Chapter 1“Bloodstained Jasmine”

Agony.

Unbearable agony.

It felt as though his skull was about to explode.

In a dreamscape of dazzling chaos, countless whispers wove together and swirled in his ears—until the dream shattered like glass. Zhou Mingrui was jolted awake by the violent pain piercing through his head. It was as if someone were hammering his skull with an iron rod—no, more like a sharp awl being driven into his temple and stirred relentlessly.

Hss...

In a haze of pain and confusion, Zhou Mingrui tried to turn over, to clutch his head, to sit up—but his limbs wouldn't respond. His body no longer seemed to belong to him.

He hadn’t truly woken up yet. He was still dreaming... possibly caught in that illusion of false awakening, the kind where one believes they’ve awakened but remains trapped in slumber. Drawing from past experiences, Zhou Mingrui focused all his will, trying to break free from the darkness and hallucination.

But in this half-dream, half-awake state, his consciousness was like drifting smoke, impossible to gather. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts scattered, stray emotions rising like weeds.

Why now? Why this sudden headache in the middle of the night?

And why is it this bad?

Could it be a brain hemorrhage?

God... am I going to die so young?

Wake up! Come on, wake up!

Hmm... it feels a little better now? But my brain still feels like it’s being slowly sliced by a dull blade...

Looks like I won’t be sleeping again tonight. How am I supposed to work tomorrow?

Work? With a headache like this? Obviously I’ll be taking a day off! Let the manager nag all he wants.

On second thought, maybe this isn't so bad after all... heh, a stolen half-day of freedom.

As the waves of pain surged and receded, Zhou Mingrui slowly gathered his strength. Finally, he sat up straight with a jolt, eyes snapping open.

His vision was blurred at first, then tinged with a faint red hue. The first thing he saw was a wooden desk, its natural grain visible, and an open notebook in the center. On its coarse, yellowed pages, a single line of bold, black text had been written in strange letters.

To the left of the notebook, seven or eight books were stacked neatly. To the right, a gray-white pipe ran along the wall, connected to a vintage wall lamp. The lamp had a distinctly Western style, about half the size of a human head, with an inner layer of clear glass encased in a black metal lattice.

Beneath the extinguished lamp, a black ink bottle glimmered faintly under the crimson moonlight. A vague angelic pattern was embossed on the bottle. In front of it, beside the notebook, lay a round-bodied fountain pen. Its nib caught the light faintly, and next to it—shockingly—sat a brass revolver and its uncapped pen lid.

A gun? A revolver?

Zhou Mingrui was stunned. Everything around him was unfamiliar. It bore no resemblance to the room he remembered.

In his dazed confusion, he noticed that the desk, notebook, ink bottle, and revolver were all bathed in a thin layer of crimson “veil”— the glow streaming in from the window.

Instinctively, he looked up, his gaze slowly rising.

Suspended in a sky as dark as velvet hung a blood-red full moon, casting its eerie light in silence.

What… Zhou Mingrui’s heart pounded in fear. He shot to his feet, but before he could straighten his legs, another wave of sharp pain surged through his skull, sapping his strength and sending him crashing back into the hard wooden chair.

Smack!

The pain didn’t stop him. Gritting his teeth, Zhou Mingrui braced against the desk, stood up again, and turned around in panic to take in his surroundings.

It was a narrow room with two brown wooden doors on either side. Against the opposite wall stood a bunk bed.

Between the bed and the left door was a cabinet with double doors on top and five drawers below. Beside it, on the wall, gray-white pipes led to a strange mechanical device, its gears and bearings exposed.

In the right corner near the desk, a stove-like structure sat with pots and pans arranged nearby. To the right of that, next to the door, was a standing mirror with two cracks running across it. Its wooden base bore simple carvings.

As his eyes passed over the mirror, Zhou Mingrui caught a glimpse of his reflection:

Black hair. Brown eyes. A linen shirt. Slim build. Ordinary, but with sharp and defined features…

This… Zhou Mingrui gasped. A storm of wild thoughts surged through his mind.

A revolver, vintage Western décor, and a scarlet moon unlike anything on Earth—everything pointed to one possibility.

Did… did I transmigrate? His mouth slowly fell open in shock.

He had read plenty of web novels growing up, often imagining such a scenario, but now that it seemed real—he couldn’t bring himself to accept it.

So this is what they call the fear of getting what you wished for... he muttered with a bitter smile.

If not for the persistent pain keeping his mind alert, he might have believed it was still a dream.

Calm down. Calm down. Calm down…

Taking deep breaths, Zhou Mingrui worked to steady his emotions.

Just then, as his thoughts settled, fragmented memories began to surface in his mind:

Klein Moretti, a native of Tingen City, Ahowa County, Loen Kingdom, on the Northern Continent. A recent graduate of the History Department at Hoy University…

His father, a sergeant in the Royal Army, had died in colonial conflict on the Southern Continent. The compensation allowed Klein to attend a private grammar school and paved the way to university…

His mother, a follower of the Goddess of the Night, had passed away the year he was accepted into university…

He had an older brother and a younger sister; the three of them shared a modest two-bedroom apartment…

The family was poor, surviving on his brother’s salary as a clerk in a trading firm…

As a history major, Klein had learned Ancient Feysac, the root of Northern Continent languages, and Hermes, a ritual language often found in ancient tombs…

Hermes? Zhou Mingrui blinked, pressing his temples as his eyes returned to the notebook. The once-unfamiliar script was slowly becoming recognizable—eventually, he could read the sentence clearly.

It was written in Hermes:

"Everyone dies. Including me."

Hss—

A chill ran down Zhou Mingrui’s spine. He instinctively leaned away from the notebook, his weakened body nearly toppling over. He clutched the desk for support, feeling as though the very air had grown restless. Whispers curled at the edge of his ears—like the ones he used to imagine while listening to ghost stories as a child.

He shook his head, and the illusion vanished. Steadying himself, he looked away and gasped for breath.

Then, his eyes fell on the brass revolver, and a new doubt rose in his mind:

"With Klein’s financial situation, how could he afford a gun?"

Frowning, he fell deep into thought—until he noticed something new on the edge of the desk:

A half palm-print, dark red and dense, darker than the moonlight, thicker than the crimson veil.

It was a bloodstain.

"Blood?!" Zhou Mingrui instinctively examined the hand he had used to brace himself against the desk. His right palm and fingers were covered in blood.

At the same time, the headache still lingered—less intense, but unrelenting.

"Could I have hit my head?" he muttered, heading toward the cracked mirror.

A few steps in, the reflection showed a young man of medium build, black hair, brown eyes, and a scholarly air.

So this is me now... Klein Moretti?

He paused. The lighting was too dim to see clearly, so he moved closer, nearly touching the glass.

Bathed in the faint red glow, he turned his head to inspect his temple.

In the mirror, the injury was grotesquely clear: the skin was burned at the edges, surrounded by dried blood, and deep within the wound, he could see a sliver of gray-white brain matter... still squirming.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***