In a windowless, dark room, silence reigned over rows of towering bookshelves.
Then, one of the shelves began to hum. A violent, rhythmic tremor vibrated through the dark wood until a thick, leather-bound tome slipped from its ledge. It plunged through the air, slamming onto the floorboards below and flying open directly to its center page.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Out of thin air, invisible strokes etched glowing, phantom script onto the left page. It moved with steady, mechanical precision, as though an invisible hand were carving into the parchment:
[ Initialising.
Host signal detected.
Locating administrative core.
Administrative core confirmed.
Binding sequence engaged.
Host integrity: compromised. Stabilisation required.
Seal engaged.
Initiating phase 2
Standing by. ]
In a land forgotten by time, a solitary wooden house stood fragile inside a massive, ancient meteorite crater. Over thousands of years, rain and shifting seasons had transformed the scar in the earth into a lush haven of green grass, winding freshwater streams, and quiet trees. Water pooled around the perimeter, forming a natural moat around the elevated sanctuary at the center. Above, the sky stretched out in vivid ocean-blue, brushed by white clouds drifting like distant whales.
The scene possessed the ethereal brilliance of a dream—because it was one.
Just outside the house, a young boy sat in his mother's lap upon the grass. She held an open book before him, her face and form veiled in long, modest garments and a simple headwrap. Only her hands were bare. Yet, no matter how hard the dreamer looked, both faces remained blurred, shrouded in a persistent fog—as though the dreamer's memory refused to grant them features.
The boy was laughing. The mother spoke softly, but her words were swallowed by the gentle whistle of the wind.
Then, she began to read aloud from the book. Most of the text dissolved into air, save for a single phrase that resonated clearly:
"In the Name of God, the Most Merciful."
Her voice echoed across the quiet land like a songbird's call. Warm, radiant sunlight flooded the landscape, and the dream slowly dissolved into light.
In the dimly lit room of a neglected townhouse, a young man lay flat on his back, stiff as a corpse.
His eyes were wide and unblinking, fixed on the ceiling as if frozen in a final moment of terror. His lips were parted in a silent, dead scream. Beneath him, crude equations and arcane symbols had been violently gouged into the floorboards. Blood soaked his worn clothes, pooling beneath his torso and wrists in a dark crimson lake.
By appearances, he was in his early twenties, with sharp, handsomely structured features and messy black hair.
His eyelids fluttered. A long, ragged breath tore through his throat as he bolted upright, hands frantically clutching his chest.
"What—! How am I alive?!" he gasped, his voice raspy. "I... I died in that cell!"
A sharp, searing pain shot up his left arm. He looked down and winced. His wrist was cut wide open, dark blood spurting steadily from the severed vein.
"Ngh!"
The pain sharpened violently. Instinct taking over, he grabbed a discarded strip of cloth nearby, wrapping it tightly around his wrist and pulling the knot taut with his teeth. As the flow slowed to a dull drip, he let out a shuddering breath.
His eyes caught his own reflection in the pool of blood near his feet. He blinked, staring at a face that wasn't his.
Wait. He reached up, touching his cheekbones. Who am I? This isn't my body... Did I transmigrate?
He paused, registering the heavy, strange atmosphere surrounding him. Stepping over the blood, he unlatched a wooden window shutter and pushed it open. A cool night gust blew into the room, tossing his black hair.
Outside lay an impossible vista.
A sprawling, unfamiliar city stretched beneath a crimson moon. Buildings made of dark brick, timber, and patchy concrete stacked against one another. The streets below were nearly empty, save for a few nocturnal passersby carrying gasoline-fueled Hurricane lamps. The soft, red lunar glow washed over the rooftops, casting long, unsettling shadows.
Shin turned back to inspect his body. Blood was seeping through his clothes in multiple places—his abdomen, his wrist, his forehead. Bruises covered his skin like he had just survived a war zone.
Yet, as he processed his state, no panic surfaced on his face. His expression settled into a terrifying, unnerving stillness.
Memories that weren't his—and memories that were—began to collide in his mind. He remembered starving to death in a cold, damp cell. He remembered the humiliated, tragic figure of his mother. The sheer remembrance sent a wave of boiling heat straight to his brain.
His fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.
"...Jasper," he whispered, suppressing a mountain of burning hatred. "I remember your name. I won't forget it. I will return, I will find you, and I will rip you apart. Not just you—I will slaughter every last one of those vampires. I won't stop until my feet are soaked in their blood."
