Chapter 1 – Just Crossed Over, and Already On the Run
The girl standing before him looked to be around seven years old. Her delicate features and frail frame made the loose pink pajamas she wore seem oversized. Her neatly tied chestnut hair hung down her back, and at barely half the height of an adult, she now tilted her little face up at him, her wide sapphire eyes filled with timid fear.
"The… the lamp went out."
Her pale lips parted, and a voice as soft as a mosquito's buzz reached Charlie's ears, so faint it was almost inaudible.
"What?"
"The kerosene lamp… it went out! I… I can't light it. It's so dark…"
This time, the girl forced her voice a little louder, though it was still weak and fragile. He frowned, straining to hear her words.
The frown alone seemed to frighten her. Her small face instantly turned deathly pale, and she stumbled back two steps in panic. With one last fearful glance, she spun on her heel and bolted.
The sound of her slippers scuffing against the creaky wooden floorboards faded quickly into the distance. Charlie, leaning against the doorframe, could only stare in confusion at the little girl's retreating figure.
Timid? Cowardly? Terrified?
Why was she so afraid?
Even as the question formed, a voice inside him answered.
"Because she's about to die!"
"Because she killed her aunt!"
"Because of her cursed, poisonous bloodline!"
"She's always been that way—sickly, filthy, worthless! A cowardly mongrel!!"
The voice was violent, deranged, like the ravings of a madman. Charlie felt a wave of disgust rise within him. His brows furrowed deeper, instinctively resisting the intrusion.
Then suddenly—the voice let out a shriek.
"No—No! Don't eat me!"
"Help! Somebody, help me!"
"God, save me!!"
The panic in that voice left Charlie utterly bewildered. What the hell was happening? And then, with a jolt of realization, he understood—this voice wasn't coming from outside. It was echoing from within his own mind.
Before he could examine it further, the strange voice wavered like a dying flame, then faded into nothingness.
"Father… I hate you…"
The last anguished whisper vanished, leaving only silence, like ripples disappearing into still water.
And then, a flood of foreign memories slammed into Charlie's mind. The pain was so sharp he instinctively clutched his head, lips pressed tight, face drained of color.
---
Charles Cranston. A noble of the Duchy of Roen in the Kingdom of Dulin. Violent, irritable, despised by his earl father. Two months ago, after his coming-of-age ceremony, he was exiled to the city of Pita to inherit the barony left vacant by his aunt's sudden death. For reasons unknown, the succession ceremony had yet to take place.
He now lived at 42 Privet Street, Pita City. Aside from an old butler, the only other member of the household was that timid little girl—Annie, his late aunt's adopted daughter. She was technically his cousin, though by law Charles was also her guardian. He detested her frailty, often resorting to scolding and even beatings.
As the memories settled, the stabbing pain faded. Blood trickled from his nose; wiping it away, Charlie let out a bitter smile.
"Charles… Charlie. Well, at least the names line up."
He—Charlie—had accepted the reality of transmigration surprisingly well. After all, he had been wandering aimlessly around this world for what felt like ages. Only now, by inexplicably seizing the body of this wretched scoundrel, had he finally been reborn. Or perhaps the more fitting term was—possession.
Shock, grief, denial—he had long since endured those stages. His past life was now buried deep in his heart. What mattered now was survival.
Survive in this world.
Survive as Charles Cranston.
But if his memory was correct…
Charlie's gaze darted to the corner of the messy room. There, sprawled on the floor, lay the corpse of a vagrant, eyes wide open in death, staring blankly at the ceiling.
"This bastard…"
He cursed under his breath, slamming the door shut and hurrying to the body. Rolling up his sleeves, he prepared to shove it under the bed.
As he strained to move the corpse, his eyes caught on a brown-black notebook lying on the table. His irritation deepened.
Demons, wraiths, witchers, ancient monsters, mediums, the Church, the gods… Even with the rise of industry and technology, this was still a world haunted by countless supernatural horrors.
And that notebook was proof. If he remembered correctly, it contained knowledge of death itself.
The original Charles had treated it like a lifeline, hoping to learn forbidden spells to overcome his crisis of succession, and dreaming of using them to rise again, to make his cold father acknowledge him.
He had managed to learn something—but lacking proper materials to test it, he chose the most reckless option: creating his own "experiment."
That vagrant on the floor.
He strangled the man with his own hands, intending to use the corpse to attempt resurrection.
Of course, it failed spectacularly. Not only had it cost him his life, but it had also drawn the attention of a wandering spirit.
Charlie both despised and pitied the fool. Without his recklessness, Charlie might still be drifting as a lost soul. Yet thanks to that recklessness, he was now forced to clean up the mess.
And what a mess it was. Charles hadn't even bothered to cover his tracks—arrogant as always, committing murder without the slightest effort to hide it.
Just as Charlie dragged the body halfway under the bed, he froze. His gaze shifted back to the notebook.
"Where did this thing come from, anyway?" He rifled through the memories again, unease creeping in.
