Cold rain lashed from a pitch-black sky, soaking the young man's tattered jacket as he sprinted through a claustrophobic alleyway. The storm raged like a living beast, thunder rumbling in the distance as if the heavens themselves were chasing him. His heart thundered in sync, each beat a desperate plea for survival, pounding against his ribs like a war drum. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, burning his lungs with every inhale. His sneakers—worn and muddied—slipped treacherously on the slick cobblestones, nearly sending him sprawling more than once.
"Damn it…" he panted, his voice barely audible over the relentless downpour. He veered around a sharp corner, his mind a whirlwind of panic and regret. Why did I get involved? The thought flickered briefly before survival instincts took over. But as he rounded the bend, his momentum halted abruptly. A towering brick wall loomed ahead, graffiti-scrawled and unyielding—a dead end that mocked his futile escape.
He spun around, back pressed against the cold, rain-slicked surface, his clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Water streamed down his face, blurring his vision. Shadows coalesced under the dim, flickering glow of a lone streetlight, its bulb buzzing faintly like an angry insect. From the alley's mouth, five men emerged, their silhouettes hardening into menacing forms. Their knives glinted like cruel promises, catching the storm's fleeting lightning strikes and reflecting them back with deadly intent.
"Well, well, where you going now, kid?" The leader, a wiry man with a jagged scar slicing through his brow like a lightning bolt itself, sneered. He twirled his blade with practiced ease, the metal whistling through the air. His eyes gleamed with predatory hunger, the kind honed from years on the streets.
The young man's legs trembled, adrenaline surging through his veins like fire. Desperation fueled his defiance; he wasn't going down without a fight. As the leader lunged forward, knife slashing in a vicious arc, he reacted on pure instinct. He drove his foot upward, slamming it into the man's chest with a sickening thud. The attacker stumbled back with a guttural grunt, clutching his ribs, but the victory was fleeting. The others were already closing in, a pack of wolves sensing weakness.
Before he could pivot or dodge, a blade sank deep into his gut. Pain erupted, white-hot and paralyzing, spreading through his body like molten lava. He staggered, one hand clutching the wound as warm blood seeped between his fingers, mixing with the rain. His vision swam, but he caught a glimpse of another assailant's sneer before a second knife pierced his chest, twisting with brutal finality.
"No… way…" he gasped, the words bubbling up with blood. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the wet ground. The rain washed away the warmth seeping from his body, diluting his life into the gutters. The world blurred, sounds fading into a distant roar. Everything faded to black.
When his eyes fluttered open, the transition was jarring—like waking from a nightmare only to find another waiting. The first thing he registered was a chandelier, ornate and extravagant, dripping with crystals that scattered light like a constellation trapped in glass. It swayed gently, casting prismatic patterns across the ceiling.
"…A ceiling?" he muttered, his voice hoarse and weak, barely recognizable even to himself. His throat felt raw, as if he'd been screaming for hours.
He sat up slowly, wincing as his body protested with a deep, throbbing ache—as if he'd been trampled by a stampede. The room unfolded around him, vast and opulent, a stark contrast to the grimy, rain-soaked alley of his last memories. Crimson curtains framed towering arched windows, through which faint daylight filtered, muted by heavy clouds outside. Marble floors gleamed underfoot, polished to a mirror sheen, and a grand stone hearth housed a fire that crackled gently, its flames dancing with an almost hypnotic rhythm. The air carried the scent of polished wood and faint incense, nothing like the metallic tang of blood and rain he remembered.
This wasn't a hospital room, with its sterile beeps and fluorescent lights. It wasn't even remotely familiar. No IV drips, no monitors— just luxury that screamed of another era, another world entirely. Where the hell am I? Panic bubbled up, but he tamped it down, forcing himself to breathe steadily.
His gaze darted across the room, landing on a gilded mirror propped against the far wall, its frame intricately carved with swirling motifs that looked like runes or vines. Stumbling to his feet, he shuffled toward it, each step heavy with dread and disorientation. His limbs felt lighter, shorter somehow, uncoordinated in a way that unnerved him. When he reached the mirror, he froze, staring at the reflection that stared back.
It wasn't him. A boy, no older than thirteen, gazed back—pale skin flushed with confusion, delicate features softened by youth, and wide, amber eyes framed by tousled black hair that fell in unruly waves. He raised a hand to his face, watching the boy mimic the motion with small, slender fingers.
