"Damn it, nothing in my life ever goes the way I want! How did I, Mo Chen, the number one ice dancer, end up in such a miserable environment?"
Kael's breath came in ragged bursts, every inhale a battle. His chest rose and fell violently, and sweat poured down the sides of his face in relentless streams. Just hours ago, his appearance could have graced any billboard—clean, glowing, picture-perfect. But now, his once porcelain-like skin was concealed beneath a layer of sand and sweat, his cheeks sunken and dry. His entire face looked as if someone had smeared it with desert ash.
His lips, which used to be a soft cherry pink, had cracked and faded into a dull, sickly yellow from dehydration. They stung each time he tried to speak. His silky black hair, usually smooth and flowing just past his shoulders, had turned frizzy and stiff, its deep black shade washed out into a dusty brown.
And yet, despite everything, one part of him remained unchanged: his light brown eyes. Even under the brutal sun, they glimmered with unyielding clarity, sharp and radiant, like gems unearthed from scorched earth.
The heat was unbearable. Every inch of his body screamed in protest. His head felt like it was filled with molten metal. If he could get a single drop of water… just one.
A mere two hours ago, he had been at his team's private skating rink, practicing routines under the biting chill of artificial ice. The international competition was just around the corner, and the team's coach had pushed them harder than ever. But truthfully, Mo Chen's exhaustion didn't come from skating.
It came from his obsession. He had stayed up all night again—reading transmigration novels.
Stories of otherworldly adventures, parallel realms, and dramatic romances… He was addicted. It wasn't very pleasant to admit, even to himself, but he loved the idea of being flung into another world, of escaping the monotony of reality. He often fantasized about it while tying his skates.
But this? This was not what he imagined.
"God, are you messing with me on purpose? When I said I wanted to transmigrate, I didn't mean this!" he yelled at the sky, staggering forward. "I didn't mean getting thrown into some barren, scorching desert! Look at this—no grass, no water, no signs of life! How am I supposed to survive here?"
He flung his arms dramatically to the sides, then winced. Even that small motion felt like someone had taken a torch to his muscles.
"And to make matters worse, you transported me while I was still training—so I'm still wearing my damn skating outfit! Have you no mercy?"
Only God knew how terrified he had been when he opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by endless dunes. For the first few minutes, he thought it was a dream. Then he thought his coach had pulled off some elaborate prank, maybe a simulation room.
But eventually, he was forced to face reality. And as someone who devoured transmigration stories daily, he recognized the signs immediately.
Why?
Because Earth didn't have three moons.
Not arranged in a perfect ring, glowing even in daylight.
"At the very least," he muttered, dragging his feet forward, "if you were going to transport me to another world, you could've dropped me into the bed of a powerful marshal or the bathtub of a rich prince…" His voice cracked. Not that anyone was around to hear his shameless complaints.
The silence around him was maddening. No birds. No wind. Just sand—stretching endlessly in every direction, golden and shimmering, like a sea of death.
To be honest, Kael Virell was gay. He had never been in love, and he was okay with that. Fiction was enough. Boys' love novels filled the romantic void in his life, and he didn't feel the need for real-life heartbreak. He had known his orientation for years—his taste in stories made it impossible to ignore.
Kael had a sharp tongue and a sarcastic sense of humor, but in front of others, he was slightly reserved. That was before this madness. Now, with no audience and no civilization in sight, the filters were off. His thoughts were loud, his desperation louder.
He tried walking barefoot at first, but the sand nearly burned the skin off his feet. So he put the skates back on. Yes—he was walking across a desert… in ice skates.
His sleek black skating pants clung tightly to his legs, now soaked through with sweat. His red shirt, open at the collar and once an emblem of flair, now stuck to his back like a second skin. He looked like a star plucked out of a gala and dropped into hell.
"I'm going to die… I'm really going to die here," he whispered, his voice trembling. "My God, I haven't even been on a proper date! I haven't even had my first kiss! If I'd known I was going to die this miserably, I would've found myself a cute guy and spent last night in bed instead of reading that stupid novel about the tyrannical imperial marshal!"
He stumbled again. His legs no longer felt connected to his body. He couldn't remember how long he'd been walking. Maybe hours. Maybe days. The sun never seemed to move, and he had long lost track of time.
Don't be fooled by the short duration. Some people were built for hardship.
Kael Virell was not.
His body was a machine tuned for elegance, trained in the cold, shaped by the ice.
Heat was his mortal enemy.
Every droplet of sweat, every gust of burning air, felt like knives. His throat was so dry, he feared it might collapse. His skin stung under the sun. His joints screamed with every step.
He was on the brink of collapse when it happened.
A breeze. Subtle. Cool.
For a moment, he thought he had imagined it. His delirious mind could have conjured anything by now. But then it touched his cheek again—cool and real. A whisper against the inferno.
His eyes flew open wider. The air felt different now. Less suffocating.
He raised his gaze.
What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
Ahead, where the sand should've continued forever, was a stretch of glimmering white—ice.
A massive field of frozen glass spread before him, utterly unnatural, as if the desert had cracked open and exposed the heart of a glacier. The surface shimmered beneath the sun, reflecting light in jagged bursts.
"What… the hell…?" he croaked.
The cold was seeping in now, just a little. Enough to feel familiar. His body responded instinctively—his breath steadied, his heart thudded harder.
He took one cautious step toward it. Then another. His skate slid gently over the sand, then tapped the edge of the ice.
Crack.
A sharp sound split the silence. He looked down.
The ice beneath him was… fracturing.
Long, branching fissures shot out beneath his feet, spreading like lightning.
He froze, heart pounding.
Was this real? Was he standing on the threshold of salvation… or something far worse?