II
"Mister," a voice called faintly. "Mister!"
I blinked awake, my head pounding like a war drum. The world came into focus—a dirtied cobblestone street and a sky choked with smoke, fading sunlight barely piercing through the haze. My eyes met a flickering display, suspended in mid-air: [Level 9].
"Hey! This is my spot!"
A boy, no older than ten, stood before me, his bony frame wrapped in a patched coat several sizes too big. He shook my shoulder with surprising force. I sat up, groaning as I took in my surroundings. The boy huffed and began gathering newspaper after newspaper, stacking them into a makeshift bed.
"What are you staring at?" he asked, glaring as he fluffed the crumpled papers. "Find your own spot, mister!"
I didn't respond right away. My eyes wandered from his gaunt face to the cobblestones beneath me, then to the bustle of a polluted street where horse-drawn carriages clattered past. The air was thick, damp, and reeked of smoke. Victorian-style lampposts flickered dimly, their gaslights barely illuminating the encroaching evening.
This was… Questworks.
Unbelievable calm settled over me, a strange stillness that made no sense given the circumstances. I brushed my hands down the front of my filthy suit. The fabric felt real. Greasy hair fell over my forehead when I raked my fingers through it. My heart wasn't racing; my breathing was steady. And yet, this was transmigration.
I had read enough novels to know the signs.
My last memory surfaced like a bubble breaking the surface of still water: Questworks. I was in the final stretch, battling the Mourning Dragon. The thrill of victory surged through me—then… darkness. A void so vast and consuming it was hard to describe. That, and the hollow weight it left behind.
But how?
I stood, brushing the dirt off my pants, and began walking. The cobblestones beneath my feet seemed to hum with familiarity. Glowing markers floated above the heads of those passing by: [Level 13], [Level 14], [Level 5], [Level 8]. The numbers flickered faintly in Questworks's unmistakable style.
It was real.
As I walked, the details of the world grew sharper. Questworks was a blend of the Victorian Era's grandeur and the rugged, chaotic energy of the Medieval Age. Sword-and-sorcery aesthetics spilled into every corner: towering chimneys belched smoke, narrow alleys whispered of hidden quests, and strangers murmured tales of monsters lurking just beyond the city walls.
I stopped in front of a tailor's shop, captivated by my own reflection in the glass pane.
[Level 1]
"That's… humbling…"
Dark hair hung limply over a gaunt, pale face. My dull, tired eyes stared back, hollow and lifeless. I looked like I hadn't eaten in days—like some kind of plague victim dragged from the gutter.
"What are you gawking at?" an elderly man snapped from the doorway. He wore a neatly pressed suit and held a broom as if ready to shoo me away. "We're closing! Come back tomorrow if you want to be fitted."
The door slammed shut, rattling the bell overhead.
I sighed and turned away, thinking how screwed I was.
After what felt like hours of walking, my legs ached, and my stomach churned with hunger. The streets grew quieter as the evening wore on, though the occasional shout or laughter echoed in the distance. Finally, I stumbled upon a place that seemed promising: Silvermire Inn.
Its wooden sign creaked in the smoky breeze, illuminated faintly by a flickering gaslight. The building itself looked old but sturdy, with its warm glow spilling out through small, frosted windows. I approached the door and hesitated.
No money. Not a single coin or bill to my name.
My hand brushed against the inside of my jacket where my supposed inventory should've been, but I felt nothing but fabric. My brows furrowed. This wasn't a game where loot was neatly stashed in an endless bag. I needed a plan.
That's when I remembered: [Time Stop].
A cheat-like ability that froze time completely with no cooldown. If it worked here the way I thought, it would be my golden ticket.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside.
The inn was humid and bustling with activity. Adventurers filled the tables, their voices overlapping in a chaotic hum. Mead sloshed in mugs as hearty laughter and drunken singing echoed off the wooden walls. A haze of smoke hung in the air, curling from pipes and candles.
"Time Stop," I whispered, barely audible.
The world shifted instantly.
The lively chaos of the inn fell silent. Everything turned monochrome, like a faded photograph. The patrons were frozen mid-laughter, mid-drink, mid-gesture. Even the flames in the lanterns hung still, frozen in place.
