What a cruel twist of fate.
The original host had died on the spot from the backlash, and at that exact moment, Vincent had transmigrated over, inheriting the ancient magic the man had bought with his life.
At first, Vincent had assumed this was the standard-issue "golden finger" that came with every transmigration — the kind that was practically begging him to stomp on Voldemort and punch Dumbledore in the face, setting him on the path of a Dark Lord.
But after using the magic several times in a row, he'd made a startling discovery: he had gotten stronger, and weaker, at the same time.
Stronger meant he now possessed power far beyond that of an ordinary wizard.
Weaker meant his body had begun to deteriorate from the inside out.
After digging deeper, he finally understood the truth — every use of the "ancient magic" came at the cost of consuming his own soul. The more he used it, the more fragmented his soul became, and the weaker he grew.
It was, in every way, exactly like creating a Horcrux.
From that point on, Vincent never used that magic again. And it was from that point on that the idea of joining Hogwarts as a professor first took root — he wanted access to the vast library, to unravel the truth behind the ancient magic inside him.
Beyond the library, he'd also set himself a concrete goal.
But none of that mattered now.
He had transmigrated again, into yet another new world, and had to start from scratch — his magic and his spells hadn't made the crossing with him.
Vincent huddled in a corner of the poorhouse, packed in among a group of hollow-eyed vagrants. The sour stench drifting through the air had, by now, become almost bearable.
These people had long since made their peace with reality. Apart from the brief frenzy when the poorhouse handed out free black bread, they spent the rest of their time staying as still as possible — conserving what little energy they had left.
They looked alive. But they'd already died long ago.
The light was fading. Outside, the streets began to flicker with dim yellow lamps, and after a full day without a single bite, the hunger gnawing at his empty stomach grew louder and louder. Vincent couldn't help but regret giving away that black bread earlier. In hindsight, bread laced with sawdust had a certain unique character to it.
Then — a deep crimson light spilled through the window.
Vincent looked up, startled. Hanging in the night sky was a red moon.
Huh. A red moon. Is it always red here, or did I just happen to arrive on a red moon night?
A red moon.
If I've transmigrated into a world from my previous life again, that detail narrows the options down considerably.
He was still frowning over it when the poorhouse staff reappeared — not to distribute food this time, but to drive everyone out. Nobody put up a fight. One by one they rose slowly to their feet and shuffled, unwillingly, out through the front door.
Strange. Shouldn't vagrants need shelter more at night, not less?
Vincent followed the crowd outside and watched the people around him — worn-out clothes, blank faces streaked with quiet despair, drifting aimlessly through the dark.
The sight gave him a much clearer sense of what kind of world he'd landed in.
"Gurgle—"
Another growl from his stomach. Vincent pressed a hand to his flat belly. He needed food, and soon — otherwise this could turn into a vicious cycle.
The hungrier he got, the less strength he'd have to find food. The less food he found, the weaker he'd become. And at the end of that spiral, he might truly end up as just another vagrant waiting for charity.
Still, he didn't rush into action. Because according to the vagrants, once night fell, it was best to stay close to the group — lately, people who wandered off alone had been disappearing without a trace, and no one knew whether they were alive or dead.
Taking the advice to heart, Vincent endured. He stuck to the "main force" all night — into parks, into alleyways, even into a graveyard, though they were chased off by police every time. Not until the small hours, when the officers had gone home to sleep, did he finally drift off in a graveyard corner.
…
The next morning, Vincent was jolted awake by savage hunger.
The vagrants around him were stirring in twos and threes, heading back to the poorhouse to beg for food. This time, Vincent didn't go with them. He waited until nearly noon, then followed the route in his memory to what he assumed was the commercial street of the commoner district. It was noticeably shabbier than what he was used to, but livelier too — the passersby were plainly dressed, and they regarded Vincent with the same unconcealed distaste as everyone else.
Understandable. He probably looked even more unhinged today than yesterday.