The vow hung heavy in the air. This boy was, without a doubt... Shin Nomiya.
Suddenly, an excruciating pain spiked through his temples.
Shin stumbled backward, grabbing a nearby wooden chair to keep from collapsing. He clamped a hand over his skull, thinking it was just the head wound until distorted, violent visions erupted behind his eyes.
Visions of screaming crowds, burning architecture, and horrific massacres flickered through his mind in a rapid-fire sequence, as if his consciousness were being dragged across thousands of distant locations all at once.
Then came the voices.
One whisper. Then two. Then dozens, hundreds, thousands, cascading into a deafening roar of overlapping chatter. The noise sharpened into an agonizing screech—like metal dragging across porcelain.
"Shut up..." Shin growled through grit teeth.
The voices swelled.
"I said... SHUT UP!"
Shin slammed his forehead hard against the stone wall. Blood splattered against the plaster, but the blunt impact shattered the visions. The voices died out instantly, leaving only the sound of his heavy breathing.
Breathing hard, Shin forced his mind into order. I need supplies. I need to stop this bleeding before I pass out.
He rummaged through the room's cabinets, finding strips of clean linen to bind his wounds properly. His strength was fading rapidly, but he forced his trembling hands to finish the bandages.
"First things first," he muttered, leaning against the wall as the eastern sky began to pale with dawn. "I need to know where I am and whose body I'm inhabiting."
He searched the apartment for clues. The clothes in the wardrobe and the shoes in the corner were far too large for his current frame. On a small desk, he found a few personal documents and a leather diary belonging to a man named Christopher Martinez. Shin didn't recognize the name at all.
His eyes shifted back to the center of the room. The strange altar was carved directly into the floorboards with a small, blood-stained utility knife sitting beside it.
This boy carved the altar with that knife, Shin analyzed, touching his bandaged wrist. And these wounds... Did he do this to himself as part of a sacrifice, or was he attacked? If it's the latter, whoever did this might come back to finish the job.
Shin looked around the bloody room. If anyone walks in right now, they'll assume I'm practicing some kind of forbidden dark magic or something. I have to clean this up.
Moving with calculated speed, he grabbed a spare jacket from the cabinet and wiped the blood off the floorboards. He carried the soaked jacket into the adjacent washroom and rinsed it thoroughly in the basin until the water ran clear.
Finally, he addressed the carved altar. Erasing the deep gouges completely was impossible, but he picked up the utility knife, jammed the blade into the gaps between the floor planks, and leveraged them up. One by one, he pulled five planks from the floor. He flipped them upside down, hammered them back into place using the heavy pommel of the knife, and set the nails back in.
The carvings were now hidden beneath the floor. Though the raw wood on the underside looked slightly lighter than the surrounding area, it was far less suspicious than an arcane circle soaked in blood.
By the time Shin finished, full daylight had broken over the city. The bustling noise of morning traffic and distant chatter drifted up from the streets below.
Shin peeked through the window. The people below wore unfamiliar attire and spoke a language he couldn't comprehend. Going out defenseless was a risk, but staying in an apartment filled with someone else's blood was worse. Besides, his amateur bandages wouldn't hold forever; he needed proper medical attention.
If I see a legitimate doctor, they'll report these injuries to the authorities immediately, Shin mused. A fresh knife wound on my wrist and abdomen screams 'violent crime.' I can't afford an interrogation by local law enforcement when I don't even know my own name here.
Knock! Knock!
Shin froze.
"Shalven-kroft!" a voice called out loudly from the hallway, as if making an official announcement.
Shin moved instantly. He grabbed a cloth scarf, wrapping it swiftly around the lower half of his face until only his eyes were visible. Blade in hand, he slipped beside the doorway, flattening his back against the wall like a ghost.
Knock! Knock!
"Shalven-kroft!"
The door latch clicked as Shin quietly unlocked it, leaving it unlatched.
"Vel draftn? Tavel skaf-tunok-ve?"
A young man shuffled into the room. He wore a patched brown shirt, worn trousers, and a newsboy cap, with a heavy satchel slung over his shoulder. He looked a few years older than Shin. He glanced around the seemingly empty room.
"Vel draftn?"
