Consciousness returned slowly.
Not all at once, not gently, but in fragments—like light seeping through cracks in a sealed room.
At first, it was nothing more than sensation.
A faint twitch.
One finger moved.
The movement was so small it might have been imagined, yet it was undeniable. Another twitch followed, then a slight curl of the hand. Somewhere within her fogged awareness, a distant alarm rang.
I can move.
Gradually, awareness spread outward. Her arm responded next, stiff and uncooperative, as though it no longer belonged to her. Each attempt at movement felt foreign, delayed, wrapped in resistance. Still, progress came—slow, painful progress.
Then—
Her eyelids trembled.
Darkness peeled away inch by inch as her eyes opened.
Light flooded in.
Her vision was blurred, swimming, shapes melting into one another. She blinked repeatedly, breath hitching as unfamiliar scents filled her nose—earth, stone, blood, and something metallic she couldn't immediately place.
Confusion struck first.
Where… am I?
She tried to turn her head, but the effort failed halfway. Her neck protested violently, a sharp, blinding pain shooting straight through her spine. The world tilted, then steadied, though her vision continued to pulse uncomfortably.
Panic rose—but only briefly.
No.
She forced herself to breathe.
I know I died.
The certainty settled deep in her bones, unwavering. She remembered the cathedral room—the wealth, the quiet reverence, the murmured prayers. She remembered the white ceiling, the hum of machines, the weight of ninety-five years pressing gently upon her soul.
She remembered thinking about the novel she hadn't finished.
She remembered letting go.
"I died," she thought clearly. "I was on the bed. I was waiting. And then I was gone."
So why…?
Why am I here?
Her gaze drifted weakly, though her body refused to follow. Jagged stone filled her peripheral vision. Shadows clung to the edges of her sight. The air was too raw, too wild to belong to any cathedral or hospital.
What is going on?
She tried to sit up.
The moment she engaged her muscles, pain detonated.
It was immediate.
Overwhelming.
White-hot agony exploded through her entire body, as though every bone had been shattered and hastily stitched together only to break again. Her breath punched out of her lungs in a silent scream as her vision went completely white.
The pain was absolute.
Bone-deep.
Soul-rending.
Her body collapsed back against the ground, trembling violently.
What—what happened to me?!
Her thoughts spiraled, but her lips could not form sound. She screamed silently, her mind recoiling from the intensity of the suffering. It wasn't the dull ache of old age, nor the gentle surrender of death.
This pain was raw.
Violent.
Alive.
Then….
Something broke.
Not gently.
Memories surged in.
They did not trickle in softly or blend naturally. They crashed into her mind like a flood bursting through a dam, bringing with them a pounding headache so fierce she thought her skull might split open.
She gasped, clutching at her head.
Images.
Voices.
Emotions that were not hers.
A young girl running through muddy streets.
Cold hunger gnawing at her stomach.
Fear.
Desperation.
A pair of eyes filled with betrayal.
She saw herself—no, not herself—kneeling, bleeding, hands shaking as someone she trusted turned away. She felt the sting of abandonment, the crushing weight of powerlessness.
A name echoed.
Scarlett.
Thirteen… maybe fourteen.
So young.
Too young.
Her breathing grew uneven as realization dawned.
"These… memories…" she thought weakly. "They're not mine."
Yet they fit.
They nestled into her consciousness with horrifying ease, weaving themselves seamlessly into her identity. She knew things now—about a world she had never lived in, about cultivation, mana, power hierarchies, betrayal, poison.
A broken laugh bubbled up inside her.
"Oh," she thought dryly. "So that's it."
The laughter turned sharper, edged with disbelief.
"I transmigrated?"
How chic.
The irony was almost impressive.
She had read about this. Extensively. In countless novels during her later years—transmigration, possession, reincarnation into fictional worlds filled with danger and destiny.
She would have laughed harder if it didn't hurt so much.
But the pain refused to relent, anchoring her to the present reality. She couldn't sit up. Couldn't roll over. Even breathing felt like dragging broken glass through her lungs.
