Zhang Hanlu's apartment smelled like instant noodles and defeat.
BZZT—flicker.
The single overhead bulb trembled, dimming and brightening like a tired eye refusing to stay open. Rent was late again. The bulb knew it. The walls knew it. Zhang knew it.
He sat hunched over his desk—a wobbly particle-board relic salvaged from a curb three years ago—surrounded by empty ramen cups and a leaning tower of overdue library books titled Basic Thaumaturgy, Foundations of Focus, and Beginner Sigil Theory. Their spines were cracked, pages dog-eared, margins crammed with his cramped handwriting.
Focus intent here… no, still fizzles… breathing pattern?
None of it worked.
At twenty-three, Zhang Hanlu was—technically—a magician.
The strongest spell he could reliably cast was a spark barely bright enough to light a cigarette.
Outside the grimy window, the city hummed with late-night traffic.
HMMMM—whoooosh—beep.
Inside, it was just him and the quiet.
Orion, his seventeen-year-old brother, had crashed on the couch hours ago after another marathon gaming session. Zhang could hear the faint snore through the thin wall separating their "bedroom" from the living space.
Snrrk… snrrk.
Typical Orion—play until he passed out, leave snack wrappers everywhere, and somehow still look innocent when asleep.
Zhang rubbed his eyes.
On the desk sat an hourglass—cheap glass, crooked wood frame. His one sentimental possession. A school-trip souvenir from a lifetime ago. The sand had finished falling again, pooled at the bottom like a tiny grave.
He flipped another page of The Chronicles of the Dark Castle.
For the tenth time.
Leonard stared back at him from the words—brooding, sharp-eyed, secretly powerful. Heir to a goddess's bloodline. A protagonist who suffered meaningfully. Even Leonard's poverty felt poetic: a crumbling apartment, a younger brother to protect, divine power hidden beneath a cruel world.
Zhang envied him.
God, how he envied him.
He leaned back in his chair.
CRRREEAAK.
The book lay open to his favorite passage—Leonard discovering the first trace of his mother's lingering presence in an old journal. Zhang's lips moved silently, reciting the lines from memory.
The bulb flickered once more.
BZZT.
Then steadied.
He didn't bother turning it off.
He folded his arms on the desk, rested his head on them, and let exhaustion drag him under.
The last thought he had was childish. Bitter.
At least in the book, the suffering means something.
Darkness.
Not the soft dark of sleep.
This was thick. Heavy. Pressing.
Like drowning in ink.
No sound. No traffic. No snoring. No refrigerator hum. Just a dull ache behind his eyes, spreading slowly—crack by crack—through his skull.
Am I dead?
The thought drifted up, absurd but persistent. Aneurysm. Sudden death. Maybe that failed spark spell yesterday finally fried something important.
He tried to move.
His fingers twitched.
Good.
But everything felt distant, muffled, like his body was wrapped in cotton.
Panic flared—
Then sank.
Time lost meaning.
Then—
A slit of light.
Gray. Weak. Cutting through the void like a blade.
Zhang clung to it.
The ache sharpened—
Then eased.
Breathing returned to him. Real. Steady.
The darkness peeled back.
A cracked ceiling. Spider-web fractures in old plaster. Pale dawn light spilling through a high window.
He was alive.
Thank whatever gods are listening.
He groaned and pushed himself upright.
Something felt wrong.
His arms were heavy—but the movement was smooth. Too smooth. No chair creak. No familiar lower-back protest from the mattress he usually slept on.
He blinked.
The room didn't resolve into chaos.
It stayed wrong.
The smell hit first.
Not stale noodles.
Not detergent.
Dust. Old paper. Like a library sealed for decades.
Under it—something metallic.
Ink?
Blood?
No… just age.
Zhang looked down.
His hands rested on a desk.
Not his desk.
Solid wood. Dark. Polished. Scarred with time.
No laptop.
No ramen cups.
Instead—stacks of leather-bound journals rose on either side, towering precariously. An inkwell sat perfectly centered. A quill lay beside it, straight as a soldier at attention.
