The Journal of Klaus Timbolt
May 1, 1768
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When I first pulled that weathered volume from the shelves of the St. Jude's library, I dismissed its contents as the fever dreams of a heretic.
I was no fool, naturally.
I knew the world held its share of shadows, but the notion of stumbling upon a functional grimoire in a dusty school collection seemed a statistical impossibility.
Curiosity, however, is a persistent devil.
One ritual in particular, "The Blind Star," demanded my attention.
It claimed to allow a practitioner to borrow "fortune" from a higher existence. I can still see the ink on the page:
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"The Blind Star sees all threads of fate. Offer enough, and it will tilt destiny in your favor."
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In my arrogance, I decided to perform the rite simply to prove its impotence.
I gathered the reagents: a silver coin to represent worldly wealth, a shattered mirror for a fractured fate, and a single black candle to cast a restless, unstable flame.
At the stroke of midnight, beneath a moonless sky, I spoke the incantations.
I expected nothing. Instead, the world curdled. My muscles seized as if turned to stone, and my mind flooded with a cacophony of unnatural whispers, voices that sounded like they wanted to split my skull.
The pressure behind my eyes was so immense I feared my skull would shatter.
The Blind Star heard me. It granted my request for a 'new destiny,' but with a cruel, literalist irony.
I did not gain luck instead I gained a different world entirely.
I am no longer on the Earth I recognize.
I am stranded nearly three centuries deep into the past, a ghost in a time that is not my own.
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Agh!
What the hell! Why does my head feel like it's about to explode?
Lou tried to roll over, to shift, to do anything, but his limbs staged a full-blown mutiny. They simply refused to obey.
Why can't I move? Why is my body so damn heavy? Did I get drugged? Stuffed in a car trunk?
He let out a jagged groan, trying to heave his weight to the side. It was useless. It felt like invisible lead wires were pinning him down to the surface beneath him.
He was drifting in that ugly, gray space of being half-conscious and awake enough to feel the pain, but too far gone to control it.
Am I actually alive?Heh. What a ridiculous question. I'm thinking, therefore I'm a conscious disaster, which means I'm alive. But then… this darkness? This crushing weight holding me back from the surface of sleep?
Could I actually be dead? Is this what the "after" looks like? Just... heavy dark?
Even in his haze, the thought sent a spike of pure adrenaline through him. Panicking, Lou clawed at his own consciousness, dragging every scrap of willpower from his numb muscles. He forced his eyelids to crack open.
At first, the world was a smeared, vibrating mess. His pupils dilated wildly, hunting for a focal point. Then, slowly, the blur sharpened into hard, unforgiving lines.
Wait. Why am I lying on the floor?
Lou managed to haul himself upright.
Beyond the rhythmic thumping in his skull, a jagged heat radiated from his throat.
God. Feels like someone tried to saw my head off.
He reached up, his fingers grazing the skin of his neck, and immediately hissed through his teeth. His fingertips traced a thick, raised welt. It was a line.
"What the hell happened here?"
He blinked, rubbing his throbbing temples, trying to force his brain to spark into gear.
Most importantly... where the hell am I?
The room was old. Not the vintage or shabby chic, but genuinely old.
It looked like a set from one of those 18th-century period dramas his sister used to binge. The furniture was heavy, dark mahogany, the kind of old money craftsmanship you only see in museums or the mansions of the ultra-rich. But even those didn't feel this raw. This was original.
This is strange. Seriously strange. The last thing I remember was the ritual... the...
"The Blind Star!" he croaked out loud.
"It worked? Is this the 'luck' that damn book promised me?"
As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a fallen wooden chair lying about a meter away. His gaze traveled upward, following the line of the chair to a thick hemp rope dangling from the ceiling. It was frayed, snapping under some immense weight.
Lou's hand went back to the welt on his neck. Then back to the chair.
Wait. Did I just try to end my own life?
The more he chewed on the question, the more the puzzle pieces clicked into a horrifying picture.
Huh? His mind gave a sharp, silent gasp. He looked around again, desperate for a hidden camera or a punchline.
But the wood grain was too real.The rope, the chair, and the stinging fire on his neck were all very, very real.
He forced himself to his feet, legs shaking like a newborn calf. He needed to see it. He needed a mirror.
He spotted a small, silver-framed glass on a washstand at the far end of the room. He stumbled toward it, gripping the edge of the wood for balance, and leaned in.
Looking back at him wasn't the face he'd shaved every morning. Instead, a sharp-featured lad of maybe twenty stared back.
The stranger had a shock of raven-black hair and piercing, cold grey eyes.
Wait. What? That's not me. Where's my blonde hair? Where's my actual face?
His grip failed. The mirror slipped, hitting the floor with a sharp crack that echoed through the silent room.
What kind of sick prank is this?
His mind began to redline. His blood hammered in his ears, and his heart felt like it was trying to kick its way out of his ribs.
"Wait... did I actually transmigrate?"
That's ridiculous. This only happens in Webnovels.
He tried to laugh it off, but the sound died in his throat. He couldn't lie to himself anymore. The weight of the air, the ache in his neck, the unfamiliar texture of his skin, all too tangible.
This is real. It's actually happening. I've hijacked some poor kid's body.
He forced himself to take a long, shaky breath. He inhaled then exhaled.
Stay calm. If this is a System story, the tutorial should be starting any second now.
Instead of a blue screen, a flood of memories hit him. They weren't his, but they settled into his brain like they'd always been there.
Klaus Timbolt. Twenty-one. A citizen of the Euodia Empire, living in the cramped, soot-stained streets of Ypisti City. He lived here with his twin siblings, Bellarmine and Rachel.
The history was a bleak one. Their mother had been taken by the Black Plague when Klaus was only nine. A few years later, their father had answered a royal summons to go crush a rebellion in one of the Empire's dying Southern colonies. He never came back. Maybe he was rotting in a mass grave or he'd just decided a fresh start was better than a house full of hungry mouths.
With the old man gone, the burden had fallen on Bellarmine, the supposed heir to the Timbolt name. But there was no inheritance to claim. They were commoners through and through.
Bellarmine and Rachel slaved away at a tiny, flour-dusted bakery just to keep the roof over their heads.
They'd tried to scrape together enough coin to send Klaus to University. The smart brother's big chance, but the world doesn't give handouts to bakers. So, Klaus had traded his books for a kneading trough.
"Okay, this is definitely some twisted luck," Lou, now Klaus, sighed rubbing his face with hands that felt far too calloused.
I transmigrated into this world and I don't even get a sword? I'm poor and I sell bread? Phew. I really should have left that ritual alone. I went from a writer to a baker. Great career move, Lou.
He slumped back onto the narrow bed, the straw mattress creaking under his weight. As he sat there, staring at the floor, something caught his eye on the small wooden nightstand.
A scrap of paper.
He reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and picked it up. It was a letter.
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A/N: The "Black Plague" mentioned in this chapter is based on the real-world BlackDeath (1347–1351), the deadliest catastrophe in human history. It is a ruthless bacterium called Yersinia pestis, hitching a ride on fleas and black rats. It wiped out an estimated 25–50 million people, nearly one-third of Europe's entire population.
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Ypisisti means Supreme, Most High or Highest in Greek.