He slipped into a narrow alley, bent his head, and began working through the tangles in his long hair. From inside his coat he drew out a piece of glass wrapped in cloth strips — a makeshift cutting tool — and began sawing through what most women would have considered their most prized possession, strand by strand.
Soon, a layer of flaxen hair lay scattered on the ground. Vincent had gone from loose and dishevelled to a close-cropped cut that looked like something a dog had chewed on.
He scrubbed the grime from his face. Then he paused for a few seconds and, with a grimace of resolve, unwound the strips of cloth bound tightly across his chest.
In an instant, his chest went duang — a single emphatic bounce — and the relief was immediate.
Vincent quickly stripped off his shirt to reveal the closest-fitting garment underneath: a chest-wrap printed with small animals. A flash of white in his peripheral vision made his eyes swim. He didn't look. He just took the cloth strips and bound himself up again, then pulled the shirt back on.
Breathing got difficult almost immediately.
"Can't be helped. Safety first. Sorry — bear with it a few more days."
Back on the street, Vincent walked a hundred-odd meters, observing his surroundings carefully until he'd worked out roughly what his three coins were worth.
He walked into a bakery and held out the coins, gesturing to indicate he wanted a loaf of rye bread.
The shopkeeper moved to take the money — then recoiled sharply, hand clamped over his nose. He waved his hands in furious disgust. "Get out! Wretched vagrant, when's the last time you bathed?"
Vincent couldn't understand the words, but the meaning was obvious. He bowed his head and caught a whiff of himself — sour and stale, soaked in from a whole night pressed against vagrants.
So to buy a piece of bread, I first need a bath and a change of clothes?
He was standing there pulling a face over this when a girl's voice came from nearby.
"Excuse me — can I help?"
She was simply dressed, her face thin and a little pale, but there was still a brightness about her, something youthful. She had a basket in her arms filled with bread sticks and vegetables, and her brown eyes looked at Vincent with plain, uncomplicated kindness.
Vincent immediately pointed to his throat and ears, performing deafness and muteness, then pointed at the bakery and held out his three coins.
The girl's expression softened with sympathy. She gestured for him to follow, leading him to a different bakery a short way down the street. "This one's cheaper, and the loaves are bigger. The texture's not as good, but..."
"Oh — I'm sorry. I forgot you can't hear... I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Her string of apologies was met with nothing but Vincent's blank stare.
With the girl's help, Vincent managed to get a small rye loaf and a cup of juice for his three coins.
Honestly, the bread wasn't much better than the free stuff from the poorhouse. But at least there was no sawdust in it. With the sour-sweet juice to wash it down, it was at least swallowable.
The problem was, after eating both, Vincent didn't feel any less hungry. If anything, he felt hungrier. The hunger wasn't just physical — it came from somewhere deeper, something like a survival instinct clawing at him from the inside. (Spirituality.)
Perhaps because he was a cuckoo in someone else's nest, he couldn't control this instinct. Just like when he'd fallen into the sea — the body had acted on its own, teleporting him to this town using its Beyonder abilities before he'd even thought to try.
The hunger was swallowing his reason. He was eyeing the bread counter with a look that could only be described as feral.
I need to get out of here. Now. Who knows what I'll do if I lose control.
That was the thought in his head. But before he knew it, his feet had carried him right back to the front of the bakery. The shopkeeper had just brought out a fresh tray of golden, fragrant butter rolls, smiling pleasantly. "What else can I get for you?"
Vincent opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
His hand moved faster than his brain. He snatched the whole tray from the shopkeeper's hands and ran.
He was three strides gone before anyone had time to react.
Shopkeeper: ???
Customers: ???
The girl: !!!
A few seconds later, the shopkeeper grabbed a rolling pin and charged out the door. "THIEF!! SOMEONE STOLE MY BREAD!!"
He sprinted a few steps, then suddenly pointed back at the girl. "Melissa! Melissa was his accomplice — don't let her get away!"
The girl's mouth opened and closed. Her eyes were already filling with tears.
"I... I'm not..."
To be continued…