"N... no—no! Don't kill me like that!"
The young man screamed inside his own mind.
His throat felt sealed shut, stuffed with burning cotton. No sound came out—only a choked, breathless struggle. He flailed beneath invisible weight, heart hammering wildly, then suddenly—he jolted awake.
A violent gasp tore from his lips as his back arched off the soaked bedding before collapsing again, trembling.
His golden eyes flew open, glowing faintly in the dim room, wide with panic. His gaze darted across the shadows like prey sensing a predator.
Sweat drenched his entire body. Dark green hair clung to his forehead, cheeks, and the sides of his neck, tangled from feverish tossing. He looked like someone dragged out of a nightmare—or worse, a battlefield.
He pressed a trembling hand to his chest. His heartbeat thundered under his palm—loud, erratic, frantic. It felt like it might burst through his ribs. He gripped harder, as if he could press the horror back in.
His golden eyes dropped. Eyelids fluttered. Skin flushed. Breath sharp and shallow. He was burning up.
A fever.
He swallowed. His dry tongue scraped the roof of his mouth. A breath. Shaky. Desperate.
But—
Something wasn't right.
The hand on his chest…
Didn't feel like his.
His breath caught. The trembling returned.
Slowly, he raised the hand in front of his face, studying it like a stranger's limb.
It was.
Longer fingers. Sharper knuckles. Faint bruises. And bite marks.
His frown deepened. He leaned closer.
They weren't random injuries.
They were wide. Uneven. Deep. Human teeth. Feminine. Passionate. Unforgiving.
"...What? How…? Why? Wh-who…?"
His whisper cracked apart. Even his voice didn't sound like his.
And then—
He heard it.
A voice. His own… but not.
It came from inside his throat, but didn't belong to him.
"Who's there?!"
He turned sharply, scanning the room. No one.
Still, the voice echoed again—inside his mind. Inside his skin.
He grabbed his throat, heart thudding.
That wasn't him. Not his tone. Not his breath. Not his face—
He lunged for a small broken mirror resting on a nearby wooden table. Bronze frame. Jagged edges. Shaking fingers held it up.
He looked.
Hair—dark green. Not white.
Skin—flushed pale. Cheekbones—sharper.
Lips—cracked. Eyes—strange and golden..not red
His chest stung.
"What the—I'm…?"
His voice was rougher and deeper . Still fevered, but laced with a charm he didn't recognize.
He tried to get up. His legs refused.
A deep ache radiated through his thighs, calves, hips. Every muscle in his lower body pulsed with dull pain. His feet wouldn't move.
He collapsed back onto the bed, gasping like a drowning man.
"Why do I look, sound, and feel like this?!"
He clenched his teeth and tried again. But even the motion triggered pain—especially between his legs.
"Ah…"
He flinched, biting down a cry.
"What the hell happened to me…?"
His eyes scanned the room, grasping for anything to ground himself.
The place was massive. Luxurious. Dim, but warm.
Olive-green walls traced with golden roses. Marble floors glowing faintly in the weak morning light, white and green veins shimmering like jade. Tall windows hidden behind silk curtains that fell like waterfalls—green-gold, thick and soft.
The scent in the air was faint but distinct—camphor, ink, and something like lotus steeped in wine.
A large study table stood in one corner, cluttered with scrolls, brushes, aged maps, and opened ink pots. Nearby, a round tea table was half-covered with cushions. Books lay scattered across the floor as if someone had thrown them mid-argument.
Even the brush strokes left on paper glowed faintly under the soft light. Some of the ink looked fresh, like someone had just risen from a seat only hours ago.
The entire space was elegant—but in chaos.
Only one thing stood untouched.
A golden display shelf. Dragons. Phoenixes. Mountains. All sculpted in shimmering metal. Polished. Cold. Silent.
Rows of strange jade pendants rested there, marked with talismans. Some glowed faintly red, others blue. They hummed. But none of them seemed to care he was dying.
"So… this guy's really in love with lifeless junk, huh?" he muttered bitterly, trying to distract himself.
Then—he saw it.
A mirror.
Not small. Massive. Full-body. Resting against the far wall.
He couldn't see himself yet. But something inside him begged him to go there.
He had to look.
Whoever he was now… he had to face it.
He braced himself.
"Tch… this guy's body is too damn hot. I can feel every inch of it."
His stomach twisted with nausea. He was burning, empty, aching all over.
"What's… wrong down there…?"
Shuddering, he leaned back and slowly folded one leg. Swallowing hard, he peeled the blanket aside.
The robe had already slipped open at his thighs.
His breath caught.
Bruises. Deep purples and reds. Faint bite marks. Imprints of fingers. Raw.
"What the—? What the hell?! It looks like a pack of wolves tried to chew me apart!"
His voice cracked with disbelief. He didn't even have the strength to scream.
He grabbed at his own hair, golden strands sticky with sweat. His head throbbed. His throat burned.
"What did I do to deserve this? What kind of sin did I commit to end up in this damn body?"
His voice was hoarse. Broken.
"I was already as good as dead…"
He slumped forward, covering his face.
Then suddenly stilled.
"…Wait. What's my name?"
His heart dropped.
That man in his dream—white hair, red eyes—that was him. But who were the others? The ones screaming? Falling?
What was this timeline?
"What year is this?"
Silence.
No memories. No names. No answers.
Just cold sweat and hotter fever.
He threw off the blanket again. Bare feet hit the icy marble.
Pain exploded through him.
He staggered. One leg collapsed. He hit the wall hard.
"Ugh… Earth's hall… without the ice or fire…"
He wheezed, scraping his palms along the wall to steady himself.
The mirror loomed ahead.
He had to reach it.
Even if it killed him.
Step by painful step. Crawl if he had to.
He passed the fallen scrolls. A strange charm marked with crimson symbols fluttered to the ground near his foot, but he didn't look at it.
Then—he stumbled again.
"Shit—!"
His chin smashed into the edge of the tea table. A metallic taste filled his mouth. Blood.
"A-Auch—!"
He clutched the table, eyes tearing. Blood dripped to the floor, warm and slow.
"Stupid body… damn shameless guy…"
He panted, vision blurry, face flushed with fever and frustration.
And then—he spotted it.
A long walking stick, carved and decorated, leaning near the golden shelf.
Finally. Something useful.
He dragged himself to it, grabbed it, and forced himself upright. Shaking. Sore. Determined.
One breath.
Two steps.
Three steps.
He reached the mirror.
Raised his head.
And—
His hands flew to his throat. His cheeks. His chest.
The reflection wasn't him.
Golden eyes stared back. Beautiful. Empty.
Hair too long. Skin too flushed. Voice too smooth. Body too ruined.
A stranger.
A mystery.
A curse.
A locked coffin of someone else's past.
"…Who is that sin?!"