"I've… possessed a new body?"
His hands trembled as they brushed over his face, tugging at his hair, pressing against his chest as if touch alone could prove this strange reality. The sound of his own voice felt foreign in his ears—different, yet his. In disbelief, he rushed to the mirror standing in the corner.
"How…?"
The word left his lips in a whisper, his heartbeat surging as he froze before the glass. He staggered back two steps, then leaned in again, unable to resist the reflection that trapped his gaze. Crimson eyes, luminous like gemstones, stared back at him. A stranger's face—striking, almost beautiful—looked from the other side of the glass. His figure tall, imposing, nearly six and a half feet. None of it belonged to him, yet here it was.
He leaned closer, so near the cold mirror fogged faintly with his breath. His eyes widened as he peered into the depths of his own pupils. The red irises looked dead, void of warmth, circling endless black pupils that seemed to drink in every shred of light.
A shiver crawled down his spine. Creeped out yet unwilling to look away, he finally drew back, his hand grazing the contours of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, then sliding down to his neck. His fingertips lingered on his chest, where the heavy pounding of a heart—his heart—beat like a war drum, frantic and alive.
And then he saw it. On his right wrist, etched onto his skin, a serpent devouring its own tail.
"The Ouroboros…" he muttered. Rebirth. Death. A cycle without end. He clenched his fist, deciding to bury the thought for now. There was already too much to take in.
His gaze swept over the rest of his reflection. The sculpted muscles, the faint scars hinting at battles survived, a body marked and honed by trials unknown to him. Slowly he flexed his arms, watching the cords of nerves tighten, the veins rising beneath pale skin. He shifted his stance, testing the weight of long legs that felt both strange and powerful. Whoever this body had belonged to, it was not weak.
When he could no longer stand the sight of himself, he turned away. His few steps carried him into the kitchen, pausing by the wooden counter. His fingers skimmed the polished maple, tracing the smooth grain as though to ground himself in something real. Craftsmanship, solid and certain, unlike the chaos unraveling in his mind.
This is real. This body is mine now. But am I still me? Or someone else entirely?
The thought pressed heavy in his chest. This is the kind of thing you only read in novels—transmigration, possession… impossible tales. And yet here I stand.
Questions swarmed. What dragged me here? Or… who? Why me? He couldn't recall doing anything unusual, aside from his recent dive into alchemy. That alone couldn't be enough. There had to be another reason—another hand guiding this.
Solomon… The name rose in his mind. The man whose body he now wore had called himself the Sovereign of Forgotten History. Could it be the same Solomon he vaguely remembered from the legend—the emperor, the conqueror, the wise? If so, what had happened to him?
And what of himself? Could he ever return to his old life? What of his life, his friends? Were they grieving him now, or did time flow differently where they remained? The questions gnawed at him until his chest ached.
If I can't undo this, then I'll search for the truth. About Solomon. About the forgotten past. About why I'm here.
He clung to a single lead, the man Solomon had mentioned—Cardinal Beowulf. Whoever he was, he knew something.
And then there was them. Solomon had refused to name them, which only made the threat loom larger in René's mind. Dangerous enough to be unspeakable. Dangerous enough to be feared by a Sovereign.
His thoughts slowed. The weight of it all pressed down until he simply stood there, unmoving. He closed his eyes, gathering himself.
A new body, a new fate. Perhaps even a new life. Then he realized—he would need a new name.
He thought of the life behind him, severed like a thread. The boy he once was belonged to that world. Whoever he became here would need to carry a different name.
"René," he whispered, tasting the word.
"I am René."
René had already determined the persona he would wear, weighing every gesture, word, and mannerism against the image he wished to preserve out in the world. That much was clear. Yet as his thoughts settled, they drifted towards the current moment, pressing strangeness.
These letters… these markings… I should not be able to understand them, and yet I do. He glanced at the papers scattered across the room. Syrdonian, the local tongue Sylmaril, Ancient Hermon, Old Thashque…
None were written in the same script, yet he could understand them all. Whether it was a gift left behind by Solomon's body or some residue of his transmigration, he could not tell.
Does this mean English isn't the tongue of this city? Does English even exist? He exhaled sharply.
Fragments of his knowledge remain already, buried within the body I now inhabit. The body remembers what the soul has not yet claimed. Languages… instincts… even this dagger. It felt natural, almost familiar, when I slid it at my waist.
A slow ache spread at the base of René's skull, and memories surfaced like bubbles rising from a deep well.
Yes… I recall the neighbors. Miss Hilda, always knocking, always leaving behind some plate of sweets. Old Carten, who visits with idle chatter. The laughing woman next door, whose name eludes me still. The children, wild and shrieking, running heedless of their parents' scolding…
Farther out—there's the beggars' corner, a tangle of rags and hollow stares. And the bars. The largest, The Lizard's Fang, hosts its auctions every fortnight, hidden behind the thin veil of charity. Nobles sponsor them. One is even scheduled in a few hours.