Did I really transmigrate… just to die again?
The thought annoyed her far more than it frightened her.
No.
No, that doesn't happen.
She clung stubbornly to logic—fictional logic, perhaps, but logic nonetheless.
"All the books," she thought firmly. "Every strange book, every ridiculous one. The transmigrator does not die immediately after arriving."
And she certainly would not be the first to break that rule.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to calm down. Panic would only worsen things. She had lived ninety-five years; if nothing else, patience and discipline were her strongest virtues.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted her arm again—just an inch this time.
Pain flared, but it was manageable.
She tested her fingers.
They moved.
Good.
Sweat dripped down her temples, soaking into her hairline. With deliberate effort, she raised her hand and wiped her forehead, breathing shallowly.
That was when it happened.
The ring.
The blood-red ring on her finger pulsed faintly.
A glow spread from it, warm and unmistakably alive.
Before she could react—before she could even think—the world folded inward.
She vanished.
There was no sensation of movement, no feeling of falling or flying. One moment she was lying on cold stone, drowning in pain—
The next—
She was somewhere else.
Fresh grass brushed against her skin.
Cool water cradled her body.
The air was pristine, vibrant, saturated with life.
She lay half-submerged in a clear stream, the water glowing faintly as it flowed around her. The pain that had consumed her moments ago dulled rapidly, retreating like a tide pulling back from shore.
Her eyes widened.
She lifted her head slightly, staring at her surroundings.
Rolling green land stretched before her. Trees stood tall and peaceful in the distance. Nearby, she spotted what looked like a simple ranch—wooden structures, fences, open land.
"…Oh?" she thought.
Her eyebrows rose slowly.
"Am I in one of those 'strong protagonist halo' spaces?"
She snorted weakly.
Too chic.
The water rippled gently, warmth seeping into her bones, knitting fractured pain together strand by strand. The healing was slow—not miraculous—but undeniably effective.
Anyone who truly understood her previous condition would have been utterly shocked.
But she was new here.
So perhaps it was acceptable.
She closed her eyes.
Time passed.
Minutes bled into hours as the water continued its work, restoring muscle, soothing shattered meridians, easing the agony until it became nothing more than a dull memory.
When she finally opened her eyes again, she realized something astonishing.
She could move.
Freely.
Without pain.
She rose carefully, wading out of the stream and settling onto a smooth rock nearby. Her movements were cautious but steady. She flexed her fingers, rotated her shoulders, tested her legs.
Nothing hurt.
That alone was miraculous.
She exhaled slowly and leaned back, staring up at the unfamiliar sky.
"All right," she murmured internally. "Let's think."
She organized her thoughts the way she once prepared for surgery—methodically, calmly.
"So," she began, "I died as a ninety-five-year-old woman."
Check.
"I transmigrated into a fictional world."
Unbelievable, but check.
"I'm now in the body of a young girl named Scarlett."
Very young.
Too young.
"And judging by those memories, her life is already a disaster."
She sighed deeply.
"Of course it is."
Her gaze drifted to her hands—small, slender, uncalloused. These were not the hands of a surgeon or a venerated mother. These were the hands of a child thrust into a world of power struggles and cultivation dangers.
"And," she added dryly, "this whole situation reeks of protagonist fate."
Which usually meant peril.
Endless peril.
What is even this place?
Her eyes swept over the serene landscape again.
"The legendary space that comes with transmigrators?" she muttered. "A hidden realm? A cheat?"
She rubbed her face with both hands, exasperation leaking through her composure.
"Oh please," she sighed loudly. "Give me a break."
She lowered her hands and stared ahead, silence settling around her. Despite her complaints, her heart was strangely calm. Fear did not grip her the way it might have for someone younger.
She had already lived a full life.
Death no longer intimidated her.
Still…
She looked down at the ring on her finger, now quiet, unassuming.
"Since I'm already here," she thought at last, a quiet resolve forming, "I suppose I'll live."
Her lips curved slightly.
"And survive."
The wind rustled the grass gently, as though the world itself acknowledged her decision.