In one of the villages, on a mountain near the city of "Verdenstream," filled with chimneys and factories, stood a small hut, isolated among the tall trees that sloped down the mountain. The door was open, creaking with every gust of wind, its windows half-broken, and its roof damaged, allowing the thick, swirling fog in the sky to be seen through its gaps. In the corners, cobwebs stretched out, and a spider dangled, playing with them quietly, as if observing every movement inside the hut.
The hut consisted of a single room, a small kitchen, and a cramped bathroom. Inside the room, a window—half-cracked and half-open—let in cold winds, making the scattered papers on the floor tremble as if trying to escape the oppressive silence. On the old bed lay a cotton mattress and wild animal hides, covered by a tattered blanket that had been stitched back together multiple times, its dark stains telling stories of years of neglect. On the wall above the bedroom door hung the taxidermied head of a tiger, its hollow eyes staring as if they knew the secrets of this place.
A small desk held an ink-stained cup with a quill that hadn't yet dried, next to a black book inscribed with the words: *"The Eternal Sacrifice."* Beneath the book, papers were strewn across the floor as if a whirlwind had passed through. At the far end of the room, an old, cracked mirror covered in dust reflected distorted fragments of reality, as if revealing hidden worlds no one else could see. On the wall opposite the bed, an antique clock shaped like a horse's head had a small hole in its center—the size of a newborn's palm—and a pendulum swinging back and forth, emitting a continuous sound: *"Tick… tock… tick."* The hour hand rested between the numbers 5 and 6, while the minute hand was halfway, marking the time at 5:30 in the evening.
Suddenly, faint sounds shattered the silence. A figure slowly rose from the scattered papers on the floor, panting heavily, gripping an old shelf for support—which let out a painful creak, as if groaning under the weight of existence. He stood up quickly after the sound, swaying slightly but holding onto the shelf again until he steadied himself.
He wore a black coat stained with spots, a long-sleeved white shirt, a medium-sized hunting hat on his head, and relatively intact black trousers. He was breathing heavily, clutching his left chest with one hand. When he lifted his hand, he discovered blood seeping through his undershirt.
*"Haa…"* he gasped in shock, trying to comprehend the situation. He removed the tattered coat and shirt, and a drop of blood fell onto the floor and the scattered papers. A sharp pain pierced his heart—something was lodged deep inside. His hand moved instinctively, trying to endure the pain, and as he did, the front of the embedded object became visible, while its small, flat, circular rear end protruded slightly.
To add to the horror, the chair he had been sitting on was shattered beneath him, as if the hut itself had denied him rest, forcing him to stand firmly, balancing his frail body on the cold floor.
With great effort, he lifted his head and looked into the dust-covered, cracked mirror. What he saw made him stop breathing for several seconds. Reflected in the mirror was a strange figure that bore no resemblance to his former self—his hair was short and brown, but streaked with black and gold strands; his eyes, once gray, were now a pale green; his face had become more handsome, yet entirely unfamiliar, completely different from the one he had known all his life.
*"What…! What happened to my face? Why has it changed!?"* he screamed, unable to accept the sight. He grabbed his face with his hands—one smeared with blood, staining his right cheek a dark shade—but he didn't care, continuing to shout louder:
*"No… no… What's happening to me!?"*
After several minutes, he gradually calmed down and sat on the floor, trying to process everything. He began examining the situation carefully, his mind analyzing every detail in the hut: the tattered clothes, the scattered papers, the cracked mirror, the old clock… all of it only deepened the mystery. He started jotting down notes on one of the papers he picked up from the floor.
*First, I should have died from the gunshot or blood loss, but I didn't.*
*Second, my old, filthy clothes and the foul smell suggest this place has been abandoned for years, and the owner of this body hasn't cleaned anything in ages.*
After saying this, he kicked the shirt and coat away in disgust.
*Third, the chaos in the hut—the scattered papers, the shattered chair, the dust—points to a recent violent or abrupt event.*
*Fourth, the cracked mirror I broke and the old clock add to the feeling of suspended time and hidden worlds.*
As he wrote, a putrid, rotting stench crept into his nose—unbearable, like a decomposing corpse. But he ignored it, pretending it was just the remains of a wild animal that had died near the hut.
After finishing his notes, he tucked them into his pants pocket to review later. He sighed and muttered to himself:
*"It seems I really have crossed into another world. But why did it have to be inside this damned old hut? They could've sent me to a better, more exciting world—like the realm of immortals, where I could've been one of the strongest farmers, gaining wealth and harems! Or even a school gangster world, where I'd not only rule over everyone but also strike billion-dollar deals with powerful families and have followers."*
*But no… I had to end up in this cursed hut. And the worst part? There's a bullet in my heart, yet I'm still alive… and I don't even know why!"* A deep scowl twisted his face.
He looked down and saw shards of the broken mirror scattered over the papers, some stained with blood. He sighed again, then glanced at the shelf where his hunting hat rested atop the black book.
With his pale green eyes, he approached it slowly and lifted the hat. He grabbed the book with his bloodstained hands, drops of blood falling from them, leaving a faint trail on the floor.
*"Hah… I should probably stop the bleeding in my hand and chest… after I see what's inside this book."*
He noticed the embossed words on the cover: *"The Eternal Sacrifice,"* shimmering faintly as if emitting a soft golden glow.