Shin struck from behind. He grabbed the youth in a firm military chokehold, driving him forward and pinning his throat against the edge of the knife.
"Forsh— tavel tekar?! Vanen sheftak!" the boy gasped in terror, thrashing against Shin's grip.
"Shh... Be quiet," Shin commanded in his native tongue, his voice cold and steady. "I just have questions. Answer them, and you walk out of here alive. Scribe a sound, and I'll end you."
The boy whimpered, tears welling in his eyes. "Va skarnva... Vanen khosheftak!"
He clearly didn't understand Shin's words. Shin frowned. Tsk. How am I supposed to interrogate someone if we don't speak the same—
A sharp, high-pitched ringing buzzed in Shin's ears—the same psychic frequency he had felt earlier. The whisperings brushed against the edge of his consciousness again, sending a dull ache through his skull.
Then, as quickly as it started, the sensation receded. But when the newsboy pleaded again, the words transformed in Shin's mind.
"I-nen... kho-Kill... ak!"
The garbled noise morphed, structuring itself into coherent syntax right before his ears.
"I... me... don't... Kill... please!"
The realization clicked instantly. The foreign language made complete sense now.
Shin loosened his grip slightly and spoke, his voice seamlessly adopting the local dialect: "Forsh tekva drafken?" (What is your name?)
The newsboy trembled violently. "J-Justin! My name is Justin!"
"Now then, Justin," Shin said, his eyes narrowing above his scarf. "Why are you in this apartment?"
"I—I'm just delivering the morning paper!" Justin stammered frantically.
"Do you know the name of the person who lives in this apartment?"
"I'm a newsboy! Today is my first day on this route! We just deliver to the apartment numbers listed on the office registry—I don't know who lives here, I swear!"
By now, Justin had become super submissive. All he cared for was getting out of here alive.
Shin studied the boy's frail posture and terrified eyes. He posed no threat.
"Where are we?" Shin demanded. "What is the name of this city, and what year is it?"
Justin blinked, bewildered by the strange question, but answered without hesitation. "T-This is Riven! It's the year Count 605!"
Riven. Count 605. Shin etched the names into his memory. Pain was beginning to throb beneath his bandages again.
"Do you know where I can find an unlicensed doctor? Someone who doesn't ask questions."
Justin swallowed hard. "57th Street, East Alley. Building four, flat 102. An old man operates a back-alley clinic there. B-But why—"
"You don't need to know," Shin cut him off.
Now that I have all the things I needed to know, should I let this kid go? It would be problematic if he went to the cops. Plus, he has already seen my face. But I also don't want to kill him…Shin thought.
Shin pressed the tip of the knife an inch from Justin's eye. His gaze turned terrifyingly cold. "Listen to me carefully, Justin. I'm letting you go. If you mention a single word about what happened in this room to anyone—the police, your boss, your friends—I will make sure you're on the front page of tomorrow's news. Understand?"
"I—I promise! I won't say anything!" Justin squeaked.
Shin released him and stepped back. Justin scrambled to his feet, threw open the door, and sprinted down the hallway as if the devil himself were on his heels.
I don't know what the best option there was, but I am too tired to think. I need to hurry before I die a second time, Shin thought.
He was finally about to go outside, but he needed to hide his wounds somehow. He threw on a heavy overcoat to conceal his abdomen bandages, pulled a dark top hat low over his forehead wound, and shoved his injured hand deep into his pocket. Stepping out into the hallway, he made his way down the stairwell and onto the streets of Riven.
Stepping outside, Shin was greeted by the towering architecture of Riven.
The city's skyline was a forest of tall, glass-paned chimneys that hummed with a low, ambient vibration, glowing amber from within. Dozens of them sprouted from rooftops across the horizon, releasing faint mineral-scented heat rather than thick coal smoke.
The smell of hot metal lingered under everything, and strangely, it tugged at something in Shin. It reminded him of home, though he couldn't have said why.
The main avenue was paved with pale, seamless stone, though close inspection revealed deep cracks, uneven patches, and dimming chimneys. Riven was clearly a low-priority industrial city. A territory barely maintained by its government, left to function on minimum resources until a crisis arose.
Crowds of workers moved along the street in dark Commonwear clothing with reinforced cuffs. Street vendors shouted prices in local currency, while above the noise, small golden spheres—courier wisps—weaved through the air like glowing mechanical insects, delivering sealed notes to shopfronts.
