Silas was sitting on the bed, his heel tapping the floor uncontrollably, faster with each anxious thought that crossed his mind. The repetitive thud of his foot was the only thing breaking the silence.
He had often fantasized about such scenarios. However, now that he was actually experiencing it in reality, Silas could not wrap his head around it. He let out a forced chuckle, trying to cover his spiraling thoughts with a bit of humor.
"How bad can it be? I'll just die young!"
(Even the most beautiful illusions tend to collapse the moment they meet reality.)
Due to his frequent spikes in blood pressure, his doctor had once advised slow, controlled breathing. He had not really believed it, but decided to give it a try anyway. Pulling himself together, he inhaled slowly and exhaled through his nose—deliberately and steadily, forcing his heart to settle.
"Thinking about it, transmigration does not sound that bad… right?"
If only his temples were not throbbing, his skin was not freezing, and his mind was actually at peace.
Silas subconsciously stood up from the bed. Before he could even realize it, he was already trudging toward the closet. Taking a closer look at the vintage wooden door, he noticed it was beautifully crafted—engraved with the pattern of a mountain beneath a rising sun. It looked handmade.
The keyhole was made of iron, painted black, with tiny shreds of paint peeling off. It was framed by a bronze escutcheon shaped like an eagle's head. To the left, a small round hole was etched.
Silas gripped the wooden handle, and with a soft click, pulled the door open.
A charcoal-gray coat hung by the door—creased, stained at the edges, and marked with patterns. Dark lines were embossed across the sleeves. To its left sat a neatly stacked pile of clothes in various colors and patterns. Just beside it on the right, a square wooden box rested lonesome on the shelf.
Silas yanked it up and opened the lid. He rummaged through the clutter, tossing aside everything until he finally found what he was looking for—a thin strip of metal. A key.
He slid the key into the round hole and turned it left. A harsh scrape of metal echoed through the room—like gears grinding against each other. Then, with a soft thud, a hidden compartment slid open beneath the closet base. From the shadows, a brownish box emerged, its surface dusty and hesitant, as if it hadn't seen light in years.
Inside the box was a black revolver. Dozens of bullets were packed beside it in perfect rows, and a black leather-bound book lay next to the gun. The cover read Diary, its gilded edges giving it a quiet weight of significance.
"A gun?" Silas let out a deep breath, as he tried to calm his mind for the fourth time!
"No... that's not important right now. How do I know all this? These places..." he muttered, frowning sluggishly. Taking a moment to answer his own question, he stared at the revolver, slowly reaching for it with a shaky hand.
He had never seen one this close before.
Silas paused for a while, his hand was hovering just above the revolver—but before he could touch it, his eyes drifted to the book beside it.
The word "Diary" was etched on the cover in fading gold, barely visible beneath the thin layer of dust. He picked it up carefully, brushing it off with his shirt. It was heavier than it looked.
'Why a gun and a diary?' he thought, flipping through the pages with his fingertips, carefully turning each one from the edges.
Another wave of memories ignited, it was different from the earlier fragments Silas had seen.
Leon Aelwyn, a citizen of the El-Dern Kingdom on the western continent, born in Aizawa Country. He had recently graduated from the Celes Academy, located in the city of Hernlan.
His father served as a general soldier under the Imperial Temple. He was killed in action during the war, and the authorities refused to return his body—denying the family a final farewell.
His mother, a practicing physician, passed away shortly after receiving the news. Thanks to her foresight and savings, both Leon and his older brother were able to continue their education.
His brother After graduating from the academy, pursued his dream of becoming an investigator. He was eventually stationed in the Northern Continent under the Imperial Kingdom's jurisdiction.
Leon Aelwyn had been awarded a scholarship to the prestigious Astria Virell Academy, where he specialized in journalism and linguistics. During his studies, he mastered several languages spoken across the continent—including the ancient Aren text.
Silas stared intently at the page, trying to keep up with the wording, his focus slowly drifting into the memories again. His eyes fluttered, almost dozing off. He rubbed his temples and forced himself to stay present. The throbbing pain was not sharp, but it still lingered in his skull.
"I don't get these words... is this one of the languages Leon had learned?"
The text on the pages shifted like a broken TV, flickering from the strange language into something Silas could finally grasp.
"Hm... I can understand it now. It's still the same, but strange. I can read it."
(He never spoke to them; he had no interest in the wild corners of belief, the confusing dead ends and slippery questions that led nowhere.)
"Huh? What does that mean?" Silas muttered, narrowing his brows and scratching the side of his neck.
Silas continued flipping through the pages. The yellowed paper was torn at the edges, aged and brittle. But as he turned to the next, he realized it was completely blank except for the same unclear text.
Silas blinked and let out a dry breath, giving the page a blank look.
"What kind of diary is this? Everything here is so damn strange..."
Silas propped himself up with his hands on the bed, leaving the open book lying on the floor. He stood up and looked around with curiosity.
The walls of the small room were scuffed and grime-streaked, the paint peeling in thin curls. Metal pipes of two sizes ran along the corners—one thick pipe stretched upward into a grated vent in the ceiling above the table near the right-hand door. Thinner conduits branched off to four corner lamps, their iron frames rusted, the glass domes clouded with age and flickering with dull yellow light.
With Leon's situation, he wasn't wealthy and struggled with money. After their parents passed, he and his brother ended up in one of the cheaper industrial districts, where the rent was lower than in most other places.
Silas glanced at the revolver again.
"Then how did he afford a revolver? Are they that cheap?"
Silas knelt down, rubbing his wrist before slowly lifting up the revolver from the box. As he gripped it with both hands, a flicker of memory surfaced—someone pointing this very weapon at a man. The image vanished as quickly as it came.
He turned his focus to the gun.
The barrel was long and elegant, its polished black steel catching the dim light. Delicate inlays curled along its surface—precise steel patterns winding down the barrel like vines. Tiny brass gears were embedded into the frame, perfectly aligned. Every detail looked intentional, ending at the wooden grip, where a private signature had been etched:
R. Virell.
The revolver was heavier than it looked—easily over three pounds in his hands. Silas adjusted his grip, wrist dipping slightly from the weight of cold steel and brass. It was handmade for Leon by a craftsman during his academy days.
"Why would a journalist need a revolver anyway?" Silas muttered, crouching low. "Leon... who are you?"
A memory flickered as Silas placed the revolver back in the box. His gaze shifted to the folded, yellowed paper lying beside the rows of bullets.
Leon and Rinar, his older brother, had been working on a project together. Digging through archives, decoding old records searching for someone who had vanished years ago under strange circumstances. What began as simple curiosity had gradually turned into something more.
After nearly three years of research, they finally found a lead in the city of Hernlan. But with their financial situation worsening, Rinar had urged they put the investigation on hold and focus on their studies.
Rinar, was the pride of the academy, and was promoted quickly—graduating in just two years from Astria Virell Academy. He continued the investigation on his own before leaving for the Northern Continent, working under the jurisdiction of the Imperial Kingdom.
Even after that, Rinar made sure Leon was not left behind. He applied for a scholarship on Leon's behalf and sent money every month, enough to keep him studying and living comfortably.
After the memory fragment passed through his mind, Silas reached down and picked up the folded paper and slowly unfolded it.
It was a map of Aizawa City. The edges were curled, the corners soft from being opened and closed a hundred times. Red circles marked specific locations, while jagged black lines connected them, routes sketched out in a scrappy, hasty manner.
"Why were these places marked? Was Leon planning to visit them?"