His heart lurched.
He turned.
Where his bed should've been stood a narrow cot, blanket folded with military neatness. No posters. No laundry pile. Bare wooden floor instead of cracked linoleum.
"Orion," he said suddenly.
This had to be a prank.
Anime. Isekai. That idiot—
"Hey!" Zhang called. "This isn't funny!"
Silence.
He stood.
His balance shifted.
Off.
Taller?
No—ridiculous.
He looked down.
He was clothed—but not in his faded T-shirt and sweatpants.
A suit.
Heavy fabric. Clean lines.
A tie.
His fingers rose instinctively, brushing something cold on his lapel.
A pin.
Pink.
Rabbit-shaped.
Zhang froze.
He had never owned anything like that.
The room was small. Claustrophobic. One high window. Dust motes drifted in the light like falling snow.
The door—oak. Thick. Iron latch.
Everything felt old.
Not thrift-store old.
Centuries old.
His shoes clicked as he moved—polished leather.
CLICK. CLICK.
"Okay," he muttered. "Dream. Definitely dreaming."
He pinched his arm.
Pain.
Sharp. Immediate.
The room didn't waver.
Breathing fast now, he turned back to the desk.
The book lay there.
The Chronicles of the Dark Castle.
Same cover. Same worn spine.
Relief surged.
He reached—
Stopped.
The hand wasn't his.
Paler skin.
Longer fingers.
No pen callus.
Neatly trimmed nails.
A faint red stain on the white cuff.
Old wine?
…Blood?
Zhang staggered back, hit the cot, sat hard.
The blanket was coarse wool.
He cataloged the wrongness, piece by piece:
No outlets.
No light switch.
No city noise.
Just birdsong and wind.
The air tasted clean.
Too clean.
He rushed to the window. Too high to see much—just treetops. Dense forest. A sliver of pale sky.
No skyscrapers.
No neon.
"ORION!"
His voice cracked.
Nothing answered.
His gaze fell on the journals again.
Hands shaking, he grabbed the top one.
Elegant script. Unknown language. Dates. Names.
Symbols.
Symbols that made his stomach drop.
The novel.
"No," he whispered. "No, no—"
He needed a mirror.
There wasn't one.
But the inkwell—
Polished brass.
He tilted it.
Shadows.
Distortion.
Then—
A face.
Not his.
Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. Dark hair falling artfully over a pale brow.
Brown eyes.
Cold. Tired.
The pink rabbit pin gleamed.
Leonard.
Exactly as described.
Exactly as drawn in fanart.
Zhang dropped the inkwell.
CLANG—SPLASH.
Ink splattered across the desk like black blood.
"This isn't happening," he said.
The voice wasn't his.
Deeper. Smoother.
"I'm dreaming. I'm in a coma."
He grabbed his hair.
Thick. Silky.
Pain flared.
Real.
Memories bled in—not his.
A silver-haired woman smiling sadly.
A funeral.
Stale bread shared with a younger boy.
Hunger. Constant. Gnawing.
The brother in those memories looked like Orion.
But younger.
Zhang slid down the wall, arms wrapped around his knees.
Transmigration.
The word surfaced.
He laughed.
Hysterical.
"Of course," he muttered. "Of course I don't get a system."
In the novel, Leonard suffered first.
A lot.
Zhang touched the rabbit pin.
Warm.
The air shifted.
THOOM.
Pressure.
The wall opposite him darkened.
Letters seeped through plaster—red, wet, dripping.
THERE IS NO ESCAPE.
Zhang's mouth went dry.
That wasn't in the book.
He scrambled for the door.
CLACK.
Locked.
Of course.
He pressed his forehead to the wood and whispered:
"If this is the story I loved… then I know how badly it ends."
Behind him—
SCRITCH.
Ink moved.
One journal lay open.
Fresh writing glistened.
A list of names.
At the top—circled in red:
Zhang Hanlu
Dated yesterday.