—SCRATCH. SCRATCH. SCRATCH.—
The sound of Zhang Han Lu's pen was the only thing alive in the library.
Midnight had passed hours ago. The overhead fluorescents had dimmed to their nocturnal setting, bathing the aisles in a sickly half-light that stretched shadows into long, skeletal fingers between the shelves. Dust hung in the air like forgotten prayers.
Zhang Han Lu hunched over a scarred oak desk, painstakingly copying a minor illumination spell from a grimoire so old its spine flaked at the touch. He couldn't afford to check it out. He never could.
Twenty-three years old.
Underfed.
Underpaid.
Underpowered.
The weakest practicing magician in the entire city—maybe the entire country.
His sparks barely lit a candle. His wards dissolved in rain. His most reliable income came from enchanting bargain-bin glow-charms for night-market vendors who complained when they flickered too fast.
Pathetic.
But tonight—just tonight—none of that mattered.
Because beside the grimoire lay salvation.
A worn paperback with a cracked spine and softened pages:
Chronicles of the Dark Castle.
Zhang Han Lu's favorite novel.
He glanced at it, lips curling faintly despite himself. The hero—Leonard—was everything Zhang Han Lu wasn't.
Competent.
Cold-eyed.
Dangerous.
A tragic orphan with a hidden lineage. Son of a goddess who buried her divinity beneath mortal flesh. Raised by a grim sergeant father in the shadow of the infamous Dark Castle itself.
Leonard's life was destiny sharpened into steel.
Zhang Han Lu's life was overdue rent and an empty refrigerator.
—YAWN—
His eyelids drooped. He rubbed his eyes and let his forehead sink onto his folded arms.
"Five minutes," he murmured. "Ten. Max."
Beside the book, an old hourglass—Orion's, borrowed and never returned—let its final grains of sand slip through the narrow neck.
—TSSSS—
Darkness swallowed him whole.
—THUD. THUD.—
Pain.
Not sharp. Not sudden.
A dull, pulsing ache behind his eyes.
There was nothing else.
No light.
No sound.
No sense of space.
Zhang Han Lu's heart stuttered.
Am I dead?
Did I finally mess up a spell badly enough to fry my own brain?
He tried to move.
His body felt distant—wrapped in thick cotton, unresponsive. Panic surged, hot and suffocating.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time had no meaning here.
Then—
—SHHHK—
A thin blade of light split the darkness.
Zhang Han Lu blinked, tears stinging. The familiar ceiling swam into focus: cracked plaster, a flickering fluorescent tube threatening to die.
—BUZZZZ—
Relief hit him so hard his hands trembled.
"Thank the gods…" he rasped.
Alive. Just exhausted.
He pushed himself upright, joints protesting. The desk was exactly as he'd left it. The novel lay open. The grimoire beside it. The hourglass overturned, empty.
He must've slept longer than he thought.
His thoughts immediately drifted home.
Orion.
His younger brother was probably sprawled across their sagging couch, gaming until dawn, or slurping the last of the instant noodles. Sixteen. Lazy. Convinced the world owed him everything.
Zhang Han Lu sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Someone had to keep the lights on.
And it sure as hell wasn't Orion.
Their apartment was barely more than a box—one room, a hot plate, and a bathroom down the hall. Their parents had died years ago. Car accident. Fast. Boring. Final.
Since then, it had been just the two of them.
He stood, stretching, and began gathering his things.
Then—
He froze.
The desk… was longer.
No.
Not longer.
Endless.
The scarred wooden surface stretched in both directions, vanishing into a gray haze where the library walls should have been.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
It didn't change.
The shelves were gone.
The aisles were gone.
The EXIT sign—
Gone.
"Hello?" His voice cracked, echoing unnaturally. "Mrs. Okoye? Security?"
—ECHO… ECHO…—
Nothing answered.
He took a cautious step forward.
The wood was cold. Solid.
Real.
Another step.
Another.
The table never curved. Never ended.
His pulse roared in his ears.
Hallucination.
Spell backlash.
Concussion.
He pinched his arm hard.
—PAIN—
Real pain.
He wasn't dreaming.
He walked faster now, scanning the horizon. The linoleum floor stretched just as endlessly. No windows. No doors.
Just the table.
A dark river cutting through nothingness.
After what felt like an eternity, he found himself back where he'd started.
The book.
The grimoire.
The hourglass.
And—
Chairs.
They hadn't been there before.
—POP—
One appeared.
Then another.
High-backed wooden chairs, ornate and old, velvet cushions the color of dried blood.
—POP. POP. POP.—
Ten.
Twelve.
Twenty.
They kept coming, evenly spaced, as though awaiting guests who hadn't yet arrived.
Zhang Han Lu backed away—
—CLACK—
His shoulders hit something cold and smooth.
A wall.
He spun.
Bare stone. Seamless. No door.
No cracks.
No exit.
His breathing spiraled out of control.
"Orion!" he shouted. "If this is your idea of a prank, it's not funny!"
The words bounced back at him.
Mocking.
He swallowed and forced himself to think.
An illusion?
A containment array?
A magical incident?
He raised a trembling hand and cast the simplest light cantrip he knew.
Nothing.
Not even a spark.
His heart dropped.
Desperate, he searched for something reflective.
A phone.
Metal.
Anything.
He found a small polished brass plate set into one of the chairs.
He leaned closer—
—and collapsed to his knees.
The face staring back wasn't his.
Dark hair fell in unfamiliar waves. Sharp cheekbones. Broad shoulders wrapped in a brown traveling cloak.
Eyes—deep, brooding brown.
Leonard's eyes.
He touched his cheek.
The reflection followed.
Leonard.
"No," he whispered. "No… no, no, no—"
He scrambled back, tripped over a chair, and hit the floor hard.
—THUD—
The world didn't blur.
Didn't fade.
Still endless. Still wrong.
Then—
—SPLASH—
Letters began to form on the stone wall.
Dripping crimson.
Slow. Deliberate.
As if written by an unseen hand.
THERE'S NO ESCAPE.
Zhang Han Lu clutched his head, fingers tangling in hair that wasn't his.
The truth slammed into him with brutal clarity.
He had transmigrated.
Into his favorite novel.
Into Leonard's body.
Into a world of gods, castles, and secrets that killed anyone who learned them.
And this endless library—
It wasn't in the book.
Somewhere in the distance—
—SCRRRAPE—
A chair shifted as it materialized.
Something was coming.
And whatever awaited him at this table…
It knew exactly who he was.