It worked.
I moved between the tables, inspecting the adventurers and their belongings. Bags and purses hung loosely from belts, coins and bills peeking out. The currency here, as I remembered from the game, was called worths—paper money in varying denominations.
I wasn't a monster. I set a mental rule for myself: take only 1% of their worths, and only from those who clearly had plenty to spare. My hands worked quickly, frisking pockets and satchels, gathering small sums from each person.
Big bills, small bills—anything that added up.
The surreal stillness made the process strangely calming, almost meditative. By the time I was done, I had collected 15,000 worths. Enough to keep me afloat for a while, but not enough to ruin anyone's night.
I carefully tucked the money into an inner pocket of my jacket, making sure it was secure. Then, I returned to the exact spot where I had activated Time Stop and took one last look around. Satisfied that everything was in place, I whispered, "Time Stop."
The world resumed its normal hue.
The noise returned in an instant: laughter, the clinking of mugs, and the warm, smoky ambiance of the inn. No one noticed a thing.
I walked to the counter where a burly man stood polishing a glass. His apron was stained, and his tired eyes barely glanced up as I approached.
"How much for a night?" I asked.
"650 worths," he replied, his voice gruff but uninterested.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a 1,000 worths bill. "Just for the night."
He took the bill, examining it briefly before sliding it into a drawer. With a practiced motion, he handed me four smaller bills as change: three 100 W and one 50 W.
"Your room's on the second floor, third door to the left," he said, sliding a key across the counter.
I grabbed the key and my change, nodding in thanks. The weight of the worths in my pocket was reassuring, a small victory in an otherwise uncertain day. The stairs creaked as I made my way to the second floor. My room was simple—a small bed, a wooden chair, and a washbasin. But it was clean and private, which was all I needed.
I locked the door behind me, slumping onto the bed with a sigh.
It would be an understatement to call my situation troublesome. I felt hungry, but the thought of eating barely registered in my mind. My stomach twisted with unease, but my head was far too clouded to focus on basic needs.
Instead, my thoughts drifted to the last thing I remembered: playing Questworks during its final hours before the servers shut down. I could still recall the bittersweet nostalgia, the sadness of saying goodbye to a game that had been my escape for years.
And then, there was Micah.
Micah wasn't just a character. She was the character—the avatar I had poured hours, days, and months into perfecting. A silver-haired magic warrior with a stern demeanor, unparalleled skill, and an arsenal of abilities that bordered on game-breaking.
"Hmmm… No way, right?" I muttered, glancing down at my hands. They were calloused and slender, but they still felt like my hands. "Not feminine hands, definitely…"
It would be a riot if Micah was here too. Or worse… if I had somehow become her.
Clearly, that wasn't the case.
The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I liked being a guy, thank you very much. It would be beyond awkward to find myself in Micah's skin, no matter how skilled or capable she was.
Shaking my head, I tried to focus on my memories. "There was something about a quest…"
I could almost see it—a vague fragment of something important lingering at the edge of my mind. A name, a purpose. But no matter how hard I tried to grab hold of it, the memory dissolved like smoke between my fingers.
"Final Echo," I whispered, the words tumbling from my lips unbidden.
I frowned. That was it. The name of the quest. But what did it mean? Why did it feel significant? The more I thought about it, the blurrier it became, like trying to recall a dream after waking up.
I let out a frustrated sigh and rubbed my temples. In the end, I came up with nothing.
"I need to experiment with Time Stop though," I said aloud, my voice cutting through the quiet of the small room.
The skill was the one thing I knew for certain in this strange, game-like world. If it worked as it was desribed, it could be my key to survival. But I couldn't risk testing it recklessly. Not yet.
The weight of exhaustion settled over me like a heavy blanket. The events of the day, the strangeness of my situation, and the lingering uncertainty were too much to process. Slowly, my body sank deeper into the lumpy mattress, and my mind retreated into the recesses of sleep.
That same calm—unprecedented and almost magical—wrapped around me once more. It dulled the sharp edges of my confusion and fear, coaxing me into rest.
This so-called transmigration wasn't as urgent as I'd thought.
Not yet.