"Ugh…"
"damn it… my head's going to explode…"
A strangled groan rose from the depths of the young man sprawled face-down on the cold, wooden floor. It sounded less like a cry of pain and more like the last echo of a soul being crushed between two titanic stones.
The agony was blinding—a wildfire blazing through the crevices of his brain, raw and relentless. It wasn't just pain—the kind of torment that could snap the will of hardened warriors. Yet... his body refused to move.
He tried to scream, but only a choked rasp escaped his throat, as if his vocal cords had been scorched beyond repair.
His eyes fluttered erratically, breath shallow and broken, face twisted in silent torment. But still, not a single muscle obeyed his desperate command.
Time lost meaning as minutes bled into each other—slow, dragging, suffocating. Perhaps five passed. Perhaps ten. Then, at last, the storm began to pull back, like a wave of fire receding from scorched earth.
'Hah… God…' he thought, struggling to lift a finger.
Nothing.
He tried his legs—still no response.
"What's happening to me?!" Panic bled into his voice, hoarse and brittle.
Another attempt. Still nothing. His limbs were dead weight—numb, inert, lifeless.
Drawing a shaky breath, he whispered inwardly, 'Calm down… panic won't save you now.'
He forced his eyes open, scanning the room with frantic, jerking glances—the only movement his body allowed.
The room was small, claustrophobic even, with rough wooden walls haphazardly patched with bricks and sealed by crumbling plaster.
The air was thick with dampness, and the warped wooden floor beneath him reeked of rot and mold. In one corner, a tiny window peeked through a torn gray curtain, letting in only the weakest hint of dusty light.
Two oil lamps clung to the walls, casting a pale yellow glow that barely held back the creeping shadows.
A crooked shelf sagged beneath the weight of empty bottles, and across from it, a cracked wooden board hung like a forgotten relic, drowned in dust and time.
'Where the hell… is this place?'
This wasn't Geza City.
It wasn't his room. It wasn't any place he had ever seen on Earth. The realization hit him like a cold wave—he was somewhere entirely foreign, unfamiliar, unsettling.
His mind reeled, grasping for memories.
'I went down into that place… There was a voice… something about bloodlines… an explosion… and then… darkness?'
'No… no way. Did I… transmigrate?'
A strange, hollow sensation bloomed in his chest.
He had read countless novels back on Earth—stories of transmigration, reincarnation, and awakening in strange, fantastical worlds.
He used to binge them, sometimes losing entire nights to the screen's glow and the pull of impossible fates.
But reading about such things... and living them?
They were worlds apart.
It was easy to admire fictional heroes from behind the safety of a book cover. But here—now—he was the one inside the nightmare.
A faint, almost amused smile crept across his cracked lips.
'A second chance… a new life?'
But that fragile ember of hope was quickly snuffed out.
He tried again to move. Still paralyzed. Something was terribly wrong with this body.
"It's fine… I'm still breathing. If I'm alive, I can fight."
The words tasted dry and uncertain in his mind, but he clung to them. And just as he tried to steady his thoughts, something inside him shattered open.
Memories—ones that were not his—surged like a flood, uninvited and violent.
They stormed his senses: names, places, scents, emotions—all unfamiliar, yet burning with clarity. And at the center of that storm, one name echoed again and again, louder each time:
Nerion Valdegar.
The name rang with weight and history, pressing against the edges of his new identity.
"So… that's my name now," he whispered aloud.
"Nerion Valdegar."
A strange smile returned to his face.
"What a beautiful name…"
But before he could savor the name that now belonged to him, something shifted in his vision.
There—just beyond the haze of pain and flickering lamplight—lay another body.
His breath caught.
'Someone else...?'
It was a young woman, probably in her early twenties, lying curled slightly on her side. Her skin was pale, her expression strangely peaceful, and her lips were stained with dried foam—a clear sign of poisoning.
Yet… there was a haunting beauty to her. A tragic kind of serenity.
Her long black hair tumbled over her shoulder in disheveled waves, but retained a faint, natural shine. Her face was soft, with delicate features—a slender nose, high cheekbones, and lips once tender and alive, now still and silent. Even with the thin layer of dust across her brow, there was an air of care and grace about her, as if she had taken pride in her appearance… even until the end.
Her body was frail. Thin arms peeked out from beneath a tattered white gown stained with dirt, age, and sorrow. Her collarbones jutted out like fragile wings, but none of that could hide the gentle smile frozen on her face.
It was the kind of smile one gives when they finally find peace—after years of struggle, pain, and waiting.
A single tear slid down Nerion's cheek, unbidden.
'This… this was someone important to him. To the one who lived in this body before me...'
Not me. These aren't my memories… not my grief. So why the hell does it burn like this? He clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling beneath the sorrow. I didn't know her. I shouldn't care. But this body… it remembers her. And it's dragging me along for the ride.
His lips moved on their own, trembling with emotion that wasn't entirely his.
"Angelina…"
He whispered the name like a prayer, though he had never met her.
'Why does it hurt so much? Like… like I've just lost the one person who ever loved me…?'
Stop it, he snapped inwardly, trying to suppress the sting in his chest. This isn't my heartbreak. I don't have the luxury of mourning someone else's past. Not now. Not when I don't even know if I'll survive the next hour.
Then it hit him—hard and fast. A memory, vivid and raw, flashed through his mind like lightning cutting through fog.
He sat in a crooked wooden chair, a thick wool blanket covering his useless legs. The room was dim, smelling faintly of old bread and stale water. Angelina burst through the door, cheeks flushed, eyes shining with joy.
"Nerion! I got the job! We'll be okay now—no more starving at night!"
She rushed forward, grabbing his hands in hers, warmth radiating from her palms.
"I'll hire someone to help you while I'm away. You won't be alone anymore, okay? I'll take care of you—always. You're the reason I wake up every day. You're… my everything."
Her voice cracked slightly as she knelt beside him.
"If anything ever happened to you… I don't think I could go on. So please… don't give up. We'll find a way to fix this. I promise. And one day, we'll laugh about these hard times."
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
The memory faded like fog lifting at dawn, but the warmth remained… and so did the grief.
Back in the present, Nerion felt the sting of fresh tears streaming silently down his cheeks.
'She was… kind,' he thought. 'Too kind for this world.'
He wiped the tears mentally—furiously. 'No! Enough... I'm not him. I'm not going to drown in someone else's regrets. She was his… not mine. My grief is a luxury I can't afford.'
He closed his eyes, steadying himself.
These emotions weren't his. Not truly. They were the lingering echoes of the soul that had once lived in this body.
But now… that soul was gone.
And Nerion—whoever he truly was—had to survive.
He opened his mouth and forced his voice out, dry and cracked.
"Hello…? Anyone…?!"
The sound barely carried. His throat burned from thirst and strain. But he didn't stop.
Again, louder this time: "Help! Someone! Please!! Anybody out there?!"
He shouted until his breath failed him, resting between cries, praying to be heard.
'Please don't let this place be completely abandoned... or I might become the fastest transmigrated person to die in history.'
A bitter chuckle escaped him.
And then—
A sound.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Slow. Approaching the door.
His heart lurched. The door, wooden and old, creaked softly as the presence behind it halted.
The air thickened.
A rough, gravelly voice called from the other side.
"Is someone in there?"
Nerion's breath hitched.
'Damn it… he sounds like a mob boss from a K-drama.'
For a moment, fear paralyzed him all over again.
But silence meant death.
"Yes!" he rasped. "I'm here! Please—help me!"
He waited, trembling, for the stranger's reply…
Whatever this world was… Nerion had no choice but to survive in it.