『 Note! This is merely a pilot of this story, I would appreciate it if some people are willing to send feedback about this WebNovel. 』
The Beginning of the End
I sometimes wondered if God had placed us in this world merely to suffer, as if our existence were nothing more than a cruel form of entertainment for beings far beyond our comprehension. Were we mere playthings in some cosmic theater, where mortals performed their tragic, fleeting acts while gods watched in quiet amusement? It was a thought I had often entertained, one that festered in the dark corners of my mind during sleepless nights filled with unanswered questions. But all of those musings—those existential doubts—were merely the philosophical ramblings of a man who had yet to encounter the divine firsthand.
Now, I knew better.
And so, if you're expecting hope or some divine salvation at the end of this tale, I suggest you set aside your optimism. There is no salvation. No light at the end of this tunnel. But before we get ahead of ourselves, let us start from the very beginning.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing that hit me was pain. A dull, throbbing agony pulsed through my skull as if I had been struck with a blunt object. A migraine, perhaps? No—this was something far worse. My entire body ached, each muscle screaming in protest as I tried to move. The weight of fatigue clung to me like a second skin, and an overwhelming sense of disorientation clouded my thoughts.
I let out a slow breath, trying to piece together my surroundings. The room was dimly lit, the pale morning light barely creeping through the cracks in the wooden blinds. It was small—cramped even—containing only the bare essentials: a single bed, a modest wooden desk covered in scattered papers, and a rickety chair pushed lazily against the wall. The walls themselves were cracked, peeling with age, and the faint scent of damp wood lingered in the air. It was a far cry from the apartment I remembered back in Sydney.
Sydney…
The thought sent a jolt of alarm through me.
Where the hell was I?
I forced myself to sit up, but the moment I moved, a sharp pain shot through my legs, and I collapsed back onto the mattress with a strangled grunt. My limbs felt… wrong. Numb, weak—unfamiliar. It was as if I had awoken in someone else's skin.
And that was when the realization struck.
This wasn't my body.
Panic surged through me as I looked down at my hands—slender fingers, lacking the callouses I had earned over years of handling a gun. My arms were leaner, less defined than I remembered. I had always been tall, standing at a solid six-foot-one, but now… I felt smaller, shorter. I forced myself to stand despite the screaming protests of my body, staggering toward the mirror mounted on the far wall.
The face staring back at me was not my own.
The reflection in the mirror belonged to a stranger—youthful, pale, with dark, unkempt hair that fell over sharp yet unfamiliar features. Eyes that were not my own stared back at me in wide, disbelieving horror. My breath caught in my throat as I raised a trembling hand to my face, feeling the foreign contours of my new form.
Who was this?
A sudden wave of nausea overtook me, and before I could steady myself, a flood of memories that were not my own came crashing into my mind. I staggered back, gripping my head as pain exploded behind my eyes. Images flashed before me—fragments of a life I had never lived.
A name surfaced amidst the chaos.
Alaric Thorn.
That was the name of the body I now inhabited.
The memories came in pieces, sluggish and disjointed like pages torn from a book and rearranged in the wrong order. I saw glimpses of a small, struggling family—a devoted older brother, Marcus, who worked tirelessly to support his siblings. A younger sister, Lisa, innocent and full of warmth, oblivious to the cruel hand fate had dealt them. And then there was Alaric himself, a university student navigating the harsh realities of poverty while clinging to a fragile sense of normalcy.
And yet… none of it felt real.
I wasn't Alaric. I was Detective Ethan Gray. I was a man who had spent years in Sydney's underbelly, unraveling mysteries and chasing criminals through the city's darkest corners. I had cases—unfinished business—a life I had left behind. But that life was gone now, ripped away and replaced with something I did not understand.
My breath came in ragged gasps as I tried to steady myself, gripping the edges of the desk for support. I needed to think. I needed to figure out where I was, why I was here, and most importantly—how to get back.
As I looked up, infront of me was a large mirror, a luxury one.
I couldn't see my reflection on the mirror as I looked around, I noticed there were hundreds to thousands of mirrors. I touched the mirror infront of me and I saw the same person of who's body I previously in.
I went through the memories of this "Alaric thorn", he had one older sister and one older brother who is always out of town to make money for them, and this "Alaric thorn" is a university student. The little sister's name is Lisa Thorn and older brother's name is Marcus thorn. I realised I wasn't on earth anymore, seems as though I have been transmigrated..
Then, a voice cut through the silence like a knife.
"Greetings, Detective Gray."
I froze.
Every instinct honed from years of being a detective screamed at me to remain calm, but my body betrayed me, tensing as I turned toward the source of the voice.
A man stood before me, clad in an impeccably tailored black suit. His presence was unsettling—otherworldly. Striking red hair fell in soft waves around his angular face, and eyes the color of fresh blood gleamed with quiet amusement. He was smirking, exuding an aura of confidence and power that set my nerves on edge.
"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, forcing my voice into an even tone despite the unease coiling in my gut.
The man chuckled. "Lucius. Lucius Mavros," he said, as if the name itself was a jest.
Something about his demeanor sent a shiver down my spine. "Lucius?" I echoed, narrowing my eyes. "That another name for Lucifer?"
Another low chuckle. "No, no. Just Lucius," he replied, tilting his head slightly. "Or, if you prefer, God."
A long silence stretched between us.
"God?" I repeated, my voice laced with skepticism. "You expect me to believe that?"
Lucius merely smiled, an infuriatingly knowing expression flickering across his features. "Oh, I don't expect you to believe anything, Detective," he said smoothly. "Belief is such a fragile thing, after all. But in time… you will understand."
And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.
I gasped, my knees giving out as I collapsed onto the floor, my body drenched in a cold sweat. The room around me felt distorted, the walls warping and twisting before snapping back into place. My breath came in shallow pants as I gripped my head, willing the dizziness to subside.
When I finally managed to stand, I turned my gaze toward the desk. A single drawer sat slightly ajar.
With a trembling hand, I reached for it, pulling it open.
Inside, nestled between old papers and forgotten trinkets, lay a revolver.
The sight of it sent another shiver down my spine. What business did a university student have with a firearm? What kind of life had Alaric Thorn truly lived?
Before I could dwell on it further, a soft voice called from the hallway.
"Alaric?"
I turned just as a young girl stepped into the room. Lisa Thorn—Alaric's younger sister. She clutched a simple, well-worn satchel, her expression unreadable as she held out a small envelope.
"Marcus sent a letter," she said quietly. "He won't be back for another two weeks."
I forced myself to respond, mimicking Alaric's voice as best I could. "I see… That's unfortunate."
Lisa nodded, seemingly satisfied with my reaction. "I have to go to school now," she said, offering a small wave before disappearing down the hall.
As the door shut behind her, I exhaled slowly, turning my gaze back toward the revolver.
Something told me I wouldn't be needing it to solve a case this time.
I would be needing it to survive.