The darkness did not fall upon him.
It devoured him.
His body sank into a formless, bottomless abyss, as if reality itself had torn open to swallow his existence. There was no ground, no sky, no direction. Only a dense, living void that pulsed around his consciousness.
Whispers.
Thousands of them.
They were not clear words, but fragments of raw emotion: hatred, contempt, lust, despair, mockery. Feelings so intense they bypassed reason and pierced straight into his soul.
Distorted shadows floated around him. Some were vaguely human. Others were not. Their bodies twisted and reshaped themselves like wet paint. Gray eyes glimmered in the darkness.
One of them drew closer.
When its hand touched his shoulder, a violent jolt ran through his entire being.
It was not a chill.
It was invasion.
His bones shattered and reformed in the same instant. His flesh burned. His skin tightened as if it were being stitched onto a body that did not belong to him. He tried to scream, but he had no voice. He tried to flee, but he had no limbs.
He was conscious.
And that was the cruelest part.
For a span of time that could not be measured—minutes, hours, perhaps days—his body was destroyed and reconstructed over and over again. Something fused with him, forcing itself into every fragment of his existence.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
Silence fell like a slab of stone.
Exhausted yet awake, his mind clung to the last thing it knew.
Six in the morning.
University.
Psychology.
Eight long, tedious hours.
An empty apartment.
Dinner at seven.
Falling asleep at midnight over homework.
A normal life. A lonely one.
Then why couldn't he wake up?
He knew he was conscious, yet his body refused to respond. It felt as if he were trapped inside himself. A constant nausea twisted his insides, a desperate urge to vomit something that did not exist.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't breathe deeply.
He couldn't open his eyes.
Until—suddenly—the pressure vanished.
His body felt light, as if something invisible had withdrawn.
With immense effort, he opened his eyes.
This was not his room.
The ceiling was high, decorated with ornate moldings. Soft light filtered through thick curtains. Dark wooden furniture filled the room, elegant and old-fashioned, reminiscent of a Victorian estate.
Fear crept in immediately.
A kidnapping?
A crime?
An experiment?
He slowly sat up. His body felt wrong—thinner, weaker.
His gaze fell upon a mirror covered with a velvet cloth.
Something inside him screamed not to touch it.
He ignored the warning and pulled the cloth away.
The reflection stole his breath.
A gaunt young man stared back at him. Pale skin. Deep, sunken dark circles beneath his eyes. Hair black as night. Eyes red—unnaturally red.
That was not his face.
Yet it was staring back at him.
The thought of reincarnation crossed his mind, only to be rejected instantly.
He had not died.
Then… transmigration?
Before he could think further, a flood of memories crashed into his mind.
They were not his.
Another life forced itself into his consciousness—unknown streets, unfamiliar currency, a hostile city, a younger sister.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming.
He bent forward and vomited, his mind unable to withstand the overload. The world spun, darkened, and his consciousness slipped away.
He woke again to rough shaking.
His eyes fluttered open.
A girl clung to him desperately, her face soaked with tears. Her shoulders trembled as she sobbed into his chest.
"Please… wake up…" she whispered.
It took him a moment to react.
When she realized he was conscious, she hugged him even tighter.
"Nero…" she sobbed. "Nero…"
The name clicked.
Like a key turning in a lock.
The memories settled completely.
That body had a name.
That life had a past.
Nero Alexue.
Twenty-two years old.
An orphan.
A seventeen-year-old sister named Rose.
They lived in the Castevlad Empire, in the city of Vickmolt.
The year was 1427.
As Rose held onto him, the memories aligned with terrifying clarity.
Vickmolt—the City of a Thousand Winds—was a den of crime and commerce. The currency was the Lokg: coins of 1, 5, 10, and 25. There were also Longs, banknotes worth 25 Lokg each.
The minimum wage was 7 Lokg per month.
To survive with Rose, he needed at least 11.
He was unemployed.
Rose attended a school that charged 5 Lokg per month.
The city was divided into four zones, separated by massive walls.
The South Zone, the poorest, ruled by the Monarch of Economy.
The East Zone, where they lived, governed by the Monarch of Science.
The West Zone, home to the working class and military power.
The North Zone, inaccessible to most, where the four monarchs resided under the rule of Religion.
Moving between zones was nearly impossible.
In the South and East, Longs were almost a myth.
The world itself was divided into twelve empires, ruled by twelve races: Humans, Vampires, Dragons, Ogres, Elves, Snow Elves, Dwarves, Beastmen, Phoenixes, Mermaids, Giants, and Gargoyles.
Gods existed.
And one of them—Zephyr—was worshiped as the god of wind.
The spoken language was English, but written differently. It was called Unma.
Everything was real.
Too real.
Rose still clung to him, as if he were the only thing anchoring her to the world.
Then something changed.
For a single instant, an invisible pressure settled upon his mind. It wasn't pain. It wasn't fear.
It was observation.
As if something—or someone—had noticed him.
A thought that was not his own slid into his consciousness, cold and distant, impossible to ignore.
So… you've awakened.
His heart lurched.
He tightened his arms around Rose, forcing himself to stay calm.
He didn't understand this world.
He didn't understand its rules.
He didn't understand who had brought him here.
But one thing was clear.
If this world was hell—
Then he would learn how to survive in it.