiancée.
The accusation startled him. His memories, fragmented as they were, painted a different picture. She fell over me… and then spun lies. The thought was bitter, but it aligned with the flashes of memories he recalled.
What unsettled him further was a new realization. The poisoning… it wasn't just an accident. Someone had tried to kill him. The most obvious suspect was the prince, but could it also have been… her?
Clark leaned back in his chair, tension twisting in his chest. The deeper he looked, the more dangerous this life seemed.
Here's the continuation of the scene:
Frustration boiled over as Clark flung the newspaper across the room. The crumpled pages landed in a dusty corner, stirring up a faint cloud that danced in the stale air. He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples, trying to steady the growing chaos in his mind.
Fresh air… he thought. He needed to clear his head before diving deeper into the tangled mess of this new life.
Standing, he made his way to the room's window, its glass streaked with grime. With a sharp tug, he forced it open. The hinges protested loudly, screeching as if they hadn't been touched in years. Just as he leaned forward to take in the outside view, a deafening BANG shattered the stillness.
Instinctively, Clark ducked, his heart slamming against his ribs. A metallic ping rang out as the bullet ricocheted off the edge of the window frame, missing his head by mere inches. He froze, his breath caught in his throat.
Then it happened again. That strange, glowing red thread shimmered in his vision, weaving itself across his temple in a protective pattern before disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.
"What the—?" Clark whispered, his pulse racing. His hand brushed his head where the thread had been, but there was nothing there. No warmth, no mark—just a cold sweat running down his skin.
Another loud bang sounded, this time from the street below. He craned his neck cautiously, peering through the half-open window. A cloaked figure darted through the bustling crowd, blending into the chaos before disappearing entirely.
Clark's grip on the window tightened. His mind raced. That was no random shot. Someone's trying to kill me.
He slammed the window shut, his thoughts spiraling. First poisoning, now this? What exactly did Clark Arcieus get himself into?
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to step back from the window. Panic wouldn't help him now. If he wanted to survive, he needed to find answers—and fast.
The second bang brought a crowd surging toward the civil office, their anxious murmurs buzzing like angry bees. Members of the office staff spilled into Clark's room, their faces pale but alert. The balding old man who had handed him his badge earlier barged in, a rifle gripped tightly in his wrinkled hands.
"Hey, new boy, you alright?" he barked, his voice gruff but steady.
Clark nodded stiffly, still shaken. Before he could reply, the old man moved toward the window. With surprising agility, he raised the rifle, peered down the iron sight, and fired three sharp shots into the fading daylight. Bang! Bang! Bang!
He lowered the rifle with a grunt. "Escaped again," he muttered, almost to himself. His sharp eyes scanned the street below for any lingering movement before turning to Clark. "How did he spot someone so easily?" he added , shaking his head from the shock of everything.
Then, with a tone both irritated and dismissive, he addressed Clark. "Listen up, kid. The office's shutting down for a few days. It's too dangerous to stay here. Go home."
Clark stiffened at the word "home." Home? What home? I'll just be a sitting duck there, he thought bitterly. But the old man gave no room for argument, already shooing the remaining staff out of the room. Left with no choice, Clark reluctantly grabbed his belongings and made his way back to his new, rundown dwelling.
The walk home was tense. Every shadow seemed alive, every sound amplified in his paranoid mind. By the time he arrived, the shabby state of his temporary residence only heightened his unease. The chipped walls, creaking floorboards, and faint smell of mildew made it clear: this was not a place of safety.
I need a weapon, Clark thought desperately, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room for anything that could defend him. He searched frantically, overturning broken furniture and old crates. As he stumbled over a pile of discarded books, he tumbled forward, landing hard against a large, dust-covered shelf.
Groaning, he pushed himself up and brushed the dirt off his hands. His fingers trailed over the rough, uneven surface of the shelf. Beneath the layers of grime, something felt off. He leaned closer, his fingertips tracing the grooves of the wood.
Then, with a sudden click, the entire shelf shifted. A faint rumbling sound echoed as the bookshelf slid aside, revealing a dark, narrow tunnel with a steep staircase descending into the unknown.
Clark froze, his heart racing. What is this? He hesitated for a moment before taking a cautious step closer. The faint scent of damp earth wafted from the opening, sending a shiver down his spine.
Gripping the edge of the shelf for support, Clark peered into the darkness. He couldn't see where the staircase led, but a strange pull urged him forward. The mystery of his new life deepened with every step, and something told him this hidden tunnel might hold the answers he so desperately needed.
With one final glance at the shabby room behind him, he steeled himself and stepped into the tunnel.
As Clark stepped into the dark tunnel, the shelf behind him slid shut with a resounding BAM, sealing him in. Panic surged through him as he turned back, frantically kicking and pounding on the now immovable surface. His fists thudded uselessly against the wood, the sound echoing in the enclosed space.
After a few moments, he stopped, breathing heavily. No use, he thought grimly. In a way, the sudden closure felt like a sign—this tunnel might be his only way to escape the chaos above.
Taking a shaky breath, Clark turned and began to walk deeper into the tunnel. The air grew colder with every step, and the faint scent of damp earth was stronger here, clinging to his skin. The walls were rough and uneven, carved directly from the earth, and faint scratch marks hinted at its age.
His thoughts spiraled as he moved. Why does a room like that lead to such a tunnel? What was its purpose? The question lingered, unanswered, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
The faint glow of his surroundings—the source of which he couldn't pinpoint—offered just enough light to see his way. Yet, the silence of the tunnel felt oppressive, broken only by the sound of his footsteps and the occasional drip of water from somewhere above.
Was this tunnel built to hide something? Or… someone? Then if he had build such a tunnel why didn't he use it.
Many Questions ! A shiver ran down his spine, but he forced himself to keep going. This wasn't the time to falter. Whatever lay at the end of the tunnel might hold answers—or at the very least, it was better than staying in the city, where danger seemed to lurk around every corner.
His steps slowed as he reached a faint curve in the path ahead. He pressed a hand to the wall for balance, his pulse quickening as he prepared himself for what might lie beyond the bend.