'Ouch…!'
Pain. Sharp, blinding pain that seemed to tear through bone and nerve alike.
Zhou Mingrui felt as though a steel rod was being twisted within his temple—over and over—grating against every fiber of his skull.
The strange, dream-like sensation, filled with murmurs that barely reached his consciousness, shattered violently, leaving behind only raw, searing agony.
'Still dreaming…? Or maybe I'm awake…?' Zhou Mingrui thought hazily, his mind fogged and sluggish.
No matter how much effort he forced out to move, even the smallest twitch of a finger was impossible.
'Did I hit my head while sleeping? Is this a cerebral hemorrhage?'
'Am I dying young? Or am I already dead…?'
Gathering his will to live like a last ember, he finally managed to sit up.
Blurry shapes swirled in his vision, warped by crimson haze, until a faint sensation passed by, like the echo of a memory, or the whisper of a voice calling…
"Klein…" The words reverberated through his skull, distant but unmistakable.
"Huh…!"
Within his vision, now tinged deep crimson, shapes emerged from the haze—a wooden desk before him, a notebook lying open, its pages marked with bold, black letters that seemed to pulse faintly.
A couple of other books were stacked haphazardly to the left, their corners frayed.
The walls were lined with thick, iron pipes, their surfaces corroded and cold, beside antique wall lamps that flickered weakly.
Slowly turning his gaze back to the desk, he noticed the presence of a brass item, catching the dim red light.
'A gun… A revolver?'
The table and everything on it were bathed in a thin, blood-colored veil from the window, revealing a large crimson moon hanging low in the sky, casting shadows that quivered like living things.
Zhou Mingrui's legs quivered at the sight, his stomach knotting, before he forced himself to stand erect.
He noticed a fairly cracked mirror near the small room's door and cautiously approached.
He glimpsed at himself—black hair, brown eyes, a lean frame clad in a simple linen shirt and trousers, and an ordinary face with sharply defined features.
'This… This is… transmigration?'
He had read countless web novels, but reality felt cruelly different, humiliatingly overwhelming.
As his gaze lingered on the mirror, he realized the source of his earlier pain—a hole through his temple, gray-white matter squirming faintly, grotesque and alien.
Disgust surged, but it ebbed as the wound appeared to knit itself together, skin knitting over bone almost unnaturally fast.
'A perk from transmigration…?'
Following the assumed 'perk' came a flood of memories, alien yet intimate, sending another searing headache ripping through him.
Klein Moretti—citizen of the Northern Continent's Loen Kingdom, Tingen City, Awwa County. Recent history graduate, Khoy University.
Klein was fluent in ancient Feysac—root of all Northern tongues—and Hermes—the forgotten language of old tombs and long-lost prayers.
'Hermes…?'
Zhou approached the desk, eyes landing on the notebook. The once meaningless symbols gradually morphed into figures he could comprehend, stark and sharp:
"Everyone will die, including me."
A chill like icy fingers ran down his spine.
'Why would Klein write that…? Some memories are missing…! And others… lost completely…'
A moment later, a crimson smear caught his eye along the table's edge, resembling a handprint over the page he had read.
'From the hole in my head, I assume…?'
Zhou straightened and stared into the mirror again, tracing the contours of his new face.
"So this is me now—Klein Moretti."
…
Using a rag, Zhou Mingrui cleaned every trace of the red from the room, the smell of iron lingering faintly in the air.
He sat down, brass revolver in one hand, empty bullet shell in the other.
A revolver, an empty bullet shell, blood…
"Shot point-blank through the temple…
"Suicide… or staged…
"Whether it's the former or the latter, where does 'that' fit in?"
The message: "Everyone will die, including me."
"And… what caused my transmigration?
"Well, I've been having some bad luck lately at work.
"I bought that book on Chinese divinations, and performed a luck-enhancement ritual!"
He had completed the ritual just before dinner, and nothing happened—until now.
'I need to try the ritual again. Maybe I can go back home?'
Before Zhou Mingrui could think further, a knock at the door sounded, faint but deliberate, and he instinctively knew who it was.
"Klein…" A tired voice called softly from behind the door.
'M-Melissa… Klein's younger sister…'
A young, pretty girl in pajamas entered the room. Melissa Moretti, Klein's younger sister, a student at Tingen Technical School's Steam and Machinery Department.
Unlike girls her age, Melissa was fascinated with gears, cogs, and mechanisms rather than ribbons or dresses.
Zhou felt the brass revolver in his hand and the bullet in the other, quickly hiding them behind his back, jamming both into a drawer.
"Hmm? What was that noise?" Melissa asked, curiosity flickering in her amber eyes.
Zhou grabbed a silver pocket watch from the table, flipping the cover open, and held it out.
"This… Well, it's broken again." His smile was forced, awkward.
'I don't have a younger sister…' he thought.
Melissa approached silently, her expression unreadable. She twisted the watch's button deftly, each click echoing in sync with a distant cathedral bell.
The second hand began to move.
'Doesn't that adjust the time?' Zhou thought.
