In one of the villages, on a mountain near the city of "Verdenstream," filled with many chimneys and factories, stood a small hut, isolated among the tall trees draping down the mountainside. The door was open, creaking with every gust of wind, its windows almost broken, its roof damaged, allowing the sight of thick, swirling fog in the sky through its gaps. In the corners, spiderwebs stretched, and a spider dangled and played with them quietly, as if watching every movement inside the hut.
The hut consisted of one room, a small kitchen, and a tiny bathroom. Inside the room, a window half cracked and half open let in cold winds, causing the papers on the floor to tremble as if trying to escape the oppressive silence. On the old bed lay a cotton mattress and wild animal skins, covered by an old blanket that had been sewn back together multiple times, its dark stains telling stories of years of neglect. On the wall, above the room's door, was the taxidermied head of a tiger, its empty eyes staring as if they knew the secrets of the place.
There was a small desk with a cup containing an ink pen that wasn't yet dry, next to it a black book inscribed with: "The Eternal Sacrifice," and beneath the book, papers scattered on the floor as if a whirlwind had passed through. At the top of the room, an old cracked mirror covered in dust reflected distorted fragments of reality, as if revealing hidden worlds unseen by anyone. On one of the walls facing the bed, an antique clock in the shape of a horse's head, with a small hole in the center the size of a newborn's palm, and a pendulum swinging left and right, emitting a continuous sound: "Tick... tock... tick." The small hour hand was between the numbers 5 and 6, and the minute hand was halfway, meaning the time was now 5:30 in the evening.
And suddenly, faint sounds shook the silence. A person rose slowly from among the scattered papers on the floor, breathing heavily, grabbing onto an old shelf to steady himself, making it emit a painful creak, as if groaning under the weight of life. He stood up quickly after the creaking sound, swayed a little but held onto the shelf again until he stabilized.
He wore a black coat full of stains, a white shirt with long sleeves, a medium-sized hunting hat on his head, and relatively decent black trousers. He was breathing heavily, clenching his hand and pressing it against his left chest. Upon lifting his hand, he discovered blood seeping under his inner shirt.
"Haaah…." he cried out in shock, trying to comprehend the situation. He took off the tattered coat and shirt, and a drop of blood fell onto the floor and over the scattered papers. He felt a sharp pain in his heart, something piercing him intensely. He moved his hand instinctively, trying to bear the pain, and while doing so, the front part embedded in his heart appeared, while its small, flat, round back was visible.
Adding to the terror was that the chair he had been sitting on was broken underneath, as if the hut itself had tried to prevent him from resting, forcing him to stand firmly, balancing his frail body on the cold floor.
He lifted his head with difficulty and looked at the dust-covered, cracked mirror. What he saw made him stop breathing for a few seconds. Reflected in the mirror was a strange form unlike his previous body; his hair was short and brown, but with strands of black and gold, his eyes were pale green instead of the previous gray, and his face had become more handsome, yet foreign to him, completely different from the real appearance he had been used to all his life.
"What…! What happened to my appearance? Why has it changed!?" he screamed, unable to accept the sight. He grabbed his face with his hands, one stained with blood, dyeing his right cheek dark, but he paid no heed, continuing to scream louder:
"No…no… what is happening to me!?"
After a few minutes, he gradually began to calm down and sat on the floor trying to grasp the situation. He started examining the situation carefully, his mind analyzing every detail in the hut: the tattered clothes, the scattered papers, the cracked mirror, the old clock… and all of that made the mystery more dense. He began jotting down his observations on one of the papers he picked up from the floor.
Firstly, he could have died from the bullet or from blood loss, but he didn't die.
Secondly, my old, dirty, foul-smelling clothes suggest this place has been abandoned for years, and the owner of this body hadn't cleaned any of them for years.
After saying that, he kicked the shirt and coat off the floor.
Thirdly, the chaos in the hut, the scattered papers, the broken chair, the dust… indicate a violent or rapid event that happened here recently.
Fourthly, the cracked mirror that I broke, and the old clock add a feeling of suspended time and hidden worlds.
And as he wrote, a foul, rotten smell, like an intolerably disgusting dead body, crept into his nose, but he ignored it, pretending it was just the corpse of a wild animal that died near the hut.
After finishing writing his notes, he put them in his trouser pocket to review later. He sighed and said to himself:
"It seems I really have crossed over to another world.
But why did it have to be inside an old hut?They could have made me go to a better, more enjoyable other world, like an immortal's world, and become one of the strongest farmers, gaining wealth and harems!
Or even a school gang world,where not only would I dominate everyone there, but I'd also go make billion-dollar deals with one of the major families and have followers."
But no… I had to be transferred to this damned old hut. And the problem is there's a bullet in my heart, yet I'm still alive… and I don't understand why!" A deep frown appeared on his face.
He looked down and saw shards of the broken mirror scattered over the papers, some on the bloodstains. He sighed again and looked at the shelf where his hunting hat was placed atop the black book.
He approached it with pale green eyes, then slowly moved the hat aside. He grabbed the book with his bloody hands, and drops of blood began falling from it, leaving a small trail on the floor.
"Hah… seems like I need to stop the bleeding from my hand and my heart, after I see what's inside this book."