Everywhere Shin looked, people carried strange instruments that hummed against their coats or pulsed with soft internal light. Yet, to Shin, the layout felt strangely intuitive. The language on the brass street signs read as clearly as his mother tongue.
Avoiding a pair of Ironfoot guards patrolling in dull-plated armor, Shin navigated through the winding streets until he reached East Alley on 57th Street.
The change in atmosphere was instant. The golden glow of the main avenue vanished, replaced by dim, flickering fixtures and damp brick walls.
At the end of the alley stood a dilapidated four-story wooden building. Its shuttered windows were pitch black.
Shin pushed the front door open. The interior was dead quiet, save for the creak of his own footsteps echoing up the dark wooden staircase. He climbed to the third floor and stopped before Flat 102. The door was weathered and filthy, looking as if it hadn't been touched in decades.
Shin knocked three times. "Hello? Anyone inside? I need urgent treatment."
A deadbolt slid back. The door creaked open an inch, revealing an old man wearing round spectacles and a cloth surgical mask. His eyes were hollow, sunken, and unsettlingly cold.
"Urgent treatment?" the old man rasped, eyeing Shin suspiciously. "You're not a regular. Who sent you?"
Shin offered a faint, tired smile. He pulled his coat back just enough to reveal the bloody bandages along his chest. "I don't think I have the time for an interview, Doctor. I'm a patient with money, and you're a man who treats wounds. That's all that matters."
The old man lingered on the heavy bloodstains, then unhitched the chain. "Get inside."
The clinic was dimly lit, filled with shelves of unlabeled liquid vials and tables cluttered with rusted surgical tools. Despite his faintness, Shin instinctively recognized the functions of the medical instruments—and the realization made his skin prickle. These aren't normal medical tools. Half of these are designed for dissection...
Still, he needed his wounds bound. Shin lay on the operating table, keeping his eyes half-open as the doctor went to work, expertly stitching his cuts and dressing the damage.
Thirty minutes passed.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Heavy, authoritative blows rattled the clinic door.
The old doctor snapped his head toward the entrance, his hollow eyes narrowing. "I'm closed for the day!" he bellowed. "Leave!"
Silence answered from the hallway. Then—
BOOM!
The wooden door exploded inward.
A massive force shattered the frame, sending heavy timber flying across the room. The doctor was slammed backward into his own medicine cabinets, buried under an avalanche of glass vials, books, and metal tools.
Shin remained on the table, forcing his breathing to stay slow and shallow. Blood loss had rendered him nearly paralyzed, but his mind remained sharp. The force behind that blow... Whoever just walked in is far out of my league.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed across the threshold.
A tall man in his forties walked through the dust. He wore a sweeping, near-black overcoat over an iron-grey cravat and charcoal waistcoat. Attached to his lapel was a dark metal badge engraved with concentric rings. His expression was stern, weathered, and absolute.
Under the rubble, the old doctor shoved broken shelves off his chest, rising completely unscathed. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!" he roared.
The dark-coated man casually pulled a silver document from his coat. "Gerd, 4th Ashen Cell of the holy empire of Brithenia. You are under arrest for illegal human trafficking and assisting forbidden ritualistic cults."
The doctor's face paled. "Gerd...? What the hell is a high-ranking Ashen agent doing in a dump like this?!"
"Resistance is foolish," Gerd replied calmly.
The doctor laughed a bitter laugh. He said, "Hah, I never thought I would have to fight a Lorebound. That damn Rosel outdid himself this time. I didn't know the higher-ups had the luxury to spend an entire Ashen cell on a pathetic place like this"
The doctor bared his teeth, clicking his tongue. "Damn that Rosel... setting me up..." He raised his hand, pointing his index finger directly at Gerd like the barrel of a gun.
"Gale!" the doctor chanted.
The air in the room warped violently. A localized gale erupted around his hand, compressing into a high-pressure beam of atmospheric force that shot straight toward Gerd's chest with the speed of a cannonball.
Gerd didn't even blink.
Before the compressed air could reach him, a blurred figure dropped from the ceiling, landing gracefully between Gerd and the blast.
It was a young woman with deep obsidian eyes and long black hair. She wore a high-collared burgundy blouse beneath a dark oxblood leather corset, split skirt, and fitted bracers. A thin silver chain connected her right wrist to a heavy, iron-bound suitcase in her left hand.
