The first thing he felt was wrongness.
It wasn't agony, yet pain lingered—a dull throb soaking into every bone of a body that felt both his and alien.
Not bewilderment, yet bewilderment did exist—like trying to read two books at once, with two disparate stories overlapping each other and neither making perfect sense.
The wrongness was greater than distress or confusion. It was the wrongness of inhabiting a body that was not his, living within a world that obeyed a different set of laws and possessing a memory that was not his.
Chen Haoran—though even that name felt far away now, like it belonged to someone else—opened his eyes to a ceiling that didn't belong in his world.
Thick wooden beams crossed above him, uneven and rough, cut by hand instead of machines.
There was no electric light and no buzzing fixtures. Only the soft flicker of candles in heavy iron holders, shadows dancing on the walls.
And those walls… stone. Real stone. Not concrete dressed up to look old, but blocks set in place with care.
Not a hotel. Not a stage.
It was a medieval room.
He attempted to sit up and at once regretted doing so. The body was frail—not only from whatever ailment kept him bedridden, but also with that typical frailty that belonged to youth.
His limbs felt like those of a teenager rather than the adult he remembered being. His hands, when he lifted them to see them, were pale and soft and lacking the calluses and scars that had accumulated over thirty-five years of Chen Haoran's existence.
Sixteen.
Aldric Ashmore is sixteen years old.
More memories flooded in, but they felt like someone else's experiences observed from a distance.
His childhood in the house, learning to read from books on ancient history and lost gods.
His father, Viktor, a lanky man with bright eyes and gentle hands, ran an antiquarian shop at ground level while carrying on esoteric research in the cellar.
His younger sister Lyra, thirteen years old and dark-haired and pale-skinned, with the unsettling talent for dreaming about things that would later become real.
Behind those borrowed memories, though, were his own experiences. His mastery in reading human psychology and his sophisticated falsehoods.
Even in this weakened state, even in this impossible situation, his mind was automatically analyzing and categorizing information.
Furniture was of a quality that implied middle-class prosperity. Books on the shelves proclaimed educational success and literary inclinations.
The subtle signs of recent mourning—black crepe on the windows, formal clothes laid out but not worn and a general air of suspended animation—suggested that something terrible had happened recently.
Viktor was dead.
The memory arrived with a wave of distress that stunned Chen Haoran, for the distress was that of Aldric and not his. Viktor Ashmore had died a week earlier in a gas explosion, according to the officials, but Aldric's fragmentary memories suggested the truth was more complicated and more dangerous.
There was a soft knock on the door to break his assessment. "Master Aldric?" The voice was old, female, and carrying that particular inflection that came from a person who had survived domestic disasters for years. "Are you awake, dear?"
"Yes," he said and was surprised at how young his voice sounded. Not just the adolescent higher pitch, but a vowel quality and intonational pattern that was characteristic of that world and not modern world.
The door creaked ajar on a woman in her sixties, with graying hair and the serviceable dress of a veteran server. But the trained instincts of Chen Haoran immediately detected something more complex in her bearing.
She was no mere cook and cleaner. There was a flash of intelligence and circumspection in her eyes and a forceful awareness in her movements that hinted at a person who was used to defusing explosive situations.
Mrs. Cordelia Ashford. She had been with the family since before Aldric was born; Viktor had trusted her with everything.
"Oh, thank goodness," she said, hurrying to the bedside with evident relief. "You've been out three days. We started thinking that you would possibly..." She stopped, and Chen Haoran could fill in the blanks.
That you would possibly never awaken.
"What happened to me?" he asked, though he already knew. The soul transfer clearly killed the original Aldric Ashmore.
"You fainted at your father's funeral," Cordelia stated, seating herself in a chair beside the bed with ease.
"Right at the cemetery, just as they were burying him... just at the end. Dr. Morrison said it was grief and strain, but..." She regarded his face searchingly. "You look different somehow. Older. As if you came upon something that aged you."
