Chapter 01: The Reflection in the Fire

"Speak! How is it that you're still alive? Who are you?!"

Several swords—rusted, yet sharp enough to end an average life—pressed against the soft skin of his neck. Dorian swallowed hard, feeling the cold, jagged metal graze his Adam's apple.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't terrified.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to prevent the panic rising from his gut from stealing the little air left in his lungs.

"M-my friends," he stammered, his voice breaking and nervous. "I already told you… I simply woke up in this place. I didn't come to hurt you, I'm harmless!"

"Shut your mouth!"

Slap!

The dry crack of the blow echoed through the forest. A violent strike sent him sprawling onto the damp earth.

"Aniki, be careful!" one shouted. "He could be an Immortal in disguise!"

"Don't stop aiming at him! Any strange movement, kill him!"

The familiar metallic taste of blood filled his mouth almost immediately; his lip had split from the impact. This wasn't the first time Dorian had been hit—like anyone else, he’d had a rebellious phase in his youth and participated in a few street fights. But until now, he had never been struck in such a terminal, critical context.

He was about to be murdered.

Perhaps it sounds too dramatic for a beginning, but he wasn't joking. He was truly in danger.

Before him, a group of men dressed in filthy, whitish rags surrounded him like a pack of wild dogs. Spears and swords, despite their neglected appearance, glinted under the moonlight. Dorian—a simple office worker who, until recently, only worried about spreadsheets and getting to work on time—now looked like a cornered animal.

The tension in the air was so thick that the slightest false move would turn him into a human pincushion.

But how did he end up like this? How did it all happen?

Dorian had no answers. He had simply gone out for groceries at the nearby supermarket. He was walking home carrying a small bag of supplies—some meat and a couple of beers—when he stopped to light a cigarette.

Click, click.

He took his first drag of smoke, and when he looked up again, his surroundings had changed. He was standing in the middle of a forest.

His first reaction was to rub his eyes, weary from too many hours at the office. He thought he might simply be dreaming—perhaps he’d fallen asleep at his desk and never actually left for the store. That was his first thought.

But as he rubbed his eye and gave himself a small pinch, he noticed his hand felt soft and tender. He didn't remember the skin of his hands being so smooth, nor his fingers so thin—almost like a woman's hand.

Or rather, the hands of a child.

"...A brat?" he repeated, this time aloud. Surprised again. His voice… his voice sounded different too. The deep, raspy tone that had characterized him since college was gone, replaced by something youthful. It wasn't the high-pitched voice of a small child, but it lacked the resonance and stability of an adult.

It was the voice of a teenager.

Dorian pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his breathing accelerate. Crap, crap. This can't be what I think it is… It can't be!

Panic began to flood his body. Control yourself, Dorian. Now is not the time to fall apart!

He took a deep breath. Then he exhaled. He breathed in again. The air smelled of vegetation—a scent that calmed him slightly—but he also detected the smell of smoke.

It smelled of burning soot.

He turned his gaze, observing the unknown environment: a forest of massive trees and sprawling bushes, damp ground, and a sky transitioning into night. He decided to move, following the scent of the smoke.

He pushed through the undergrowth, moving faster and faster. His anxiety drove a desperate need to find someone—anyone—who could explain his situation. He ran at full tilt, leaping over bushes and dodging trees. As he drew closer to the source, the air grew hotter. The smoke became denser.

And then… were those screams?

When he finally broke through the last of the brush, a wave of heat struck him. He shielded his face with his arms.

"Agh! Fuck!" he groaned, stumbling back.

Before him was a village engulfed in immense pillars of fire. The flames were so voracious they dyed the sky a deep, hellish red. Wooden houses, stables, trees—everything was being consumed without mercy.

Dorian approached cautiously. He had heard a scream earlier. If there were people still alive inside who needed help, he wouldn't hesitate. He wandered through the burning streets, searching for survivors.

"Hey! Is anyone there?! Anyone?!"

There was no answer; the roar of the flames drowned out the air. Dorian coughed, covering his nose with his sleeve. He realized then that his clothes weren't the ones he had been wearing, but there was no time for that now.

He continued shouting, but saw no bodies. That gave him a sliver of relief. It meant the villagers might have escaped before the fire took everything.

I have to find them. They’re the only ones who can explain where I am, or maybe…

Dorian stopped when he saw an old metal basin lying on the ground. He looked down at his unwrinkled, dirty hands, then at his clothes—rough, ancient rags that looked nothing like the shorts and shirt he wore to the supermarket. Everything was different. Even his height felt wrong—much shorter than he remembered.

He had a theory, but he was resisting it. He didn't want to accept it.

Dorian hadn't had the "perfect" life, but it wasn't a bad one either. He was single (temporarily), rented a nice apartment downtown, and while his job kept him up at night sometimes, the pay allowed him to enjoy his hobbies. His parents were alive and healthy, and he was just starting to see a girl he’d met online. Things were going well.

Why would he want to change any of that?

He wasn't religious, but now he was truly praying that this wasn't real. That it was a hallucination.

With his eyes closed, he picked up the metal basin. The metal was hot, but he didn't care. What he couldn't stand was the agonizing fear of the answer. After a few seconds of internal reflection on his life and his future, he finally opened his eyes and looked at the reflection in the metal.

A brat.

Brown hair, clear greenish eyes, young and pale skin. No matter how he looked at it, it was a face he had never seen before. The face of a teenager, no more than fifteen years old.

That was his reflection. Dorian’s theory was confirmed: he had transmigrated.

He followed the tracks of carriages and people, guided by the moonlight, until he heard voices ahead.

"...The Lord will be happy with us! He might even take us to the Immortal Paradise!"

"This was a great harvest. It was a good thing we took that detour and ran into that brat wandering the woods who showed us the village."

"Hahaha, weren't you a bit mean, Aniki, killing that kid? We could have left him for the Lord!"

"He helped us find the village, so I was merciful and finished him off. Better that than ending up in the Lord's hands! He should be grateful in the afterlife!"

"Hajajaja! I can't wait for the Lord to be free of that curse!"

Voices! People!

Dorian was overcome with relief and started to run. "Hey!" he shouted, waving his hand. "Help, please! I need help!"

The men startled, leaping to their feet and drawing their swords. As Dorian got closer, illuminated by their campfire, his blood ran cold. These men did not look friendly.

He realized too late that he should have observed from the shadows. The terror of being in a foreign world had made him reckless.

"You... brat," a tall, muscular man said, his eyes widening like saucers. His expression was one of pure horror and disbelief, as if he were seeing a ghost.

"...How is it that you're still alive?!"