"What… happened to me?" he whispered, his voice cracking as he touched the unfamiliar cheek. The boy's lips moved in sync, but the eyes—those held a maturity, a haunted depth that didn't belong.
A sudden, searing pain exploded in his skull, like a vice clamping down. He collapsed to the floor with a loud THUD, clutching his head as waves of agony rolled through him. Fragmented images flashed behind his closed eyelids: swords clashing in a blur of steel and sparks, a glowing rune pulsing with ethereal light, a shadowy figure with crimson eyes that pierced the darkness like embers. Whispers echoed in his mind—names, places, incantations he didn't understand. The visions assaulted him, a torrent of foreign memories crashing against his own, then vanished as abruptly as they'd come, leaving him gasping on the cold marble.
Footsteps echoed from beyond the room, sharp and purposeful against the hallway's stone floor. A woman's voice, laced with genuine worry, called out, "Young Master, are you alright? May I come in?"
"Y-Yes… you may," he stammered, still dazed, his mind a chaotic swirl as he tried to process the impossible. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
The door creaked open—CREEAK—a sound that seemed amplified in the quiet room, revealing a young woman in her early twenties. Her silver hair cascaded in soft waves over a pristine maid's uniform, trimmed with lace and embroidered with subtle golden threads. Her emerald eyes widened with concern as she rushed to his side, her movements graceful yet hurried.
"Young Master! Why are you on the floor?" she exclaimed, kneeling beside him without hesitation.
Before he could form a response, she slipped an arm under his shoulders, her touch gentle but firm as she helped him back to the bed. The mattress was plush, sinking under his weight with a comfort he hadn't felt in… well, ever. "You shouldn't be moving yet," she scolded, her tone soft but insistent, like a caring older sister. "You're still recovering from the lightning strike. The healers said you need rest."
"Lightning…?" he echoed, the word snagging in his mind like a hook. It stirred something—the crimson bolt from his visions. He forced a weak smile to mask his growing confusion, buying time to think. "I, uh, think I've lost some memories. Can you tell me… where I am?"
The maid tilted her head, her brow furrowing in puzzlement, silver strands catching the firelight. "You're in Eryndor, Young Master—a world of magic, swordsmanship, demons, and martial arts. But… why are you asking such strange things? You've lived here all your life."
Her words hit him like a second lightning strike, jolting his senses. Eryndor? Magic? Demons? Martial arts? His modern sensibilities—rooted in spreadsheets, coffee runs, and urban hustle—rebelled against the absurdity. But the pieces were clicking into place with horrifying clarity. The alley, the knives, the fatal wounds—it all led to this. He wasn't just displaced; he was in another world.
Transmigrated. The term surfaced from the depths of his memory, a familiar trope from the countless web novels he'd binged during late-night shifts back home. In his old life, he was Ethan Carter, a 24-year-old data analyst in a bustling city firm, thriving on solving complex problems under tight deadlines. He'd analyzed market trends, optimized algorithms, and navigated corporate politics with a cool head. Death in that alley should have been the end, but here he was, reborn in this boy's body. A second chance? Or a cruel twist of fate in a realm where survival meant mastering spells and swords?
"Y-Young Master?" The maid leaned closer, her emerald eyes searching his face, pulling him back from the abyss of his thoughts. "You look dazed. Did you really lose your—"
"No, I didn't lose my memories," he interrupted, sitting up straighter, his tone sharper than intended, infused with the decisiveness that had earned him promotions in his past life. He couldn't afford vulnerability now. He needed to take control, to approach this like a high-stakes project: assess the data, identify risks, and strategize. If this was a new world, he'd treat it like a puzzle—one he'd dissect and solve step by step, leveraging his analytical mind against whatever medieval chaos awaited.
The maid blinked, clearly thrown off by his sudden shift in demeanor, her hands pausing mid-fuss over his blankets. Before she could press further or question the change in "her" Young Master, a sharp knock, knock sounded at the door, echoing through the room like a harbinger.
A calm but commanding voice followed from beyond the threshold, "May I come in, Young Master?"
Ethan's eyes narrowed instinctively, his pulse quickening. The voice carried an undeniable weight, laced with authority and something darker—perhaps expectation, or threat. He glanced at the maid, who nodded slightly, her expression shifting to one of quiet deference, her earlier concern masked by protocol. Who was this? An ally? An enemy in disguise? The fragmented visions whispered warnings of shadows and crimson eyes, and in that moment, Ethan felt the weight of the unknown pressing in.
The knock hung in the air, unanswered, as tension coiled like a spring ready to snap.