Chapter 2: The Book of Realms
Jingyu—now fully aware he inhabited the body of Nirva Meltein—stood frozen before the wooden desk. The room was small, dimly lit by a single candle whose wax had long since dripped into hardened puddles. Dust motes floated in the crimson light filtering through the curtains. And there it was: a tome that seemed to pulse faintly, as if it had a heartbeat of its own.
The Book of Realms.
It was unlike any book Jingyu had ever seen. Its cover was blackened leather, cracked and worn with age, yet faint golden runes shimmered along its spine as though alive. A faint hum emanated from it, vibrating in his chest, tugging at his mind with invisible threads. He hesitated, heart pounding—not out of fear, exactly, but something stranger: awe.
Instinctively, he reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the leather, the room seemed to shift. Shadows flickered along the walls. The candle's flame stretched unnaturally toward him, elongating like a serpent. A shiver ran down his spine. The book was alive.
He opened it.
The pages were yellowed and fragile, but the words glowed faintly in silver ink, forming letters that his eyes—no, his mind—could understand. Though he had never seen the language before, comprehension came naturally, as if the book had unlocked a part of him that had always existed.
The first page was simple: diagrams of realms, each labeled with names that sounded like songs and curses woven together. Jingyu ran his fingers across the paper, feeling the energy vibrate beneath his skin. These were not mere drawings—they were maps, guides, instructions, warnings.
Then he turned the page.
It was an entry in Nirva's handwriting. A jagged, trembling script, smeared in dried crimson stains. Jingyu's stomach lurched.
"I, Nirva Meltein, see no escape. My life ends here."
The words screamed in his mind, louder than any shout. He felt his knees buckle, the air pressing down on him as if the room itself were mourning. He skimmed further, compelled by a mixture of terror and morbid curiosity.
The next lines described what Nirva had done in grim detail:
"The dagger pressed against my throat. Warmth spreads as the world grows silent. Mirrors shattered. Blood everywhere. I am free, yet nothing is left."
Jingyu's hand shook. He looked into the mirror across the room. The reflection staring back at him was the body of a boy who had ended his own life. Black hair, pallid skin, lifeless eyes now replaced by the spark of his consciousness—but it was still Nirva's face, Nirva's scars, Nirva's despair.
"This… this can't be real," he whispered.
But the book confirmed it. The tome seemed to lean closer, as if to whisper the truth: Nirva Meltein had died. And now, somehow, Jingyu Wang had been dragged into the aftermath, inhabiting the corpse of a boy who had chosen death.
The room felt colder. Shadows in the corners deepened, and faint whispers brushed against the edges of his mind—memories? Echoes? He could not tell. He closed the book for a moment, pressing his hands to his eyes, trying to steady himself.
When he reopened it, more pages revealed themselves: Nirva's fears, enemies, failed attempts to escape the pressures of power, all meticulously documented. There were diagrams of rituals he had never performed but instinctively knew the steps for. There were symbols that burned faintly on the paper, mapping out the flow of energy within the Meltein bloodline.
And then came the warning:
"The blood calls. The blood demands. To awaken fully is to risk everything. Death is mercy; life is war."
Jingyu's chest tightened. He had no idea what "awakening" meant, only that the blood marking Nirva's neck—now his own—was thrumming violently. A strange heat radiated from the sigil, crawling across his skin. With it came memories, or fragments of them: a blurred vision of being chased through forests, the sound of howling, screams that might have been real, might have been imagined.
He staggered backward, clutching the book. The candle flickered violently, then died, leaving him in near darkness. Only the faint crimson glow from the sigil on his neck illuminated the room. And in that dim light, he felt something stir.
It began as a whisper.
"Control… control… control…"
It was Nirva's voice. Or perhaps something older, older than Nirva, older than the book. It vibrated in his bones, urging him to move, to grasp the power latent within. Jingyu's hands shook. The blood in Nirva's body—his new body—responded to the call. A bead of blood rose to the surface of his skin, shimmering, suspended in midair, and then it leapt toward the pages of the book as if obeying some unspoken command.
Jingyu stumbled backward, falling onto the floor. The whispers intensified, and the room seemed to tilt, the walls bending and stretching. Every shadow in the room twisted toward him, as if drawn to the pulse of his life. His heart hammered like a drumbeat, and fear surged—but it was mixed with something else. Power.
The book began to change in his hands. Letters rearranged themselves. Diagrams redrew themselves as if alive. The entries chronicling Nirva's despair shifted subtly, replacing despair with instructions. Rituals for control. Techniques for harnessing blood magic. Pathways for awakening.
Jingyu realized, in a shock of clarity, that Nirva had died not because he lacked courage—but because he could not master the power that was now surging through Jingyu's veins.
And now… he could.
A shiver ran down his spine as the sigil on his neck flared violently, burning a bright crimson into the darkness. Jingyu felt the blood inside him come alive, responding to thought and will. Pain shot through his body, sharp and intense, as if he were being reborn, torn apart and stitched together at once.
Visions flashed behind his eyes. Shadows of realms beyond comprehension. Creatures of nightmare and myth. Faces of friends and foes long gone—or never known. And through it all, Nirva's own memory lingered: the endless despair, the impossible choices, the dagger pressed to the throat.
Jingyu gasped, clutching his neck. His silver eyes—Nirva's eyes—glimmered with the reflection of the glowing sigil. He was alive. He was Nirva. He was Jingyu. And the book… the book had chosen him.
With trembling hands, he opened it again. The pages guided him through the first step of awakening: drawing power from the bloodline, integrating Nirva's essence without being consumed. Each word burned into his mind, each diagram a lesson in survival and control.
Hours—or perhaps moments—passed. Time felt irrelevant under the crimson glow of the sigil. By the time Jingyu lowered the book, he was changed. He could feel it in his bones: the power of the Meltein bloodline coursing through him, unrestrained yet obedient to his will.
He looked into the mirror once more. The boy who had died, who had given up, still lingered in the reflection—but now there was determination too. Fear mingled with newfound resolve. This body, this life, this bloodline—it was no longer Nirva's tragedy. It was his opportunity.
And outside the window, the world waited.
The Book of Realms had revealed one truth above all: awakening came at a cost, but survival—and power—were possible. The first step had been taken. The shadows had noticed, and they were coming.
But Jingyu Wang, in the body of Nirva Meltein, was ready to face them.