Meanwhile, the people here work only to eat for a few days, clinging to jobs that promise no more than survival. Luxury is a dream meant for others. A sad, rotting truth.
He exhaled, sorting thought from thought, only to be left with more questions. With his chosen name already settled, René pressed forward to what had been instructed. Solomon's warning lingered in his thoughts; to never utter his true name aloud. Even in silence, it weighed heavily.
After reading the letter twice more, he rose, moved to the window, and lifted a candle. The panes creaked as they opened, letting the cold city air pour in.
The moment his gaze spilled outside, what he saw struck him with a harsh reality. Horse-drawn carriages, black coats and worn skirts, sharp top hats and tired faces... His throat tightened. With deliberate calm, he lowered the candle flame to the paper.
The page curled, blackened, and turned to ash, the wind catching each fragment and scattering it into the wind.
René leaned against the sill. His body reeked of blood and sweat, his stomach clawed in hunger. A bath… then food. Only then could he think clearly, clearing his mind of the chaos surrounding it. Work would follow. A bodyguard, or perhaps a scout. Dangerous, yes, but such risks carried better pay.
Still, appearance mattered. Speech mattered. This world was not his own. He was to not forget that.
The streets below carried the air of Britain's old empire, perhaps the turn of the twentieth century, though the exact measure of its progress—electricity, steam, telegraphs—remained uncertain.
Answers would come in time. For now, the bath.
…
René ate until he was stuffed, the dried meat he found in the cabinet passing for a feast after the shower. He dressed in the suit from the bedroom closet. Casual clothes would have been preferable, but the age demanded formality. The necklace, Solomon's necklace, remained around his neck. He hadn't taken it off, not even under water. Losing it felt unthinkable.
"Time to head out."
The coat could wait. The mess in the room could wait. He only hoped no one came knocking before he returned. For now, curiosity pressed harder than caution.
He laced the polished shoes, threw on a long brown coat from the hanger, and slipped ten pounds, by his count, into his pocket. Outside, he paused at the doorstep, fingers brushing the crescent necklace.
A prayer formed silently on his lips, directed to the Goddess, though he wasn't sure whom, or whether his words even counted as a prayer. His memories remained locked, yet still he prayed. It was a comfort as sunlight struck his face and winter's bite closed around him.
"There's the sun I know." Looking up, Renè spoke, his lips curling into a faint smile.
The cold struck him immediately. His breath fogged in the air, white wisps vanishing too quickly. Snowflakes drifted down, clinging to his coat only to melt away.
"Winter? No wonder…" He pulled the coat tighter.
The streets spread out before him. Rows of narrow red and brown houses pressed close to each other, the lines broken only by the occasional café, barbershop, tailor or other shops. Detached mansions stood in the distance, delicate and ornate, standing apart with gardens and stonework that showed wealth.
The pavement was damp beneath the thin snow, René's steps leaving faint traces. People hurried past in wool coats and scarves, faces half-hidden from the wind. He caught their expressions—fatigue, urgency, the stiffness of laborers bound for work, and the quick strides of gentlemen hoping to outpace the storm. René kept his distance, slipping through the crowd without brushing shoulders, as if the city might reject him if he revealed himself too plainly.
The Lizard's Fang loomed ahead, standing between a theater and a warehouse. He stopped before the door, drawing in the city's sound—the wheels of carriages, the murmur of crowds, the clatter of some far-off machine, the soft hiss of snow. One last look, then he stepped inside.
The bar buzzed with bodies and voices, every table filled. Waiters and waitresses weaved through the crowd, carrying trays. A stage stood ready at the far end. The crowd was here for one thing.
René drifted unnoticed to the counter.
"One cup of wine." His voice sounded natural even in the foreign tongue, though he had never seen the language before today.
The bartender blinked at him, caught off guard, but quickly recovered and poured a bitter red.
"Two penny."
René studied the coins in his pocket, weighing which faces belonged to which value, before handing the man the proper amount. The bartender slid the cup forward with a curt nod.
Cheap, he thought. Or perhaps he misunderstood the worth entirely.
Wine in hand, René retreated into the crowd, moving into a corner. He sipped lightly, listening. The conversations were dull at first—trivial gossip, complaints about work, their sex life—until one thread caught his ear.
"They say a demon lives there," one man whispered. "Hunts folk at night, leaves nothing but bones."
His companion snorted. "And who'd be fool enough to wander that place after dark? Even so, what makes you think it won't just come knocking on your own door one night?"
The first man fell quiet, troubled.
René took a slow drink. His memory was sharp; details like this clung to him. But for now, the matter was useless. He was too weak. Stronger—that was what Solomon had insisted he must become. Stronger first, everything else after.
He sighed and let the thought of Solomon slip. The old man's words had been little more than fragments, lines pointing in directions without a map. René would have to draw the path himself.
A shout silenced the bar.
"Attention, folks—the grand auction you've been waiting for begins now!"
Voices fell, all eyes turning to the stage. René found a chair near the back, where shadows softened the edges of his presence. He settled in, wine in hand, and waited for the first lot to be revealed.