After sorting through my thoughts, I finally let out a long breath of relief.
The more I thought about it, the less being transmigrated into a serial killer's body seemed like a bad deal.
In fact… it almost felt like a good one.
Sure, this body belonged to a murderer.
But me? I wasn't.
A normal person from modern society doesn't just wake up one day and start caving in skulls.
And really, what did I even want out of life?
Not much. I wasn't the ambitious type.
A quick glance around the room told me everything I needed to know—wealth, comfort, and more luxury than I'd ever had back home. I could live like a king without lifting a finger.
So what was there to worry about?
If the so-called "final boss" decided to turn over a new leaf, would the world even care?
"…Wait. Does this mean I can just live however I want?"
That was the conclusion I reached.
A simple, beautiful ending.
No blood.
No bodies.
Just a quiet life where everyone—including me—got to be happy.
Perfect.
…Or so I thought.
My happy little fantasy didn't even survive a full day.
Because when I finally came back to my senses, the truth was impossible to ignore.
The cold weight of a mace rested in my grip.
Blood spattered the floor and walls in a gruesome pattern.
And at my feet lay a body—already beaten beyond recognition.
No words were needed.
The scene said everything for me.
So much for a peaceful life.
The night was thick with the stench of blood.
In the narrow alley, a body lay crushed beyond recognition—little more than pulp scattered across the cobblestones. Shreds of flesh clung to the spikes of the mace in my hand, whispering a question I already knew the answer to.
Who did this?
The broken corpses couldn't speak. They couldn't scream.
And I was the only one standing here.
How could I not know who the culprit was?
With a mace slick with gore in my grip and bodies sprawled at my feet, how could I possibly pretend otherwise?
I had smashed them apart exactly as I once described in my own novel.
Yes… I remember every word.
Nigel—the character whose body I now inhabit—was already a murderer long before the main story even began. When night fell, he would slip into quiet streets and lonely alleys, greeting strangers with the friendly swing of a mace to the skull.
Of course, the "important" killings were supposed to take place at the Academy and other key locations in the plot.
But Nigel? He killed wherever and whenever he pleased.
A serial killer isn't picky about scenery.
And now, during the Academy's long vacation, the timing was perfect for him to hunt.
Perfect.
As if there could ever be a perfect time for murder.
But that isn't the part that terrifies me.
What really makes no sense is this:
I transmigrated here.
This body should be mine now.
If I am the one in control, then why did I wake up to find myself holding a weapon dripping with blood?
If the real Nigel is gone…
then why do his crimes continue through me?
Isn't the soul of the killer supposed to disappear when someone else takes over?
Isn't that how these things are supposed to work?
Apparently not.
Because tonight, while I slept, someone used my hands to kill.
And that someone might still be inside me.
With those thoughts swirling, I forced myself to think—no, I had to think.
Pretending to stay calm was the only thing stopping me from collapsing.
If I let the reality of what I was seeing hit me all at once, I'd probably throw up everything I'd eaten for dinner.
…Actually, forget probably.
"Urgh… bleegh—!"
The moment the idea of vomiting crossed my mind, my stomach betrayed me.
I doubled over and emptied everything right there on the floor.
Even for someone from modern society, a murder scene like this was too much.
Just looking at a clean, untouched corpse would traumatize most people—so how was I supposed to handle this?
Bodies with their skulls blown apart, blood soaking the floor, the walls, everything.
My hands shook violently. Tears burned the corners of my eyes.
I'd held on as long as I could, trying to process what I was seeing, but my body wasn't interested in reason.
The vomit splattered across the nearest corpse, a sickening layer of pale slime over dark red blood.
The sight made my stomach lurch again, and I clamped my eyes shut.
I was just a webnovel writer—someone who'd spent years inventing fictional deaths behind a keyboard.
Seeing the real thing was… impossible to accept.
With my eyes closed, I tried to think of anything else.
Somehow, my brain came up with the insane idea that maybe a corpse covered in vomit was less horrifying than one covered in blood.
That comfort lasted all of three seconds—until the metallic stench of blood mixed with the sour acid of puke.
"Ugh… urgh… bleegh!"
I bent over again, heaving until nothing but dry gasps came out.
How could I think clearly when all I could do was retch?
Minutes passed in a blur of nausea, trembling, and bitter aftertaste.
Life, really… what a sick joke.