There was a flash of panic for Chen Haoran. If his personality shift was immediately evident, that would make things harder.
But then he realized that some degree of change could be expected. Traumatic grief often altered people's behavior and outlook. As long as he was careful, he could attribute any differences to the natural process of mourning.
"I feel peculiar," he told her, and that was the case. "Like I was somewhere else and just got back."
Cordelia nodded as if the explanation made perfect sense. "Your father always said that death and birth were doorways rather than endings. Perhaps you walked partway through one door and decided to come back."
"Where is Lyra?" he asked, in part to divert the subject and in part for news of his sister.
"In the shop, trying to make sense of your father's accounts," Cordelia said with a sigh. "The poor child has been throwing herself into practical matters to avoid thinking about the emotional ones. We have... problems, Master Aldric. Your father's death has left us in a difficult position."
Chen Haoran sat up once again, more cautiously this time, resisting the drowsiness to adopt a more vigilant stance. "What sort of problems?"
"Financial ones, for the most part. Your father was extravagant to the point of recklessness, and his research required expensive materials. The shop barely broke even at its best, and these have been anything short of the best times. We are in debt, Master Aldric. Substantial amounts. And now that Viktor is gone..." She shrugged.
"How substantial?"
"Enough that we'll lose the house and shop within the month unless something changes dramatically."
Chen Haoran internalized that information while his thoughts got busy with the problem. Financial pressure would be helpful—it gave one a motive and justification for otherwise questionable activity. Should he need to make drastic alterations to their way of living or associations, economic necessity would be a cover.
"Has anybody inquired about Father's research data?" he asked, recalling pieces of Aldric's recollections concerning strange visitors.
Cordelia's face hardened. "A few people. Dr. Helena Voss from some research institute. Brother Marcus Kelm from the Church. Lady Catherine something-or-other, who wanted to purchase us some obscure books. And a merchant who asked some rather pointed questions about items that weren't for sale."
Each name triggered fragmentary memories from Aldric's consciousness. These weren't casual visitors or routine condolence calls. They were representatives of different factions, each with their own agenda regarding Viktor's work.
"Did Father leave any instructions about what to do if something happened to him?"
"He left a letter," Cordelia said carefully. "Sealed, with instructions that you should read it only when you are... yourself again. I wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but looking at you now..." She studied his face intently. "You're more yourself than you've been since the funeral."
She rose and walked to a wooden chest in the corner of the room, retrieving an envelope sealed with black wax. The seal featured a glyph that Chen Haoran did not understand.
"Before you read that," Cordelia said, returning to her chair, "there are things you should know about your father's work. Things he never told you directly, but that you'll need to understand now."
Chen Haoran opened and spread out the letter and saw that the writing was exact and fine, the hand of a person who was in the habit of noting fine points correctly.
My dear son,
If you are reading this, then the precautions that I have exercised have been ineffective, and forces beyond my control have succeeded in bringing my life to a close.
By now you will have begun to understand that our world is not as it appears to the majority of its inhabitants. What most people accept as the natural order—the limits of human capability, the boundaries between life and death and the impossibility of communication with forces beyond our immediate reality—are comfortable illusions maintained by those who benefit from widespread ignorance.
The truth is that our reality exists in constant interaction with thirteen distinct cosmic entities, each representing a fundamental aspect of existence itself. These entities influence our world through what scholars call Chains—systematic methods by which human consciousness can access fragments of cosmic power.
The price of such access is always transformation, and the ultimate destination is always transcendence of human limitations.
I have spent my lifetime serving as a Custodian of the Keeper Chain, tasked with maintaining the barriers that prevent uncontrolled supernatural development from destabilizing civilization.
But those barriers are weakening, and forces on all sides are preparing for what some call the Convergence—a period when the boundaries between realities will thin enough to allow direct intervention by the cosmic entities themselves.
