A heavy silence pressed down on him.
It was suffocating, endless, an abyss that had swallowed him whole. He felt weightless, his existence stretching into eternity—until, suddenly, there was pain.
A sharp, searing pain spread through his skull like a molten spike being driven into his brain. His senses crashed back all at once—light blinding his eyes, sounds muffled like he was underwater, the sensation of fabric clinging to his skin.
Then came the memories.
Fragmented, scattered pieces of another life.
A name. A family. A world.
His mind reeled as knowledge flooded in, drowning out his own thoughts. He saw flashes of a city covered in mist, old-fashioned gas lamps, steam-powered trams rattling along cobbled streets. He saw faces—some familiar, some foreign—conversations, lessons, books filled with strange yet familiar symbols.
Then, understanding settled over him like a heavy cloak.
He had died. And now, he had been reborn into a new world.
Not just any world.
Lord of the Mysteries.
The realization made his breath hitch. This was no ordinary place. This was a world teetering on the edge of madness, filled with hidden horrors, ancient entities lurking just beyond perception, and the inevitable descent into the apocalypse.
And he was here.
Alive.
His vision finally cleared, revealing a dimly lit room. The ceiling above was wooden, darkened by time, with faint cracks running along its surface. He slowly turned his head, taking in his surroundings.
A bed, a wooden wardrobe, a small writing desk stacked with books, and a gas lamp flickering weakly in the corner.
It was unfamiliar, yet the memories in his mind told him otherwise.
This was his room.
Or rather, the room of the person whose body he now inhabited.
He exhaled shakily, running a hand over his face. The skin was smooth, youthful. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled the blanket off himself, feeling the cool air brush against his arms. He shifted, testing his movements, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
His heart pounded.
I need a mirror.
He stood up—too fast. The world tilted, and he had to grip the desk to steady himself. His body felt weak, like he hadn't eaten properly in days. Taking a deep breath, he moved toward the wardrobe, where he knew a small mirror was kept.
His reflection stared back at him.
A young man, around eighteen years old. Dark brown hair, slightly unkempt. Sharp yet delicate features, neither too handsome nor too plain. Pale skin, like someone who had spent too much time indoors.
His own face was gone. This was him now.
His grip on the mirror tightened.
The memories he had inherited were incomplete, but he knew enough. His name was the same—or rather, he had the same first name as before. His family was wealthy but not excessively so. They lived in another city, leaving him in Tingen for work and opportunities.
A recommendation letter from his father had secured him a position as a clerk at a trading company. Nothing prestigious, but it was a start.
It was normal.
And in a world like this, normal was good.
He set the mirror down, taking another deep breath.
Panic wouldn't help. He had read Lord of the Mysteries before. He knew what lay ahead—the horrors of the Beyonder world, the inevitable descent into madness, the apocalypse looming in the distance.
But he wasn't Klein Moretti.
He wasn't a protagonist blessed with a mysterious golden finger like Sefirah Castle.
He was on his own.
That thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.
He clenched his fists.
No. He had one advantage. He knew the future. Not in perfect detail, but enough to understand how this world worked.
And that meant he had time.
Four years before Klein Moretti awakened.
Four years before the world began its slow march toward destruction.
I need to prepare.
For now, that meant blending in. He had already been given an identity. He had a job waiting for him. If he acted too strangely, suspicion would follow.
He couldn't afford to attract attention.
At least, not yet.The morning air was crisp as he stepped outside. The streets of Tingen stretched before him, cobbled roads damp from the night's mist. Gas lamps flickered faintly, their light slowly fading as dawn approached.
The city was alive, even in these early hours. Carriages rattled down the streets, their drivers bundled in thick coats. Vendors set up their stalls, calling out to early passersby. Newspaper boys stood on street corners, waving fresh prints in the air.
It felt… real.
More real than any novel, any fantasy.
And he was a part of it now.
He adjusted his coat, gripping the letter in his pocket. Graham Chesterfield. That was the man he needed to see.
A clerk's job wasn't glamorous, but it was stable. It provided an income, a routine, a reason to be in Tingen without suspicion.
As he walked through the streets, he took in every detail—the signs above shop doors, the street names, the way people moved.
This city would become his home. His foundation.
And from here, he would begin his journey.
---Chesterfield & Co. Trade Office was a modest building nestled between larger, more imposing structures. A small sign above the door bore its name in elegant script.
Steeling himself, he stepped inside.
The scent of ink and parchment filled the air. Desks lined the office space, where clerks sat hunched over ledgers and paperwork. The rhythmic scratching of pens against paper filled the room.
A receptionist glanced up as he approached.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone bored.
He handed over the letter. "I'm here to see Mr. Chesterfield. A recommendation from Mr. Alistair."
Her eyes flicked over the letter before she nodded. "Wait here."
Minutes later, he was led into a small office, where a middle-aged man sat behind a desk stacked with papers. Graham Chesterfield was sharp-eyed, his expression unreadable as he scanned the letter.
"So, you're Alistair's boy," he said, setting the letter down.
He nodded. "Yes, sir."
Graham studied him for a long moment before speaking. "Your father says you're diligent and responsible. That true?"
"I like to think so," he replied evenly.
The older man smirked slightly. "Good. I'll offer you a position as a clerk. The pay is 20 pounds a month. Your responsibilities include handling documentation, organizing records, and assisting with reports. It's tedious work, but if you prove yourself, there's room for growth."
"I understand."
"You start today."
---
As he sat at his desk, surrounded by stacks of paperwork, he exhaled slowly.
This was the first step.
Not toward power, not toward heroism.
But toward survival.
And in a world like this, survival was the most important thing of all.
To be continued…