The bitter wind howled outside, swirling through the dark night sky. It was late, yet the master bedroom of Castle Deepvein in the heart of the town was aglow with light.
On the grand bed, a chubby black-haired boy, no more than ten years old, lay unconscious. Near the bed, Philip, the castle's butler, paced with worry, glancing between the boy and the priest tending to him.
After what felt like an eternity, the priest finally stepped back, wiping his brow. Philip's anxiety bubbled over. "Father Anderson, how is the young master?" he asked, his voice trembling.
The priest's face was grave. "Philip, I must apologize. The herbs we've administered and the holy water seem to have had no effect on Master Paul's condition. I have one last resort, but I need your consent."
"What method do you propose?" Philip's heart sank at the priest's tone.
"Bloodletting," Father Anderson replied solemnly. "I learned it from a traveling healer. It's a practice that has shown promise in certain ailments across the Eshadian Empire and the Zolux Kingdom."
At the mention of bloodletting, Philip's stomach twisted. "Bleeding?" he echoed, the weight of the decision heavy on him. After a moment's hesitation, he steeled himself. "Very well, Father Anderson. Do what you must."
"May the Lord of Light guide us," the priest murmured, his hands raised in prayer. He directed Philip to fetch a brass basin and then produced a sharp knife from his satchel. Gently, he lifted the boy's arm from beneath the covers, preparing to make the incision.
Just as the blade touched the boy's skin, Father Anderson felt a sudden pulse beneath his fingers, strong and steady. Startled, he paused, observing the boy intently.
Slowly, the boy's eyelids fluttered open.
"Bless the Lord of Light!" both Philip and Father Anderson exclaimed in unison, their relief palpable.
"Oh my god, what smells so bad?" the boy groaned, bewildered, his voice barely above a whisper.
As he fully regained consciousness, Paul sat up, confusion etched across his face.
Paul Grayman was an ordinary programmer, someone who spent his spare time devouring online novels. He'd often lamented the niche nature of the stories he loved, their authors frequently abandoning their works mid-plot. Frustrated, he decided to write his own novel, determined to fill the gaps left by others. His story would blend technology and magic, a tale where the protagonist would rise from nothing, armed with knowledge and ambition.
After months of preparation, he had finally begun to write. But the words had not flowed as he had hoped. Exhausted from battling writer's block, he had fallen asleep at his computer, dreaming of the world he wanted to create.
Now, as he surveyed his surroundings, he was struck by the opulence around him—luxurious carpets, finely crafted furniture, and ornate decorations. This was the protagonist's bedroom from his story.
"Where am I? Why is my body sticky?" he mumbled, his voice sounding strange even to him.
"Master, you're in your bedroom," Philip replied, rushing to his side. "You've been unwell, and Father Anderson has been caring for you."
"Master? Who are you?" Paul asked, his mind racing.
Philip glanced at Father Anderson, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "He doesn't remember," he said quietly.
"Don't worry, it's common to experience temporary amnesia after a coma," Father Anderson reassured him. "With rest and care, your memories should return."
Paul took a deep breath, trying to process this bizarre turn of events. He had somehow crossed into his own story, a fantasy world where he was now the protagonist. "So, I'm Paul Grayman, right?" he asked, testing the name on his tongue.
"Yes, Master Paul," Philip confirmed, relief flooding his expression.
As the priest continued his examination, Paul felt a flicker of hope. If he was truly in this world, perhaps he could shape his own fate. He had no memories of his new life, but he could still speak the language. The idea of amnesia could be his shield against scrutiny.
"Thank you for your help," Paul said, feeling a sense of gratitude towards the priest and butler.
"It is our duty," Philip replied, bowing slightly. "Rest well. If you need anything, pull the bell rope by your bed."
As Philip left the room, Paul nestled under the quilt, his mind racing. He was in a new world, one that he had created in his imagination. The possibilities were endless, but he needed a plan for survival.
With determination building inside him, Paul closed his eyes. He had to adapt, learn the rules of this world, and perhaps, just perhaps, become the hero he had always wanted to be.