On the far side of the city of Koburn, I found myself slaving away in a cramped antique gun shop. The year was the early 1800s, and what should have been the start of a new era in my life felt more like the continuation of a nightmare. This world, I realized bitterly, had nothing in store for me.
I had been transmigrated to the continent of Efora, all because I overdosed on something I shouldn't have, along with a few of my idiot friends.
Back then, I had imagined this world would be different. Exotic, magical, full of adventure and power. But reality was cruel.
No magic.
No powers.
No cool weapons.
Not even the hot girls you read about in those trashy web novels.
Every story I had ever enjoyed now felt like a joke, a cruel lie whispered to me by the universe.
I wanted to curse whoever had dragged me here, but years of reading these novels had taught me one thing: never anger forces you can't see. So I swallowed my rage.
"Twenty-nine years wasted!"
I shouted, my voice bouncing off the cold, lifeless walls of the shop.
"Oh, would you keep it down!"
I jumped so hard I almost dropped the broom I was holding. My boss, a frail old man with white hair thinning at the top, appeared behind the worn brown wooden counter. His eyes squinted behind the thick spectacles, and his voice was surprisingly sharp for someone his age.
"Sorry," I muttered, feeling like a child caught doing something wrong.
As I swept the floor, my gaze drifted toward a brown revolver displayed on a dusty shelf. Guns had always fascinated me.
Even before I came here, they were the only things I ever cared about. I felt that old familiar pull, the urge to hold it, to feel its weight in my hand, but I restrained myself.
Instead, I wandered to the window. The view of the mountains stretched endlessly before me, a jagged sea of gray and green. After living here for twenty-nine years, I had never bothered to explore beyond the city limits. Part of me wondered if it was laziness, and another part knew it was fear, fear that maybe, just maybe, this world had nothing to give.
Still, even with its dullness, Koburn had a strange charm. Buildings clung precariously to the sides of mountains, as if defying gravity itself. But beyond the mountains, beyond the predictable streets and markets, nothing awaited me.
No magic, no danger, no adventure, not even the fantasy romance I had secretly hoped for.
And yet, it was perfect in its own infuriating way. My parents were alive and healthy, my job, though mind-numbingly boring, paid enough to keep me fed.
Nothing dramatic ever happened here. The city moved like clockwork, predictable and infuriating.
When work ended, I thanked my boss and headed home, following the mundane routine I had memorized over decades. Shower, teeth, bed. Repeat. Another day, another wasted hour.
The next morning began like any other.
Ding!
The doorbell rang. I expected to see my boss behind the counter, hunched over with his familiar stoop, white hair falling messily over his forehead. But this time, he wasn't there.
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
I hesitated, then cautiously crept behind the counter, my hands brushing over the worn wood.
There was the small back door, the one that led to the storage room. Without thinking, I opened it and dove in.
The darkness hit me like a wall. My mind raced.
If he's missing… the police will suspect me.
I fumbled blindly for the gas lamp tucked beside the door, my fingers brushing against my pockets in desperation. A matchbox.
I fumbled with it, finally striking a stick and holding it to the lamp.
The flame sputtered, then flared, illuminating the room with a shaky, golden light. Shadows danced along the walls, casting grotesque shapes across the wooden floor and stacked boxes.
The light was weak, barely enough to see, but it was better than nothing.
And then the smell hit me.
Death.
My stomach twisted, and I gagged, covering my nose. The back room was a chaos of old wood, boxes piled in corners, and dust thick enough to choke on.
My heart pounded in my chest as I scanned the space, every instinct screaming that something was horribly wrong.
I ran, checking each corner, every stack of crates. And finally, I saw it.
Where the death-reeking smell was coming from, my body paled, tears pooling in my eyes.
It was my boss. His body looked like it had been dead for decades. His old, wrinkled skin hung loose from his bones.
Maggots crawled through his empty eye sockets as flies hovered above him.
The last of his hair had withered away.
What the hell happened?
I slammed my fist against the floor, tears spilling down my face. I didn't know him for long, but he had been the reason I could eat, the reason I had a roof over my head.
Amid my crying, I heard a familiar voice.
"Wake up, Vince."
It sounded old and hollow. I froze, my hair standing on end.
The voice came from my boss.
I fell to the ground and crawled back, fear rooting me in place. Dead people don't talk.
"No, no, no!"
The skeleton shifted slightly, its dull bones groaning as it rose. Maggots fell from its eye sockets like a waterfall. Each step it took was slower than the last, yet it advanced.
"Wake up, Vince," it said again.
My eyes widened in terror.
"W-Wake up from what?"
I crawled back faster.
"G-G-GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!"
I scrambled to my feet and ran like never before. The door was so close, yet seemed
impossibly far. Each step drew me nearer, until my hand finally reached for the knob—then
BANG!
The door slammed shut in front of me.
I turned slowly. The skeleton continued its slow approach, repeating the words, each time more terrifying:
"Wake up, Vince…"
"Wake up, Vince…"
"WAKE UP."
The tone shifted. My brain fizzed. Darkness swallowed my vision.
Pain tore through my body. A man groaned somewhere nearby, and the smell of burning wood choked me.
I opened my eyes. I was lying on a soft, red bed. The left side of the room was engulfed in
flames, collapsing slowly. Ahead of me, a door remained intact. The floor was a sickly milky
brown. Toy boxes burned in one corner, a broken picture frame lay on the ground.
What the hell?
I pushed myself up. My body felt lighter, smaller. I looked at my hands—they were chubby, like a child's.
"Who is this?" I murmured, hearing my own voice—it sounded like a child.
The room was familiar. My room. Nineteen years ago. But it wasn't the same.
The room hadn't burned…
My head spun as I tried to react like an adult. I jumped off the bed, covering my mouth against the smoke that filled my lungs.
I ran toward the door. The knob burned my hand, but I forced it open.
AHH!
"Please, PLEASE STOP!"
My body froze.