In the basement of our shop, behind the third bookshelf from the left, you will find materials and information that represent a lifetime of careful research. Use them wisely. Trust Cordelia—she is more than she appears and has served our family faithfully.
Be cautious of the visitors who will come seeking your father's work. Each of them represents a different faction with their own agenda for controlling supernatural development.
Most importantly, remember that power without wisdom leads inevitably to corruption, and corruption leads to the loss of everything that makes existence worthwhile. Choose your path carefully, for the consequences will extend far beyond your individual fate.
With love and hope for your future,
Viktor Ashmore
Chen Haoran set the letter aside and looked at Cordelia, who was watching him with an expression of patient expectation.
"How much of this did you know?" he asked.
"All of it," she said simply. "I've been part of this world longer than your father was. Viktor recruited me thirty years ago when my own supernatural development put me in danger from people who prefer to eliminate problems rather than solve them."
"What chain?"
"Mourner. I can sense the presence of death, communicate with recently deceased spirits, and provide comfort to those in the process of dying. These are useful skills for someone managing a household where dangerous research attracts dangerous attention."
Chen Haoran processed this information, integrating it with his assessment of the current situation. He was inhabiting the body of a teenager in a world where supernatural abilities were real but carefully hidden from general knowledge. His father had been involved in research that had gotten him killed.
Multiple factions wanted access to that research. The family faced an immediate financial crisis. And he possessed knowledge and abilities that could either save them or destroy them, depending on how skillfully he navigated the competing interests.
It was, he realized, very much like the situation he had faced as Chen Haoran, but with genuine supernatural elements instead of elaborate fraud. The same skills that had made him successful as a spiritual con artist—reading people, identifying their needs and vulnerabilities, constructing believable narratives, building trust while maintaining control—would be directly applicable to this new reality.
But there was one crucial difference. In his previous life, Chen Haoran had never believed in the supernatural forces he claimed to channel. Here, those forces were genuinely real, which meant the stakes were far higher and the consequences of miscalculation far more severe.
As if summoned by his thoughts, something flickered at the edge of his vision. Golden text started hovering in the air where only he could see it.
[CONSCIOUSNESS INTEGRATION COMPLETE]
[SURVIVAL IMPERATIVE DETECTED]
[INITIALIZING CULTIST SYSTEM]
[PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: OPTIMAL MATCH]
[WELCOME TO YOUR SECOND CHANCE, CHEN HAORAN]
Cordelia continued talking about practical matters—the visitors who had been asking questions, the creditors who were becoming impatient and the legal complications surrounding Viktor's death—but Chen Haoran's attention was focused on the impossible interface that had appeared in his field of vision.
[ANALYSIS: Current situation requires immediate action]
[Multiple hostile factions aware of location]
[Financial pressure provides motivation and cover for rapid changes]
[Inherited resources include supernatural materials and knowledge base]
[Recommended initial approach: Careful assessment followed by strategic deception campaigns]
Chen remembered that the Puppet Master told him that he will build a management system calibrated to his preference for clear metrics and strategic planning.
Was this the management system the Puppet Master told me about?
The golden interface started displaying what appeared to be a status screen.
[Current Order: 9 (Believer)]
[Connected Entity: The Puppet Master]
[Faith Points: 0/1,000]
[Sanity Points: 100/100]
[Corruption Level: 0/100]
[Divine Authority: 0/100]
[Available Resources: Viktor's research materials, Ashmore family connections, Cordelia's supernatural expertise and an inherited shop with legitimate cover]
[Immediate Threats: Financial pressure, faction attention and investigation into Viktor's death]
[First Mission: Establish a stable foundation and identify recruitment targets]
Chen Haoran—who was rapidly becoming Aldric Ashmore, at least in external presentation—closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, Cordelia was still talking about creditors and funeral expenses, but her words now seemed like background noise compared to the larger strategic picture that was forming in his mind.