I must've dozed off again.
Classic Zhang Hanlu—burning the midnight oil over a book I couldn't afford to buy new, in an apartment that smelled like instant noodles and regret. My forehead rested against the open pages of ***Chronicles of the Dark Castle***, my favorite escape from this beautifully awful reality.
The spine was cracked. The corners were dog-eared from a hundred rereads.
On the opposite page, an illustration stared back at me.
Leonard.
Dark hair sharp as a blade. Eyes cold enough to pin a man to the wall and dare him to move. The kind of competence that felt unreal—effortless, cruel, inevitable.
God. I'd kill to have even a fraction of that.
I flicked my fingers, whispering a light incantation to chase away the dim bulb's flicker.
*Fzzzt.*
A pathetic spark bloomed… then died.
Yeah. Figures.
In a world where magic existed, I was the guy whose spells fizzled like wet fireworks. Orion never let me forget it—my kid brother, probably snoring in the next room, or sneaking out to do some teenage-stupid nonsense.
We scraped by. Odd jobs. Neighbors' leftovers. Whatever kept the lights on.
Mom was gone.
Dad… who the hell knew.
Just us against the world.
Pathetic—but ours.
My eyes burned. Screw it.
*Tomorrow can wait.*
The words blurred, and darkness swallowed me whole.
---
Darkness.
Not the cozy blackout of sleep—but a crushing void pressing in from every direction. No apartment hum. No traffic outside. Just **nothing**.
My skull throbbed like I'd been hit with a brick.
*Am I dead?*
The thought stabbed sharp and cold.
*Please don't let me be dead.*
Orion would burn the apartment down trying to cook.
Time lost meaning. Minutes? Hours? Eternity?
Then—
A sliver of light.
Gray. Faint. Filtering through my eyelids.
Relief hit so hard I almost laughed.
Not dead. Just one hell of a migraine.
I groaned and pushed myself up—expecting the creak of my chair, the clatter of empty noodle cups.
Instead—
My palms met **cold, polished wood**.
Smooth. Expensive.
Wrong.
I blinked. Rubbed my eyes.
And my stomach dropped.
This wasn't my room.
Dust motes drifted through weak shafts of light pouring from a narrow arched window. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and neglect—a forgotten library's breath.
Shelves lined the walls. Stone walls.
Actual. Freaking. Stone.
No peeling wallpaper. No water stains.
My desk was gone.
In its place stood a heavy oak table littered with quills, inkpots, and yellowed maps.
"What the…?" My voice rasped, echoing softly.
I stood too fast. The world tilted.
The clothes shifted with me.
Heavy. Luxurious.
A fitted black coat hugged my frame. Crisp white shirt beneath. A perfectly knotted dark tie. A cape-like mantle draped down my back, brushing the floor with unfamiliar weight.
Opulence.
Nothing like my hoodie and jeans.
"Orion," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You little shit. If this is a prank, it's not funny. VR rigs cost more than we make in a year."
Silence.
Only the faint *tick… tick…* of something unseen.
My heart began to race.
I moved toward what I thought was a door—only for it to open into a larger chamber. Rows of towering shelves vanished into shadow.
A library.
Abandoned. Cobwebs stretched like veins across the corners.
My footsteps echoed against worn flagstones.
On a side table sat an oil lantern—smudged glass, intact frame.
I grabbed it without thinking.
Heavy. Real.
I tried the light spell again.
Expecting failure.
Instead—
*Fwoom.*
A warm glow ignited in my palm, steady and bright.
Brighter than anything I'd ever cast.
"…Okay," I whispered. "That's new."
The panic crept in then. Cold fingers crawling up my spine.
Dreams didn't smell like mildew and paper.
Dreams didn't *weigh* this much.
I spun back toward the table, scanning for answers.
A polished silver tray caught the lantern's light.
A mirror.
I leaned closer.
And froze.
The face staring back—
Wasn't mine.
Dark hair, tousled like it had been kissed by night winds. Pale skin. High cheekbones. A jaw sharp enough to draw blood.
Eyes.
Brown. Intense. Knowing.
Aristocratic. Haunted.
Leonard.
Behind me—in the window's reflection—a sprawling gothic metropolis sprawled beneath a bruised sky. Towers pierced the clouds. Bridges arched over endless voids. Lights glittered like predatory stars.
Not my city.
Not any city I knew.
My heart slammed against ribs that felt too refined, too foreign.
I stumbled back. The lantern swung wildly. Shadows leapt across the walls.
"No. No way." My voice cracked—smoother. Higher. Wrong.
"This is a dream. I hit my head. Ate bad noodles. Something—"
I pinched my arm.
Hard.
Nothing changed.
The reflection smirked back at me.
*Great. Even my hallucinations judge me.*
"What the actual fuck is going on…?" I whispered, clutching my head. Hair silky beneath my fingers. Not my usual mess.
Then—
Movement.
On the wall behind the table, letters **bled** into existence.
Wet. Red. Dripping.
**THERE IS NO ESCAPE.**
The temperature plunged. Dust froze mid-air.
I backed away, breath hitching.
Transmigration.
The trope I'd laughed at in a hundred web novels.
But this—
This was real.
And if I was Leonard now…
In *this* world…
…I was completely, catastrophically screwed.