Ian's consciousness returned in fragments, like shards of glass reassembling themselves into a fractured whole. His eyelids fluttered open, heavy and uncooperative, as if they were weighed down by the remnants of his last memory—fire, screams, and the searing heat of the explosion.
His vision blurred, then sharpened, revealing a world that made no sense.
The first thing he noticed was the weight. His wrists were bound together by cold, heavy chains that bit into his skin with every slight movement. The metal was rough, unpolished, and old, unlike anything he'd ever seen. His hands, clenched into fists, were calloused and dirty, as though they belonged to someone else.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the ache in his joints, and realized he was wearing unfamiliar clothing—coarse, scratchy fabric that smelled of sweat and earth.
The air was filled with the scent of damp soil and woodsmoke, and the ground beneath him was uneven and muddy. He shifted, his boots sinking slightly into the muck, and winced as a sharp pain shot through his side.
His body felt like it had been through a war—bruised, battered, and barely holding together.
Sounds assaulted his ears: the clatter of hooves on stone, the distant hum of voices, the occasional shout of a merchant selling. It was chaotic, overwhelming, and utterly foreign. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind, but the more he focused, the less sense anything made.
'Where am I?' he thought, his mind racing. 'This can't be real. This can't be happening.'
Ian's eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings with growing disbelief. He was standing in what appeared to be a bustling market square, but it was unlike any market he'd ever seen.
The buildings were low and squat, their walls made of weathered stone and timber. Cobblestone streets stretched out in every direction, slick with rain and mud. People moved through the square in a chaotic dance—men and women in rough-spun tunics and cloaks, their faces weathered and worn.
Armored guards patrolled the edges of the square, their chainmail glinting in the pale sunlight. They carried swords at their hips and shields slung over their backs, their expressions stern and unyielding. Horses clomped by, their riders dressed in leather and fur, and carts laden with goods rattled over the uneven stones.
Ian's breath caught in his throat. This wasn't just some historical reenactment or a movie set. This was real. Too real.
He glanced down at his chains again, then at the line of people standing beside him. They were all bound like he was, their faces a mix of fear, resignation, and confusion. Some muttered prayers under their breath, while others stared blankly ahead, their eyes hollow.
'How is this possible?' Ian thought, his mind reeling. 'I was in the ballroom. There was an explosion. I should be dead. I should be—'
The memory of the cryptic message flashed through his mind: ''[Host is dead. Transmigration in progress.]''
His stomach churned. Transmigration? Was that what this was? Had he been transported to another world? The idea was absurd, impossible, and yet… here he was.
Ian's thoughts spiraled as he tried to make sense of his situation. Was this some kind of afterlife? A punishment for what he'd done? Or was it something else entirely—a second chance, a twisted joke, a nightmare he couldn't wake up from?
He clenched his fists, the chains rattling softly. The pain in his side flared again, a sharp reminder that this was no dream. The smells, the sounds, the cold bite of the chains—it was all too vivid, too real.
His mind drifted back to the explosion, to the moment he'd lit the cigarette and watched it all burn. He had wanted to destroy everything, to make them pay for what they'd done to him. But now, standing in this strange, medieval world, he felt a pang of regret.
Had he really brought this upon himself?
No. He shook his head, dispelling the thought. He had been wronged. Betrayed. Humiliated. They had deserved it. All of them.
Ian's attention was drawn to the line of captives standing beside him. There were dozens of them, all bound in chains, their faces carried fear and resignation. He scanned the line, his eyes flicking from one face to another, until they landed on a familiar figure.
His breath hitched.
It was Mark.
Ian's former friend—his betrayer—stood just a few feet away, his face pale and drawn. He was wearing the same rough clothing as Ian, his hands bound in chains. His eyes were downcast, his shoulders slumped, but there was no mistaking him.
And then Ian saw her.
Emily.
She was there too, standing a little further down the line. Her once-pristine appearance was gone, replaced by the same grime and exhaustion that marked the rest of the captives. Her hair was tangled, her face smudged with dirt, but her eyes still held that same cold, calculating look.
Ian's heart pounded in his chest. How were they here? Why were they here? It didn't make sense. None of this made sense.
He scanned the line again, his eyes widening as he recognized more faces—three other coworkers, people he had known from the office. They were all here, all bound in chains, all staring at the ground with the same hollow expressions.
But they hadn't seen him it seemed. Not yet.
Ian's gaze lingered on Mark, his chest tightening with a mix of anger and disbelief. Mark looked up, his eyes scanning the crowd, and for a moment, their gazes locked.
Time seemed to freeze.
Mark's eyes widened, his face contorting with a mixture of shock and rage. He opened his mouth, his lips trembling, and then he screamed.
"You bastard! You killed us all!"
The words echoed through the square, cutting through the noise of the market like a knife. Heads turned, eyes narrowing as they focused on Ian. The other captives shifted where the stood, their chains rattling as they moved uneasily.
Ian's heart raced, his mind struggling to process what was happening. Mark's accusation hung heavy and damning. The other captives—Emily, the coworkers—turned to look at him, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hatred.
"This is your fault!" Mark shouted, his voice cracking. "You did this! You brought us here!"
Mark was right, he had done this, he had killed them all.
Yet, guilt was lost on Ian, all he felt was rage, so much so he hadn't even realized when the next words left his mouth.
"But you are still breathing, aren't you? Bastard. Maybe I should come over there and finish the job"