Azren Luoming's eyes stayed locked on the sky, wide with disbelief. There, high above him, nestled in a sea of stars, floated two full moons side by side, glowing in eerie harmony.
The sky itself was strange—painted in gentle strokes of faint purple and soft blue. One moon pulsed with a mysterious dark violet glow, cracked with glowing blue veins that looked like lightning frozen in time. The other moon was pale, almost ghostly, flickering softly like a fading candle in the wind.
His lips parted slightly, a whisper escaping without thought.
"They're… the nighttime moons… Yinzhi and Yurei…"
The names rolled off his tongue like something long-forgotten suddenly remembered. Like they had always been there, hidden deep inside him, even though he knew—he had never heard them before. Not in his old life.
He clutched the back of his hand tightly, grounding himself in the moment.
"My brain… it's getting filled with these new memories. Too many…" He let out a shaky breath. "It's a lot to take in…"
He took a step closer to the dusty window, pressing a hand gently against the cracked glass as he looked down at the world below.
The settlement beneath him was small and scattered, more of a slum than a village. Some homes were made from cracked, sun-baked bricks piled unevenly, others pieced together from old, weathered wooden planks. They leaned into each other like sick patients clinging to stay upright. There were no paved roads—only dirt paths, winding and crooked, like veins running through the dying heart of a forgotten place.
Puddles of dirty water reflected the twin moons, but even their glow couldn't hide the filth and rot. Leaves, twigs, and trash floated on the surface. The nearby trees had unnatural shapes—some twisted like claws, others wilted and lifeless despite having no leaves left to fall.
Azren stared at the view in silence, unmoving.
Then, slowly, he stepped back from the window. A cold breeze slipped in through the cracks, brushing across his skin like icy fingers.
'How did I… get here?'
The thought whispered through his mind like a ghost.
His gaze moved across the dusty room and landed on a crooked cupboard in the corner. Its old wooden door hung slightly open, creaking faintly in the silence. Nailed to the front of the door was a scratched mirror—its surface cloudy and stained, but still clear enough to show a reflection.
He walked toward it, feet dragging across the floor.
And then he saw himself.
Same spiky hair, a messy mix of light and dark. Same eyes—one deep and dark, the other pale and almost white—a strange and mesmerizing contrast.
But something was different.
He looked older. Not by age, but by burden. This version of him had seen more, suffered more. His jaw was sharper, his face leaner, his eyes heavier with a sadness no teenager should carry. He was shorter than he remembered being. Not by much—but enough to notice. His voice echoed in his head, deeper, rougher, tired.
And more than anything… he felt stronger.
Not just physically, but emotionally. Mentally. There was a steel in him now that hadn't been there before.
The memories told him the truth.
Twenty-eight days ago, this Azren had been infected.
Infected with something beyond understanding. Something that changed everything.
It stole his ability to eat. To sleep. It made him hear voices, see things, feel sensations that weren't real. Slowly, it chipped away at his sanity, tearing at his mind piece by piece.
And yet…
He survived.
He lasted twenty-eight days.
But then… something inside him cracked.
The infection whispered, soft and dark—"End it."
And he listened.
He gave in.
But he hadn't died.
Azren raised a trembling hand and pressed it against the mirror, placing his palm where his reflection's heart would be. His skin was pale, his fingers thin. His eyes—sunken and tired. His whole body—worn down by days without food, without rest, without hope.
A lump formed in his throat.
'Did my soul… transmigrate into this version of me?'
The thought echoed in his head. Unbelievable. Impossible. And yet… every single piece of evidence pointed to it being true.
But one question haunted him more than all the rest:
Why?
"Why though…?" he murmured. "Back on Earth… I was fine. Healthy. I had a normal life. I didn't touch anything supernatural. No rituals, no cursed objects, no near-death experiences…"
He leaned closer to the mirror, his breath fogging up the glass, his voice soft and broken.
"So why… did this happen to me… so randomly…?"
The mirror gave no answers.
Just stared back at him with the same broken eyes.
'I've read stuff like this in comics before…' Azren thought to himself.
'But I never thought… something like this would actually happen to me.'
His eyes blinked slowly, and the weight of exhaustion settled in all at once. His body swayed slightly. His eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open. His head tilted, drooping to one side as if his neck could no longer hold it up.
"But first…" he muttered, barely a breath, "I should… rest…"
And then—
THUD.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed onto the cold, dusty floor. No twitch. No groan.
His body lay still, unconscious from the overwhelming flood of memories, the trauma, the confusion.
Time began to pass.
Slowly.
The room went silent.
No sound except for the faint creaks of the old house settling against the wind.
Outside the window, the night shifted.
The twin moons began to descend beyond the hills, and the dark sky faded into soft hues of early dawn. Stars vanished, swallowed by the morning light. The sun rose slowly, casting a pale golden glow over the rooftops, painting the world in a new warmth.
But Azren didn't stir.
He lay motionless, his chest rising and falling with shallow, steady breaths.
Hours passed.
The sun climbed higher, its light stretching through the broken windows, sliding across the floorboards like gentle fingers. Shadows shifted. Dust danced in the air.
Still… Azren slept.
The light began to deepen into gold. Evening approached.
The sky outside turned orange, clouds streaked with fire and light.
And then—
Creak.
A sound.
Footsteps.
Heavy ones.
The stairs groaned under the weight of someone climbing.
"Damn that Azren…" came a voice, low and rough, drifting up from below. The tone was annoyed, sharp—an older man, not in the mood for patience. "I'll make sure to take my rent money from that little bastard today!"
BAM!
The door exploded open.
No knocking. No hesitation. The old hinges gave out completely, metal snapping as the door slammed to the floor with a crash.
In stormed a man who looked like he'd been built from bad decisions and worse luck. Short. Fat. Completely bald, with sweat glistening on his head like oil. He wore a black T-shirt stretched too tightly over his round belly, and a beaten-up leather jacket that barely clung to his shoulders. His shorts—wrinkled, faded purple leather—hugged his stubby legs like a second skin.
"Hey, you little brat! I've come to—"
He stopped.
Mid-sentence.
His eyes landed on Azren's unmoving body.
Frozen.
He blinked, confused—then alarmed.
The rope.
Still hanging from the ceiling.
The chair.
Broken on its side.
The noose.
Lying next to the boy.
His face turned pale.
"H-Huh?!" he gasped, stepping back.
His eyes jumped from the rope to the chair to Azren's limp body.
He panicked.
Terror gripped him like ice water down his spine. His voice cracked.
"P-Police! Somebody call the police!!"