Abandoning the corpse, Charlie rushed to the window. Pulling back the blue curtains, he peered outside.
Down on the street, past the iron fence, a black carriage sped toward the house. Through the glass, he could just make out several men in dark uniforms.
"Police!?"
So it was true—Charles had been set up.
Charlie hastily dropped the curtain and staggered back from the window, heart pounding. His eyes flicked to the half-hidden corpse under the bed.
Despair surged within him.
There was no time to destroy the evidence. By the time the police reached his room, he'd be caught red-handed for sure.
Hide the body completely? Impossible—they'd search every corner.
"Self-defense, maybe? Pretend it was an accident gone too far? Even if that worked, who knows how the mastermind behind all this would respond? And besides—this body's memories don't have much knowledge of the law. Hell, who knows if this kingdom even has a legal concept like self-defense?"
He'd wandered like a lost ghost for who knows how long, finally found a body to live in… only to end up headed straight for prison?
What a sick joke!
"Maybe… maybe his noble title can protect me?"
"No! Impossible! He hasn't formally inherited the barony yet—he's just a half-baked noble. Even if he were, nobles can't simply kill people without consequence!"
"Ask his family for help? Forget it. They despised him already. Even if they did care, they're far away—too far to intervene in time."
"Bail? As if. This kingdom doesn't even seem to have bail, and even if it did, with how much this idiot squandered his fortune, he couldn't afford it!"
"Hire a lawyer? Exploit loopholes in the law?"
"Again—you need money for that."
Thoughts raced through Charlie's head. One by one, he dismissed them, until only one option remained.
Run.
Go to prison? Lose all chance of inheriting the barony? Start his new life branded as a murderer?
Even risk his… rear end in a medieval dungeon?
"To hell with prison!" he swore through gritted teeth.
Run! He had to run!
Escape first, think later.
Anything was better than being caught red-handed.
But how? Where?
That desperate thought sparked something deep within him. His vision blurred—and suddenly, before him appeared a massive bronze door, carved with twisting, grotesque reliefs.
It emerged silently, drawing his gaze like a magnet.
The metallic surface flickered between shadow and substance, both unreal and solid at once. The sculpted faces writhed as though alive, while a faint, eerie light traced along its edges, fusing the door seamlessly into the air itself.
"Why… why is there a door here?" he muttered, momentarily stunned.
The timing was far too suspicious. A door, just as he planned to flee? What lay beyond it—salvation, or a trap?
Or could this be… his so-called "cheat ability"?
He pressed a hand against it. Though it looked heavy, the door swung open lightly, spilling out waves of pale, gentle light. The glow was soft, even comforting—but Charlie remained cautious.
Outside, the black carriage had already screeched to a halt. Police in dark uniforms leapt out, rushing toward the house.
The situation was collapsing fast.
"Don't be reckless… stay calm…" He forced himself to breathe evenly. Grabbing the oak cane by the table, he tested it, pushing it halfway through the door. The cane slipped in easily.
Heart pounding, he seized the corpse and tried to throw it in.
Buzz!
The glow rippled, vibrating as it struck the body—and rejected it completely. The corpse bounced back onto the floor.
"What? Why?!" Charlie's eyes widened. "The cane went in just fine!"
Voices drifted up from below—the butler answering the door, boots pounding on the stairs. Sweat poured down Charlie's forehead. He shoved the cane in again—no issue. But the body? Rejected.
"Why? Because one's an object and the other's… a person?"
"No, that doesn't make sense. Unless… unless the door itself has a will? Both the cane and the corpse are dead things, only made of different stuff. Or… could it be the maggots inside the corpse?"
"That's absurd…" He shook his head.
Then it hit him.
The cane went in because he was holding it. The body was thrown—it lost connection.
Maybe… maybe the door only recognized things touched by its master.
Just like in all those transmigration novels—cheat artifacts that only respond to their chosen wielder.
He grabbed the vagrant's arm and pushed.
Ripples formed. The arm slid through effortlessly.
A grin broke across his face. Without wasting a second, he forced the rest of the corpse inside. Arms, chest, torso, legs—bit by bit, until only the feet remained.
Just as he pushed the last of it through, he realized something unsettling. His hand, clutching the corpse's ankle, couldn't let go. It was stuck—glued, fused, no matter how hard he tried to pull back.
The police were already inside. He heard the butler's muffled protest, then boots pounding ever closer.
He had no choice left. Either be caught alongside a corpse… or gamble everything on the unknown.
Charlie's eyes hardened.
"Screw it!"
But at the last moment, a thought struck him. He whirled, snatched the brown-black notebook from the table, and stuffed it into his chest.
Then, without hesitation, he dove into the door.
Weightlessness swallowed him whole.
---
A scream echoed in the sky.
On a sunlit street below, a squad of armored knights instinctively raised their heads. To their shock, two shadowy figures plummeted from the heavens—straight toward the golden-haired boy they were sworn to protect.
Swords rang from their sheaths.
"Protect the prince!"
"Assassins! Get them away from Prince Joffrey!!"