She casually raised her forearm and swiped her hand through the air.
PAK!
The lethal beam of compressed air was slapped out of existence as if it were a pesky insect, dispersing into a harmless breeze that softly rustled her dark hair.
" Kane," Gerd commanded softly.
A third figure stepped past Gerd—a young man with round wire-framed spectacles, a teal-grey shirt, and a dark leather utility vest lined with glass vials. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing in focus.
To Kane's heightened perception, the room dissolved into glowing nervous systems. He mapped the doctor's neural pathway in an instant, unleashing a concentrated surge of invisible bio-electric signals directly into the doctor's spinal column.
The old doctor collapsed to his knees, his body shaking uncontrollably in violent spasms. He couldn't speak, move, or channel his strange abilities.
What... what did he do to me?! The doctor screamed internally, his eyes bulging. I can't move! I can't feel my limbs!
The young woman walked forward, dragging the iron-bound suitcase behind her. As she unlatched the heavy brass locks, the suitcase split open—revealing a grotesque, pulsating mouth lined with rows of jagged, arm-length teeth. Dripping saliva pooled onto the floorboards.
"Slaire," she whispered softly.
Thick, dark green vine-tentacles erupted from the monstrous gullet, wrapping tightly around the paralyzed doctor and dragging him screaming toward the abyss of the open suitcase.
"No! Get away from me! GET AWAY—"
CRUNCH.
The suitcase enlarged briefly, swallowing the man whole in a single bite before snapping shut.
The girl tapped the lid twice. "Seal." The suitcase shrank back to its normal size, locking with a soft click.
"Clean work as always, Riana," Gerd said smoothly.
Riana gave a small, polite smile, patting the top of the living suitcase like a pet.
What kind of monsters are these people?! Shin thought, suppressing a shiver on the bed. I've seen vampires use strange powers, but seeing humans use powers is a first
Gerd's sharp eyes shifted toward the operating table. "Kane. Check the boy."
Kane stepped over, placing two fingers on Shin's neck. "Pulse is weak, sir. Heavy blood loss and amateur stitches. Looks like he was one of the doctor's experimental victims."
Riana leaned closer, her sharp eyes softening. "Wait... isn't he the boy from the missing person report filed last week? Arthur Leonor?"
"Arthur Leonor?" Kane tilted his head, inspecting Shin's face. "Matches the description, though he's far paler and thinner than the file photo."
"Focus," Gerd interrupted calmly. "Identify him after we secure his safety. He's a civilian victim. Riana, transport him back to headquarters and contact our medical team. Kane... there are others in this building."
Gerd closed his eyes. An invisible gravitational ripple radiated from his body, mapping every wall, floorboard, and atom within a fifty-meter radius.
A second later, Gerd walked over to a heavy brass wall lamp and rotated it ninety degrees counterclockwise.
CLICK.
A hidden gear mechanism groaned behind the plaster. The wooden wall slid open, revealing a pitch-black passage.
Kane clapped his hands together, igniting a glowing light orb that floated into the hidden chamber—revealing a plush, lavishly furnished bedroom.
But the luxury was a nightmare mask.
Blood was splattered across the silk wallpaper. On the large four-poster bed lay two figures—a man and a woman, gagged and blindfolded. Their skin was crisscrossed with thick black thread, literally stitched alive into the mattress fabric.
Besides them was a chair. And on that chair sat a woman wearing a simple gown. Her body was unnaturally straight. Her face was facing upwards so extremely that her neck was on the verge of breaking. She wasn't looking at God. But rather, the devil forced her into what she had become. From exactly beneath the chair, a thick, round pipe stood straight. It had gone beyond the base of the chair and pierced the woman's anus, and after going through her entire body, the pipe was out of her mouth.
The woman was alive. She was squirming. Crying silently and suffering. Who knows for how long. Her hands were tied. She was basically helpless. Around the bed on the walls, there were many people who were nailed to the wall. The whole scene looked like it was from a horror movie. But alas, it was reality. A terrifying reality. Kane's expression flinched in disgust, anger and sorrow. But he quickly masked it with a poker face.
"Sick ba*tard"
Muttered Kane
Meanwhile…
Riana went out and brought a few more police officers with clothing different than theirs and began to move Shin. Gerds' eyes were inspecting Shin like a hawk. He whispered, "Arthur Leonor"