A sharp gasp tore from his throat.
White sheets slid down his chest as he jolted upright, breath uneven, eyes unfocused. For a second, the silence around him felt too soft and clean. His pulse hammered against his ribs. A tremor crawled up his arm as he stared at his own but foreign, slender, pale hand.
"...Where am I?" he whispered.
At his right, a window stood half-covered by sheer curtains. Beside it, a wooden desk and a book, a pen, two golden coins resting neatly on its surface, glimmering under moonlight, the wooden wardrobe stood tall beside the desk.
To the left was the main door. A second one further ahead, slightly ajar. The faint sound of dripping water came from within.
He moved toward the window first. Pushed aside the curtain.
Outside, a cobblestone street stretched below, washed in pale lamplight. People in long coats and high collars walked in ordered steps, their polished shoes tapping rhythmically. A few horse-drawn carriages rolled past, wheels sliding against wet stone. Everyone wore hats, ties, gloves. The air itself felt disciplined.
Ryker's eyes widened. "I— I teleported?"
He turned sharply, crossing the room. The cold floor bit at his feet. The bathroom door creaked as he pushed it open. A mirror stood above a porcelain basin. He stepped closer.
The reflection of an unrecognisable face looked back. Pale skin, mid-length black hair. Black eyes that felt heavy with someone else's memories.
He raised both hands, pressing them against his chest, fingers digging in, as if to confirm his own heartbeat. Then, almost on impulse, he slapped his face hard. The sharp and clean sound echoed.
He stared at himself again and exhaled through trembling lips. "I… transmigrated."
For a moment, silence again. Only his reflection breathing with him. He lingered there, watching the unfamiliar curve of his jaw, the calm in eyes that didn't belong to him.
Then he turned and walked out, the night air brushing cold against his pale skin.
Ryker's eyes fell on the desk again. The faint moonlight slipped across its surface like a whisper, touching the edges of paper, pen, and coin.
He moved toward it, footsteps soft against the wooden floor. His fingers brushed the golden coin first, it was heavier than it looked, dense with history.
On one side, the stern profile of a man wearing a crown, gaze fixed forward. Beneath it, a single word carved with precision — GOLDEN VELM. On the other side, a towering tree, strange and elegant, roots entangled in an ornate design. Aethelgard was written around it in looping script.
"So this is the king of Aethelgard," he murmured, voice quiet but steady, "or once was."
He turned the coin again and froze. A faint, rusty blood stain clung to its edge. Old, but not forgotten. His eyes sharpened, focus narrowing. A familiar chill rippled through his thoughts, that feeling of patterns forming just beyond sight. He placed the coin back gently, the soft clink echoing in the quiet. Drew a breath, slow and deep. "Finally."
He said it not to the room, but to the air. To that invisible companion that always listened, even in silence. He reached for the book next. A hardbound volume, its spine worn, corners softened by use. 'Architectural History: Vol. III.'
He flipped it open. The first page wore neat handwriting, 'To Ash Elliott, for your research — Prof. Alcott.'
He read the name twice, lips barely moving.
"So that's who I am now," he whispered. "Ash Elliott."
Then a faint, tired smile curved his lips. "Finally free from that shitass world."
He set the book aside and opened the drawers one by one. Inside, neatly packed soap bars, wrapped in fine paper, faint fragrance still trapped beneath.
"You know," he said quietly, tearing one wrapper open, "that world was a complete illusion. A society that preached morality and order—" He lifted the soap to his nose, inhaling the rich, floral scent. "—but wore them like collars. Chains for the obedient." He placed the soap back, closed the drawer with a soft thud, and turned toward the wardrobe. When he opened it, the faint smell of linen and old cologne drifted out. Rows of coats, waistcoats, shirts, ties, all immaculately pressed. A few hats lined the upper shelf.
He ran his hand over the fabrics, smooth and expensive, feeling the texture of another man's life beneath his fingertips. His fingers slipped into pockets, one by one, searching.
"Racism. Caste. Religion. But no humanity." His voice was low, deliberate. "A poor man was filth. A weak one, disposable. We're free from that world, buddy."
His hand brushed against a folded slip of paper. He drew a ticket out. The ink slightly faded, edges worn. The Grand Selby Theatre. One Balcony Seat For the performance of: "The Maiden's Last Sigh."
Ryker stared at it, the faint trace of a smirk forming as his thumb traced the printed letters.The world beyond the window was still humming softly, unaware that its newest citizen had just awoken.
Ash Elliott lifted the half-top-caps one by one, fingers brushing against polished brims, until something hard shifted beneath the last.
A book. Its cover was black ,not printed that way, but painted over, as if someone had wanted its title to vanish. He pulled it out, turning it in his hands. The surface was uneven, the paint dry and cracked at the edges. He opened it. The first page hit him with lines and curves, nude rough sketches of women, drawn in hurried strokes, page after page. Ash exhaled slowly, the corner of his lip twitching. "Of course," Ryker thought. "A porn-addict teenager."
He kept flipping through pages, each page had nudity. And then, near the back, the tone changed. Neat handwriting, each line precise, almost mechanical: 'Wake up at 6. University 7:30 to 1:30.Handle the coffee shop from 2 to 8:30. Do university work in remaining time and sleep.'
A simple, repetitive schedule. A life drawn in clockwork. Ryker studied it for a moment, then quietly shut the book and slid it back beneath the cap.He turned toward the wardrobe again, pulling out a white shirt first, faintly scented of soap. Then a black waistcoat, fitted snug around his frame. A grey long coat followed, its fabric cool and heavy against his skin, at last the black trousers completed the picture. Someone else's identity stitched neatly into order. He didn't button the coat.
His eyes flicked toward the half-top cap resting on the shelf. For a second, his hand hovered over it.
CLICK!
Then he closed the wardrobe.
Ash adjusted his cuffs, took one last look around the room, and murmured under his breath, "My new life begins from now."
The words had barely left his lips when something answered.
"You're looking damn good."
He froze. Every muscle in his body locked. The air inside the room felt heavier and colder. His gaze swept across the window, desk, wardrobe, door but found no one. No sound except the faint, patient and steady ticking.
"What— what was that?" Ryker thought.
The voice came again, calm and almost amused. "You're transmigrated here, am i right?" This time, Ash didn't turn. His breath steadied. He knew the source now, not in distance but in depth.
"Where… where are you?" he said quietly, voice thin against the silence.
"I'm literally in you," the voice replied in dry, casual tone, too human to be comforting. "In your messed-up brain." Ash blinked once.
"What—" the word slipped out before thought could catch it.