But Xiao Ping ignored the glimmer and opened the book. All he found were blank, pristine pages—except for the introduction:
*"Dear reader, are you ready to embark on a journey no human has ever taken? A journey that will reveal the true meaning of this world."*
He shouted angrily:
*"What? A journey? Are you kidding me?! Thanks, but no thanks."*
With those words, he slammed the book shut and placed it back on the shelf. The faint golden glow faded, and the mysterious signs vanished.
At that moment, a cold wind blew through the window, sending a shiver down Xiao Ping's bare body. He had taken off his coat and white shirt to examine the wound clearly, now feeling the chill seep into his bones.
*"Ugh… I guess I need to find some other clothes to wear…"* he muttered, scanning the small room.
He began searching every corner, shelf, and nook of the hut, looking for any piece of clothing that could shield him from the bitter cold. The wind whistled through the broken windows and cracks in the walls, carrying rough whispers and the creaking of worn-out wood with each gust, making him shudder to his core. The scattered papers and swirling dust made the place feel suffocating, trapped in eerie silence.
He found nothing. His only option was to put the torn shirt and coat back on. He hesitated for a moment, weighing two choices: wear the filthy rags again or freeze to death. Just the thought sent an unbearable chill through him, as if the cold had seeped into his very bones.
He looked around the hut, at the clothes he had been wearing earlier, and suddenly remembered—the owner of this body had been extremely poor, living in squalor… with no luxuries or choices.
With a long sigh, he finally decided to put the shirt and coat back on, despite the stench and their ragged state, knowing survival required this small sacrifice. As he dressed, the howling wind, creaking wood, and swirling dust reminded him of the hut's harshness and the mysteries lurking in every corner.
And then… the sound of a cuckoo came from the clock on the wall.
*"Cuckoo… cuckoo…"*
It repeated six times, marking exactly 6 o'clock.
Xiao Ping turned to stare at it, watching as the hands froze at the number *"6,"* as if forced into stillness.
He sighed softly and muttered to himself:
*"At least something here reminds me that time still moves… even in this miserable hut."*
But soon, another shiver ran through him—this hut showed no signs of normal human life. How could an old, broken clock be working so precisely?
*"Tch, this place is full of secrets…"* Xiao Ping scoffed inwardly before adding, *"Doesn't matter… not now."*
No sooner had he spoken than his stomach growled loudly, as if rebelling. He pressed a hand against it and groaned wearily:
*"I need something to eat… The blood loss has weakened me more than I thought."*
With sluggish steps, he headed toward the small kitchen through the broken doorway. His eyes scanned the area until they landed on a rusted pot sitting on an old stove.
He approached slowly and peered inside… The stagnant water reflected his blood-streaked face.
His expression hardened for a moment, and he grumbled in irritation:
*"This damn face… haunting me even here."*
He clenched his teeth, then spat to the side in disdain before adding sarcastically:
*"And on top of that… the previous owner of this body didn't even leave any food. Was this idiot really that poor?"*
Leaning against the wall near the cold stove, he wondered aloud:
*"Should I go outside and hunt some wild animals?"*
But when he glanced at the broken window, he saw the thick fog outside—so dense he could barely make out the nearby trees.
He let out a quiet gasp, then shook his head, mocking himself:
*"No… that's ridiculous. Stupid, even. First, I can't see anything in this fog—I'd get lost and never find my way back. Second, I don't have a weapon or hunting skills. If I ran into a bear or a tiger, I'd just be helpless prey. And worst of all… my body's too weak to even stand properly from exhaustion."*
His hands trembled slightly from fatigue and cold. He sighed deeply and slid down to sit on the floor, leaning his shoulder against the wall as the fog outside swirled like a mysterious veil hiding the unseen.
*"No… I need to get up. I remember seeing a bed in the room."*
He mumbled to himself, dragging his feet slowly—until he noticed a faint tremble in the bed, as if it were moving.
The rotting stench invaded his nose again, forcing him to cover it with his hand in disgust.
The closer he got, the stronger the smell became, as if penetrating his chest.
*"Ugh… disgusting! What the hell is that smell?"*
He stopped one step away from the bed and realized—the source was the bed itself.
The patched blanket, covered in faded stains, was slowly rising like a balloon, as if hiding something alive… or dead beneath it.
His voice trembled as he whispered:
*"Am I hallucinating? Are my eyes playing tricks on me?… Or have I actually lost my mind?"*
He gritted his teeth, staring intently:
*"I can see it… the tattered blanket is bulging!"*
His breaths grew heavy as he thought:
*Why didn't I notice this earlier when I was searching for clothes?*
*The blood loss must've made me so dizzy I missed everything. Even the horrible smell—I thought it was a rotting animal outside… but it was right here beside me the whole time!*
He smacked his forehead violently with his left hand, furious at his own stupidity.
.....
**If you've made it this far, then from the depths of my heart—thank you for reading my story.**
To be honest, this particular work leans heavily into mystery. So, if you're looking for a uniquely dark writing style steeped in existential philosophies...
**Then my first novel, *"Secrets of the Dark King,"* is the perfect choice for you.**
Thanks again. 🚬🗿🔥
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