Lucius stared at the doll, paralyzed by disbelief. Although the eerie glow in its goat-like eyes had faded, an oppressive tension clung to the room, pressing down on him like an invisible shroud.
"What… what just happened?" he whispered, voice trembling over the thunder of his heartbeat.
The poem still echoed in his mind like a haunting refrain—Chosen by the Devil—and the mere memory of it made his skin crawl.
He shifted his gaze back to the doll, lying on the floor in an unnervingly lifelike pose. A moment ago, its stitched mouth had seemed to smirk at him with malevolent glee, but now it wore only a passive, unsettling expression. With a shaky breath, Lucius forced himself to pick it up, his pulse pounding in his ears. He jabbed it experimentally with his finger.
Nothing.
"Either this is the strangest drug-induced hallucination," he muttered, voice unsteady in the quiet, "or that 'Lord of Horrors' my deadbeat dad kept mentioning is actually real."
The thought offered no comfort. The air felt thick and stagnant, as though the room itself were holding its breath. Lucius prodded the doll a second time, his fingertips brushing the worn fabric.
Still nothing.
He almost hurled it out the window, but a strange pull—whether morbid curiosity or lingering dread—rooted him in place. At last, he set the doll on the top shelf as if it were a ticking bomb, then took several steps back. His eyes stayed locked on it, silently pleading that it remain dormant.
Could this doll have caused my transmigration?
Was deadbeat dad dabbling in demonology?
Or is there something else going on here?
"If this were a novel," he muttered, "the protagonist usually gets a cheat item—a 'golden finger'—to climb the ladder of power. But judging by those goat eyes, I'm guessing this doll isn't exactly 'friendly neighborhood golden finger.'"
He remembered his father's ominous warning:
Whoever owns it will be subjected to sadness, pain, misery, and horror for all eternity.
"That's like taking an axe to my own foot," he said, grimacing at the very idea of relying on such a cursed thing. "And besides… being the 'chosen' protagonist is way more trouble than it's worth."
He inhaled slowly, forcing himself to consider alternatives. There had to be another way to get home. Plenty of fantasy stories had reincarnators and transmigrators—surely, he wasn't the only one dropped into a strange world.
If transmigration were a natural law, others would have been chosen alongside him. The devil wouldn't single out just one person.
This world indeed harbors many supernatural elements. According to his memories, Lucius's uncle even told him that the gods are real here and that people can meet them.
If these gods are anything like those in my world, they could assist me in a pinch.
Why seek help from a devil when God is available?
Glancing warily at the doll once more, he vowed, "You're my absolute last resort, buddy. Let's keep it that way."
He carefully edged away from the shelf. "No reaction… good. Phew."
All at once—
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
"EEEAHH!" he shrieked, nearly jumping out of his skin.
"Oi, kid! Quit screaming and open the door!" a loud, gruff voice boomed from the other side, cutting through Lucius's panic.
He blinked, heart still racing, and realized someone was outside. Right—it wasn't his real home but a cheap dormitory near the slums.
"Coming!" he croaked, voice hoarse.
Stumbling over a loose floorboard, he rushed to the door. Another round of hard knocks rattled the frame.
"Open up, kid!"
"All right, all right!" Lucius fumbled with the rusty lock. After a harsh yank, the door swung open, revealing a burly man with a scruffy beard, a permanent scowl, and an eyepatch.
Uncle Burnard—the landlord.
He barged past Lucius, giving him a shove. "Don't you know what time it is, kid?" Burnard snapped, a spray of spit hitting Lucius's cheek. "Folks're complainin' about weird noises from this room. Didn't I warn you about the nine-to-five noise curfew?"
"Strange… noises?" Lucius echoed, mind whirling. Could they have heard him screaming about the doll—or saw the noose dangling from the ceiling?
Burnard snorted, casting a suspicious glance over the messy space: the toppled chair, the rope still hanging from the fan.
His glare demanded an explanation.
Lucius broke into a cold sweat. "I—I can explain!" he stammered, waving his hands. "It's… it's for exercising!"
Burnard arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Exercise?"
"Yes! Growing boys need plenty of exercise to stay healthy—uh, wealthy, and wise." Lucius attempted to flex his spindly arms, grimacing at how unconvincing he must look.
Burnard's face hardened. "Do whatever you want, just not on my property. The demon forest is not that far from city. They'll clean up for free if you kick it there."
Lucius swallowed thickly and nodded.
Burnard crossed his arms over his barrel-like chest. "And another thing: your rent's going up five bits. Pay the extra by next week or pack up."
Lucius's stomach sank. "B-but I just paid you yesterday!"
He remembered the other Lucius paid!
Burnard glowered. "Call it a special fee for that rope stunt and the noise. Don't argue, or I'll toss you out right now."
Is this how adults behave here? he seethed inwardly. The boy Lucius had clearly been through enough already—did no one have sympathy?
"Please, Uncle Burnard," he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "That's… uh—"
Wait, what even is the currency conversion rate here?
"—half my monthly wages. I can't afford it."
Burnard snorted, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Rules are rules, kid. You screw up, you pay. Sailor's law."
"Uncle Burnard, come on. I've lived here for over a year, and you know I haven't actually… done anything." He glanced uncomfortably at the rope.
A sneer twisted Burnard's lips. "Yeah, you're too chicken to do it for real. So it's five bits more, or you're out."
Lucius swallowed his pride, forcing down a flash of anger. "Fine… but at least tell me why you're suddenly so sure I can pay?"
Burnard gave him a mocking smile. "Don't play dumb. Everyone in Kira knows you landed that gig at the mayor's place—performing at his daughter's birthday party, right? The old man will shell out generously if you manage to make her happy."
"Oh… yeah. Right." Lucius forced a grin, while his mind raced to recall that detail from the fragmented memories he'd inherited.
Burnard studied him with suspicion. "Guess that's why you had the rope, huh? Second thoughts 'bout your big debut?"
An icy ripple ran down Lucius's spine. Did the original Lucius try to kill himself because of this so-called birthday gig? That seemed… extreme. But apparently, performing for the mayor's daughter was no simple matter.
"Why… why would I be scared of a birthday party, Uncle Burnard? You must be kidding," he asked, voice quavering.
Burnard rolled his eyes. "Don't play dumb. Plenty have tried—and failed—to make that girl smile. They say she's a demon in human skin. Some even call her a Militia-made robot." He shrugged with a casual indifference. "I've seen enough folks in Kira end up as 'human seekh kebabs' to start believing it. Who knows? Maybe you'll land yourself in the gas chamber instead. Wouldn't be the strangest thing I've seen."
Lucius felt his blood run cold. Human seekh kebabs? Gas chamber?When did this go from a kid's birthday party to a war crime scenario?
Burnard took a step back toward the hallway. "I ain't got all night, kid. Pay me by next week if you survive. If not, I'm selling your junk. Leave a note if anything's sentimental—maybe I'll spare it when they toss out your corpse."
With that, he slammed the door shut, leaving Lucius alone in the suffocating quiet.
Lucius staggered back onto the rickety bed, limbs trembling. "What the hell kind of mess did I—did the original Lucius—get us into?"
He buried his head in his hands, trying to steady his frantic thoughts. The noose swayed gently from the ceiling fan, and on the top shelf, the doll sat in eerie silence, watching over him like some twisted sentinel.