He noticed the words inscribed on the cover: "The Eternal Sacrifice," remarkably prominent, as if emitting a faint golden light.
But Xiao Ping paid no attention to the glow and opened the book. What he saw was merely pristine white pages, empty except for the preface:
"Reader, are you ready to go with us on a journey no human has undertaken before? A journey that will acquaint you with the meaning of this world."
He shouted loudly:
"What?A journey? Are you joking with me?! Thanks, but I'm not interested."
With those words, he closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. The faint golden glow disappeared, and the mysterious hints vanished.
At that moment, a wind blew from the window, carrying the hut's intense coldness, sending a shiver that fell upon Xiao Ping's naked body. He had taken off the coat and white shirt to see the wound clearly and felt the cold creeping into his body.
"Ah… seems like I need to find some other clothes to wear…" Xiao Ping muttered as he inspected the small room inside the hut.
He began searching every corner and shelf in the hut, every nook, looking for any piece of clothing that could protect him from the biting cold. The wind crept through the broken windows and cracks in the walls, carrying harsh sounds and the creaking of dilapidated wood with every gust, sending shivers deep into his body. The scattered papers on the floor and the dust flying with every movement made the place seem as if it was suffocating in a terrifying silence.
He found nothing, and had no other choice but to put the shirt and coat back on. He hesitated for a moment, his mind trying to weigh two possibilities: either wear those tattered clothes again, or freeze to death. Just thinking about it sent an indescribable shiver through him, freezing all his limbs, as if the cold itself was entering his bones.
He looked around the hut, at the clothes he had worn earlier, and immediately remembered that the owner of this body had been very poor, living in poverty and misery… and had no luxury or choice.
With a long sigh, he finally decided to put the shirt and coat back on, despite their foul smell and dilapidated state, realizing that survival required this simple sacrifice. And as he wore them, the sounds of the wind, the creaking, and the flying dust continued to remind him of the harsh place and the mystery lurking in every corner of the hut.
And at that moment… the sound of a cuckoo came from the clock hanging on the wall.
"Cuckoo…cuckoo…"
The sound repeated six times consecutively, announcing that the time was exactly six o'clock.
Xiao Ping turned towards it,staring at the hands that had stopped at the number "6," as if forced to be still there.
He sighed lightly and said to himself:
"At least there's something reminding me that time is still moving…even in this wretched hut."
But soon a shiver crept through his body… for the hut bore no sign of normal human life, so how could an old, dilapidated clock be working with perfect accuracy until now?
"Tsk, this hut holds many secrets…" Xiao Ping mocked in his mind before adding, "Doesn't matter… not now."
And as soon as he finished his words, his stomach let out a loud sound from extreme hunger, as if announcing its rebellion.
He placed his hand on his stomach and pressed a little,saying in a tired voice:
"I need something to eat…The bleeding has exhausted my body more than I expected."
With dragging steps, he headed towards the small kitchen through the broken doorway.
His eyes wandered around the place until they stopped on a rusty pot atop an old stove.
He approached slowly, looked inside… stagnant water reflected the image of his blood-stained face.
His features stiffened for a moment,and he grumbled in annoyance:
"This damned face…it haunts me even here."
He clenched his teeth then spat aside contemptuously, before adding sarcastically:
"And on top of that…the previous owner of this body didn't even leave any food. Was this idiot that poor!?"
He wondered to himself as he leaned against the wall next to the cold stove:
"Do I have to go out of this hut to hunt some wild animals?"
But as soon as he turned his eyes towards the broken window, he saw the thick fog filling the outside, to the point he could barely distinguish the nearby trees.
He gasped lightly,then shook his head, mocking himself:
"No…that's ridiculous, very stupid even.
First,I can't see anything in this fog, and I might get lost on the way and never find my way back to the hut.
Second,I have no weapon nor hunting skills, and if I encounter a bear or a tiger, I'll just be a helpless prey.
And worse…my body can barely stand from exhaustion."
His hands trembled slightly from fatigue and cold, so he sighed deeply and let himself slide down to sit on the floor, leaning his shoulder against the wall, while the fog outside continued to swirl like a mysterious curtain hiding the unseen.
"No… I must get up. From what I know, I saw a bed in the room."
He muttered to himself as he slowly dragged his feet,before noticing a slight tremor in the bed as if it was moving.
The rotten smell crept into his nose again, forcing him to cover it with his hand as he scoffed.
And with each step closer,the smell grew heavier as if piercing his chest.
"Ugh… disgusting! What is this damned smell?"
He stopped one step away from the bed, realizing its source was none other than the bed itself.
The patched blanket,full of faded stains, was slowly swelling like a long balloon hiding something alive or dead beneath.
His voice trembled as he whispered:
"Am I hallucinating?Or are my eyes deceiving me?… Or have I truly gone mad?"
He clenched his teeth tightly as he stared more intensely:
"I see the tattered blanket…swelling!"
His breaths grew heavy as he thought:
Why didn't I notice this before when I was searching for clothes?
The bleeding must have exhausted me to the point of dizziness… and I overlooked everything.
Even the foul smell,which I thought was from a rotten wild animal corpse outside… was here beside me the whole time!
He struck his forehead violently with his left hand, angry at his own stupidity.