Drip... drip... drip...
A steady rhythm echoed faintly in the dark.
The sound was distant, like it was falling from the ceiling of another world, or perhaps inside his own head.
Ethan's breath hitched.
Haaah… haaah…
He couldn't breathe. His chest rose in uneven, shallow gasps.
Every inhale scraped his throat like broken glass.
It was cold. Bone-deep, creeping, unnatural cold.
His skin felt wet. Sticky. Heavy.
His eyelids trembled open.
A blurry ceiling swam into view—yellowed and cracked, its old plaster spotted with black mold along the edges.
Something hung from above, swaying gently. A light fixture. Gas-lit. Its flickering flame cast distorted shadows on the wall.
His mind couldn't place it. This wasn't the palace.
This wasn't even familiar.
A foul metallic scent clung to the air.
Blood.
He blinked. Slowly. Once. Then again.
He tried to move—his limbs responded sluggishly, like they didn't belong to him.
The water beneath him sloshed, thick and warm.
His gaze drifted down.
The tub was old. Deep.
Porcelain cracked around the edges, the white long stained gray from age. Bronze claw-footed legs held it slightly off the black-and-white tiled floor.
The water inside—if it could even be called that—was red. Almost black at the edges. It clung to his skin like syrup.
He raised one trembling hand from the water. The movement felt foreign.
Thin fingers. Pale.
His fingertips brushed against his neck—and stopped.
He recoiled. A sharp breath hissed from his lips.
There was a wound.
A long, half-cut gash stretched just below his jawline.
The flesh had sealed unevenly, as if from a rushed attempt at healing—still wet, still bleeding.
His breathing grew louder. Faster.
Panic clawed up his throat.
He looked around the room. Slowly. Cautiously.
Stone walls. Rough and gray, with streaks of lime flaking off the sides. A small brass boiler stood in the corner, next to a wall-mounted washbasin with tarnished fittings. A cracked iron-rimmed mirror sat above it, barely reflecting anything in the dim light.
To his right, a window.
Thin, framed in black iron. The glass was translucent—clouded by moisture and fog from the rain outside.
The sound of distant thunder rolled through the air, low and deep.
A storm was coming.
His eyes fell to the floor. Faint footprints stained red led from the edge of the tub toward the wooden door.
His fingers curled around the cold porcelain edge of the tub.
He sat up, slowly. Blood trickled down his chest, mixing with the water below. He looked into the mirror.
What looked back at him was... unfamiliar.
A boy. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Pale, dark-haired, wide-eyed. His face was thinner than it should have been. His eyes looked too large for his face.
And still, behind the fear... something was there.
He stared at the mirror for a long time.
"…What is this place?"
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't know who this body belonged to.
But he knew one thing for certain.
This wasn't his world.
His breath was still ragged and unsteady his eyes fixed on the long, jagged wound running across his neck.
His fingertips brushed against it again—shallow at the edges, but deep at the center. The skin was torn wide open, the muscle beneath partially visible. It should have killed him. He should be dead.
"How… am I still breathing?" he murmured.
His voice was dry.
No answer came, only the soft hiss of rain tapping gently against the fogged-up window.
The air inside the bathroom had grown still. Silent.
He leaned forward, putting his hands on washbasin —arms trembling under his weight.
Blood dripped down his legs, painting faint trails along the old tile floor. His clothes were soaked—thin, cheaply stitched fabric clinging to his frame, useless at preserving warmth.
Then his eyes caught something he ignored firstly —
Footprints.
Faint, wet, leading away from the bathtub. They were red-stained and erratic, almost like someone had stumbled out in a rush.
He followed them.
Slowly, he stepped onto the wooden floor just outside the bathroom door.
The room beyond was dimly lit. A small oil lamp flickered on a bedside table, casting an orange glow against the peeling wallpaper.
The walls were lined with muted floral patterns, A threadbare rug covered part of the wooden floor, and an iron-framed bed stood crooked against the far wall, its sheets half-hung, as if someone had left in a hurry.
It wasn't lavish, but neither was it poor.
The kind of room that belonged to someone caught between classes.
A middle-class household—respectable enough to afford a gaslight, but too worn to replace the cracked mirror or warped furniture.
A wardrobe with brass handles stood ajar. A stack of old schoolbooks rested beneath the single-pane window.
Dust motes floated in the air, dancing in the lamp's glow.
The footprints led toward a simple wooden desk beside the wall.
Ethan stepped closer.
His breath caught.
A diary was there, and on it was written.
He didn't understand the words and language, but his subconscious mind read it for him:
'Obey her or else you are dead!
Ethan's heart thumped loudly in his chest.
"…What the fuck does that mean?"
The unease settled in deeper now. A coldness not from the wet clothes or open wound—but from the message itself.
He swallowed hard.
Then, it hit him.
The pain.
It came all at once—a searing, blinding wave that exploded behind his eyes and pierced deep into his skull. He staggered back, clutching his head as he fell to one knee.
Visions.
Faces. Words. Buildings. Streets. Smells. Sounds.
A city bathed in amber gaslight.
A cramped classroom.
A voice calling attendance—
"Ethan Carson."
The name rang through his bones.
That was the face in the mirror.
The one he'd seen earlier, bloodied and unfamiliar.
That was him now.
He was Ethan Carson, fifteen years old. A citizen of the Mourian Kingdom, nestled within the Eastern Continent, in the province of Valewick, inside a city known as Darsalle.
He was a student.
A boy enrolled in the recently established public education system—part of a new kingdom-wide reform issued by King Harold III, a man known across Mourian lands for his radical social changes.
Free education for all. Industrial railways connecting distant cities. National exams.
It was said the king believed knowledge was the future of power.
Ethan's head ached as the memories pressed deeper into his consciousness. It was too much to hold at once.
But slowly, one truth settled in:
This world was not his....