Melissa looked at her brother with a mix of surprise, pity, and something unreadable.
'That look… Coping with a retarded brother, isn't it?'
'Come to think of it, how did Melissa not hear the gunshot from the next room? This suicide isn't simple…'
…
After preparing for school, Melissa returned.
"Klein, pick up some fresh bread, would you? Just eight pounds. It spoils too quickly in this heat.
"You must be stressed from your upcoming interview. I'll cook some mutton stew for dinner when I get back," Melissa said, her voice soft and caring.
Zhou felt a pang of melancholy.
'Sorry, Melissa. We all love home, don't we?'
…
Klein left the apartment in a black vest, matching suit, a half-top hat perched at an angle, the brass revolver tucked into his pocket—just in case.
IRON CROSS STREET
He stepped into Tingen's July air, mild but heavy with dust and sweat. The streets—filthy, chaotic, alive.
Hawkers shouted over one another, a discordant symphony of survival, while street-merchants pressed their goods on passersby with urgent insistence.
He paused before 'Smyrin Bakery' and walked in.
"Ah, Klein!" Mrs. Smyrin beamed. "Eight pounds of rye bread?"
"Yes, please." Zhou nodded.
"Benson's not back yet, dear?"
"In a few more days."
"Oh, right! Didn't you graduate, Klein? Soon you'll have enough money for a proper house!"
"Hmm… You seem especially lively today, Mrs. Smyrin."
They shared a small laugh before Zhou handed her nine-pence.
'Wasn't it eleven two days ago…? Ah, the protesters who repelled the Grain Act…'
Klein's memories here were incomplete—fragments of tariffs, agriculture, southern imports.
Walking on, he found a circus tent in the street.
'Melissa would love this…'
"Would you like a divination?"
Zhou turned.
A woman in face paint and a long, flowing dress stood by the tent.
"My tarot readings are very accurate."
'Tarot… Sounds just like Earth's version!'
'If I recall… Here, tarot was invented by Emperor Roselle Gustav of Intis over a century ago.
'He also created the steamship, revolutionized sailing, and founded spring festivals.
'By novel logic, could Emperor Roselle have been a transmigrator too?'
Curiosity compelled Klein to test this world's tarot.
Before he could respond, the woman smiled. "You're my first customer today. It's on the house."
…
Inside the tent, Klein sat at one end of the table, the woman on the other, a glowing orb hovering between them. The interior was surreal, the air tingling with faint electricity.
'Free things cost the most…' Zhou thought.
He noticed and recognized some tarot cards—Justice, The Hanged Man, The Sun.
'Maybe… Roselle was really a transmigrator? Perhaps a fellow countryman?'
The fortune-teller pushed the stacked deck toward Zhou.
"Shuffle and cut. Destiny can only be unraveled by oneself."
Zhou shuffled the deck with uncanny dexterity, cut it cleanly, and replaced it on the table.
"Done."
"Good. Now, what question do you wish to ask?"
Zhou had already decided before entering.
"Past, present, and future."
"Then reshuffle. The right cards can only be drawn when you know your question."
'So the first shuffle was just for show?' Zhou sighed.
After the reshuffle, she drew the first card. "This represents your past."
Another. "This is your present."
"And this, your future."
"Which would you like to see first?" she asked.
"My present," Zhou decided.
The fortune-teller nodded, flipping the middle card.
A colorfully dressed traveler, staff slung over shoulder, stared out from the card. Number zero adorned the top.
"You have drawn The Fool."
'The Fool? Card zero… New beginnings, infinite possibilities, a fresh start…'
Before he could ponder further, an older woman entered.
The fortune-teller was merely an animal trainer. The real one would not read for free; he had to leave lest Melissa be left with a broke brother.
…
Back at the apartment, Klein prepared the ritual.
Four staple foods—bread—were placed at the four corners.
He stood at the center, walking counter-clockwise to form a square while chanting:
"Blessings stem from the Immortal Lord of Heaven and Earth
"Blessings stem from the Sky Lord of Heaven and Earth
"Blessings stem from the Exalted Thearch of Heaven and Earth"
With the fourth step, he whispered, "Blessings stem from the Celestial Worthy… of Heaven and Earth."
Zhou waited, heart clutched by fear and hope.
Fifteen seconds passed, silence stretching like a living thing.
The air thickened, almost sentient.
A faint whisper curled around his ears, incomprehensible yet insistent.
Pain lanced through his skull, steel-rod sharp.
'You just love staring death in the eye, don't you…?'
His consciousness frayed, unraveling, before the pain abruptly vanished. Silence.
He opened his eyes to gray fog—endless, vast, cold, alive.
Crimson lights floated like stars, distant yet intimate, pulsating with breath.
"What the hell…?"
He looked down—not standing, but suspended at the fog's edge.
Cautiously, he reached for a nearby star shimmering like molten liquid. A brush of his fingers sent ripples outward, briefly disturbing the fog's calm.
Frightened, Zhou stepped back, brushing another star.
Light exploded, vision blackened, consciousness slipping away.