Galad vaguely remembered dying.
The last thing he saw in his previous life was a truck barreling toward him beneath a clear blue sky. His body and soul had seemed to float upward, merging with the thin clouds, slowly dissolving into nothingness.
So… what's going on now? Did I transmigrate?
He turned his head. The surroundings came into focus.
A dimly lit room. The door and windows were sealed shut, with heavy curtains drawn. Only a few flickering candles cast a faint, restless glow.
And what the light revealed made Galad's pupils contract.
Carved candelabras. A cauldron burning strange herbs. Piles of flesh and blood surrounding it—And he was lying right in the middle of that mess.
The thick smoke of herbs mixed with the stench of blood, choking his throat, stabbing his nostrils.
What the hell is this? An altar? Am I… the sacrifice?
The thought came belatedly, just as manic chanting reached his ears. Galad turned and locked eyes with a face twisted in fanaticism.
It belonged to an old man with sparse hair, messy brows, and gray-blue eyes gleaming with madness. A blood-stained dagger danced in his hand as he swayed and shrieked his prayers in an incomprehensible tongue.
Strangely, Galad felt a flash of recognition.
Siris Arpels.
The name surfaced in his mind without warning. But why? He had never seen this man before.
Confusion churned in his chest, familiarity and strangeness crashing together until he felt dizzy. The old man, however, was too lost in his mania to notice Galad's awakening.
Through the candlelight, Galad glimpsed deeper into the room.
There, on the floor, lay a young girl bound hand and foot, gagged, her delicate brows furrowed in unconscious pain.
Pity and rage surged through him as if by instinct. His lips parted, and a name slipped out.
"Ce…cilia…"
Boom!
A thunderclap exploded in his mind. The girl's face became a key, unlocking sealed memories. Countless images tore into him.
"Brother!"A smiling girl holding his hand, walking down a sunlit street.
"Brother…"Sobbing at a funeral, her frail shoulders trembling in his arms.
"Brother."By a hospital bed, gently wiping the face of a boy bound in a straitjacket.
The flood of memories brought Galad to his knees, clutching his head in pain. Yet clarity followed the agony.
He understood now.
Yes—he had transmigrated. This was a world resembling 18th-century Europe, fractured into nations. And the place he stood in now was Tingen City, Loen Kingdom, akin to Victorian Britain.
The body he inhabited belonged to Galad Londoner, who had just turned eighteen. But unlike ordinary citizens, Galad carried a curse: severe mental illness.
From childhood, he had suffered hallucinations—whispers of madness, visions of inverted giants. His mind had splintered countless times under their weight.
His parents had protected him as best they could. But two years ago, his father—a humble clerk—died in a company accident. His grief-stricken mother soon followed, leaving Galad and his younger sister, Cecilia, to fend for themselves.
When their savings ran dry, a so-called benefactor appeared: Siris Arpels, the very old man raving before him. Claiming to be a friend of their late father, he offered to take them in. The siblings, desperate and cornered, agreed.
But on Galad's eighteenth birthday, Siris revealed his fangs. He bound Cecilia, dragged Galad to this altar, and drove a dagger into his heart—
Galad's gaze dropped to his chest. His shirt was torn open, revealing a gaping wound. He could even see the damage to his heart.
Am I… going to die again?
But before despair could take him, the wound twitched. Muscle fibers squirmed, reattaching. Tissues fused, skin knitted together. In moments, his heart was whole, beating powerfully once more.
A fatal wound had healed like nothing had ever happened.
Shocked, Galad forced himself to calm. If transmigration was possible, then perhaps miracles like this weren't so far-fetched.
Still, he didn't have time to marvel. The candlelight dimmed as Siris drew closer.
Galad's breath caught—But the old man merely changed his posture, still lost in his manic prayer.
Relief washed through Galad, quickly hardening into resolve.
No more hesitation. If he didn't act now, Cecilia would be lost.
His heart thundered, blood rushing to every corner of his body. Strength returned to his limbs.
Taking a deep breath, Galad snatched up a heavy candelabra.
With a roar, he swung.
"Clang!"
The metal base smashed into Siris's skull, the impact reverberating painfully through Galad's arm. Siris staggered but didn't fall.
Gritting his teeth, Galad struck again.
"Clang!""Clang!"
Blood spattered. The old man swayed, then finally collapsed.
Galad kicked the dagger from his hand, watching for movement. Only when he was certain Siris was down did he cut Cecilia's ropes and remove her gag.
"Cecilia! Cecilia!"
He shook her gently until her eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused. Then her face twisted in terror.
"Watch out!" she screamed.
Galad froze. Behind him, heavy footsteps echoed through the room.