I heard a voice in my head.
"Wake up," it commanded.
Excuse me? Absolutely not. I just got home from a soul-devouring job, the kind where five minutes feel like five hours and you age in dog years. Sleep is my only form of therapy. So, whatever mystical entity this is—please respect the nap.
"Wake up!" it repeated.
Oh good, a persistent hallucination. And sure, I might be dreaming—probably am. But if this is divine intervention, I'd prefer it come with a paycheck. Or at least cancel my morning meeting.
Then the voice shifts—from annoying to theatrical.
"Wake up, we need you, oh great one.""We need you."
Right. "Great one." As if I didn't just eat instant noodles while crying about taxes an hour ago.
I groaned, "Fine. If you want me so bad, come get me. But I swear, I'm not getting out of bed unless this includes free gold or a health coverage."
Suddenly, the voice crescendos.
"You're being transported to the medieval age."
"The chosen one has arrived."
"Our savior will now descend."
Wait, what?
First of all, I've always loved the Medieval Age. The drama, the swords, the screaming in accents I can't replicate—I'm here for it. I've binge-watched enough historical fantasy to fake my way through a war council.
"I hope you will thrive."
"Be a legend."
"Make a name for yourself."
"Because you, Takeo, are the great one!"
Uhhh… Takeo? Is that me now? Am I the guy in the prophecy? Fine, I'll wear the title—greatness sounds way more fun than Excel sheets.
Then everything goes dark. Time stretches like a bad Wi-Fi signal. I can't move. Not even a twitch.
Is this real? Have I time-traveled? Am I dead? WAIT—what about my dog? My family? My phone?! And—oh no. I never deleted that awkward photo I took to diagnose my butt pain. That's gonna be the legacy I leave behind?
Then suddenly, a light shimmering so brightly flashes thru
A woman stared at me. And not in a "let's fall in love" way—but more like "you just woke up in the wrong bed and you're about to get slapped."
This felt surreal. Like those anime I binge where people get reborn in another body but still somehow have their past selves.
And then—BOOM. I felt a punch knocking at the doorsteps of my face.
It felt like my soul will leave my body in any minute.
I opened my eyes again and saw clearly a green-eyed goddess in front of me. Slim figure, stunning aura... the kind of woman who makes you question your skincare routine.
And beside her stood a man with a mustache so bushy, it deserved its own lawn mower.
He stared at me like I insulted him. Probably twice.
"Don't ever set foot in this city again," he growled.
"If you come near my daughter again, I'll end you"
Okay, rude—but terrifyingly effective.
I had no idea what I did, or what crime I committed in this world, but apparently, I'm already on someone's hit list.
And I only said that they can take me because I was tired of that mysterious voice talking.
"Focus! I need to survive this somehow!"
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to do anything!" "I'll leave this city and be gone forever!"
Then came silence. Thick. Awkward. Terrifying. Until…
"FATHER! Don't do this to Takeo—I LOVE him! I'll do whatever it takes to be with him forever!" shouted the beautiful woman.
Wait… WHAT?! This goddess is in love with me? Well now—talk about winning the lottery.
Although being loved doesn't exactly stop swords from being sharp. I still needed a plan to stay alive—and maybe snag the girl while I'm at it HAHAHAH!
"Father!" I yelled, "Don't worry, I'll take care of—uh… what's-her-name again?!" Panic. Brain freeze. Memory meltdown. If I mess this up, I'm toast.
It's like a feeling when I didn't review the report my boss gave me before taking the meeting!
I couldn't find enough words!
Then genius struck. I reached deep into my bag of childhood survival tricks and pulled out a classic move:
Fake sickness. I dramatically grabbed my head and wailed, "Aggghhh! My head!"
" I also do this a lot at work, for my SICKLEAVE!!!!"
Boom. Emotional support mode activated. The woman—let's call her Miracle Girl—ran to me in tears. I could almost hear medieval violins playing.
"HAAA—Roselyn! Take this man to the guest room. Let him rest. We'll speak again later." barked Mustache Dad.
Yesssss—it worked! One more day to live in this chaotic timeline!
Servants carried me to the guest room while Roselyn fluttered around like a worried angel. Once she left (and yes, she kissed me on the cheek), I lay there like a statue until the coast was clear.
After an hour, I rose like a confused peasant.
Objective 1: Find a mirror.
Objective 2: Check if my face is still intact.
Secret Objective: Verify if my face is actually worth this time-travel ticket.
I found a mirror. I looked. And boy, did it deliver.
Sharp jawline. Regal cheekbones. A hint of mysterious trauma. I looked like I stepped out of a medieval romance novel and landed straight into someone's forbidden love story.
But… something nagged me.
This face… it felt familiar. As if I'd seen it before, maybe in a painting, a dream… or a distant ancestor?
So, I started digging through the dusty archives of my brain, and boom—there it was. A memory, crystal clear. My favorite painting in my room that I just about to forgot because of work. I never knew the name of the artist (probably some mountain-wandering Picasso), but the story behind it? Pure legend.
The painting is called "The Great One." I remembered the portrait perfectly. Mostly because I was staring directly at it... in the mirror... with its face somehow now being my face. Just your typical time-travel/ different world identity crisis.
Here's how it went down:
Back in the day—way before I was born—my parents helped an old man who was injured while hiking in the mountains near our hometown.
They cared for the old man like he was family. My parents, still young and full of hope. They did everything they could—but fate had other plans. The old man, with eyes that seemed to carry centuries, knew his time had come.
Before his final breath, he gave them a painting. "This is no coincidence," he said softly. "This is my life's work—my glory. Protect it. Someday, the story behind this painting will be carried forward by someone you love deeply."
It was more than a farewell gift. It was a legacy.
Years later, on my tenth birthday—a day that should've been filled with laughter and cake—life tore that joy away. My parents, both gone in a sudden accident, had left something behind. That same painting, quietly waiting for its moment.
They had prepared it as a gift for me. Their final message, wrapped in canvas and memory.
Great story, right? but depressing. Now that I remembered it. The pain in my heart also resurfaces, because of my parents.
I've stared at it every day since. Eight years of wondering. Eight years of feeling something familiar in its gaze, its shadowed edges, its quiet power. And now—standing in an unfamiliar world, surrounded by strange faces and centuries-old landscapes—I see it again.
Not in a frame.
But in real life.
I've become the painting. The face I've known since childhood… is mine now. Whether by destiny, time, or some unexplainable miracle—this story was waiting for me.
And so, I faced the truth.
This world—strange and distant—is now mine. The story woven into that painting, ancient and forgotten, demands to be retold… or perhaps rescued before it disappears completely.
I don't know the path forward. I don't know what must be done, or what will be asked of me. But I know this—this isn't chance. It's not luck, or fate.
This painting didn't choose me. It became me.
And now, the journey begins.