Zhang Lu's eyes burned.
The cheap desk lamp buzzed like an angry mosquito, casting a sickly yellow cone over the scattered pages of his favorite web novel. It was past three in the morning again. The apartment was dead silent, broken only by the distant clatter of a late-night delivery scooter slicing through the street below.
His phone had gone dark hours ago. He hadn't even bothered to charge it.
What was the point?
Tomorrow was another twelve-hour cram session. Another mock exam. Another lecture from his parents about "wasting time on trash stories."
He rubbed his temples and scrolled down one more chapter.
Chronicles of Mysteries.
He'd read it three times already, but Anthony's arc always dragged him back in.
The tragic genius from a fallen house.
Orphaned by a goddess mother.
Scraping by with a lazy little brother while the world's secrets gnawed at him from the shadows.
Anthony never got the spotlight. He was the side character who uncovered too much—and paid for it.
Zhang Lu envied him, in a twisted way.
At least Anthony's life had meaning.
At least something happened.
"If I could just…" he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes unfocused.
"…live in a world like that. Anything would be better than this."
His head dipped.
The words blurred.
An old hourglass timer—one of those cheap novelty trinkets he'd bought on a whim—sat forgotten beside his elbow, sand long since run out.
Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision.
Gentle.
Soft.
Then absolute.
Nothingness.
No dreams.
No light.
Just a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes, stretching on forever.
Am I dead?
The thought floated up, lazy and terrified at the same time.
Did I finally study myself into a stroke?
He tried to move.
Couldn't tell if he had arms.
Couldn't tell if he was breathing.
Panic clawed at him—but even that felt distant, muffled by the void.
Then—
Light.
A thin gray sliver at first. Like dawn leaking through cracked blinds.
Zhang Lu groaned.
The ache sharpened into a proper headache—the kind that came from sleeping wrong on a desk.
Relief crashed into him so hard his chest hurt.
Not dead.
Thank God.
He blinked, waiting for the familiar chaos of his bedroom to appear—
Posters peeling at the corners.
Laundry mountain in the hamper.
The blue glow of his computer monitor.
The refrigerator's hum from the kitchen.
Instead—
Dust motes drifted through pale, watery light.
The air smelled old.
Paper.
Mildew.
Something faintly metallic.
He was slumped forward, cheek pressed against a wooden surface that definitely wasn't his cheap particle-board desk.
His neck screamed as he lifted his head.
The room was wrong.
Stacks of leather-bound journals towered on shelves that climbed to a sagging ceiling.
A single grimy window let in weak light, its glass warped and streaked.
Cobwebs hung like curtains in the corners.
No posters.
No computer.
No electricity.
Zhang Lu's heart stuttered.
"What the hell…"
He pushed back from the table. The chair scraped loudly in the silence.
His hands—
Slimmer.
Paler.
Cleaner.
A brass lantern sat beside an open book, its glass cloudy with age.
The book wasn't his phone.
It wasn't even printed.
It was hand-bound.
Yellowed.
Uneven pages.
A wave of dizziness slammed into him.
Then—
Memories.
Not his.
They surged forward like a second heartbeat.
A cramped apartment in a rain-slick city.
A little brother—Orion—sprawled on a threadbare couch, complaining about empty cupboards.
A woman with silver hair and eyes like winter skies, smiling sadly before vanishing one night and never returning.
Graduation day at Ivory Imperial Academy, the diploma still warm in his hand when the news arrived:
Mother was dead.
Father gone years earlier.
Stationed at the Dark Castle on the empire's frozen border.
Debt collectors.
Odd jobs.
Hunting rumors of god-touched relics just to buy bread.
Zhang Lu clutched his head.
"No—no—Orion? I don't have a brother named Orion!"
But the memories kept coming.
Layering.
Blending.
Merging.
He stood too fast. The room tilted.
"Orion?" His voice cracked—deeper than it should be. Smoother. Older.
"Hey—if this is some prank, it's not funny."
Silence.
Thick.
Oppressive.
He searched the room—no phone, no wallet, nothing modern.
Only a small hand mirror propped against a stack of papers.
Ornate silver frame.
Tarnished with age.
His fingers hesitated.
Then lifted it.
The reflection stole his breath.
Dark hair.
Sharp cheekbones.
Narrow jaw.
Eyes the color of deep coffee, nearly black in the dim light.
Handsome in a cold, untouchable way.
He wore a crisp white shirt beneath a fitted black vest.
A long black cape draped over the chair like spilled ink.
It was Anthony.
Perfectly.
Even the faint scar on the left eyebrow.
Zhang Lu dropped the mirror.
It clattered across the floor.
"This isn't real," he whispered.
"I hit my head. I'm in a coma. VR glitch. Something—"
He pinched his arm.
Pain flared.
Real.
Immediate.
The memories pressed harder.
His.
Anthony's.
Both at once.
Fluorescent classrooms and candlelit grimoires.
Mock exams and forbidden texts.
Modern exhaustion and divine terror.
Zhang Lu slid down the shelf until he hit the floor.
"Transmigration," he whispered.
The word felt insane.
But it fit.
"I've been isekai'd… into Anthony."
Anthony.
The man who uncovers the first real clue about the goddess murders.
The man who dies horribly in volume three.
A hollow laugh escaped him.
"Great. From one grind to another—only this one comes with actual death flags."
He forced himself up.
Panic wouldn't save him.
Information might.
The journal on the table drew his eyes.
He flipped it open.
Anthony's handwriting.
Elegant.
Hurried.
Last entry: Yesterday.
The dreams grow worse. Mother's voice calls from beyond the veil.
"Find the lantern bearer."
The hourglass runs backward in my sleep.
I woke with sand on my pillow though I own no such glass.
Orion laughs. Says I read too many grimoires.
But the wall in the old library attic—words appeared again last night.
EVERYONE DIES.
I must discover what it means before it discovers me.
Zhang Lu turned slowly.
The wall.
There—
Etched into stone.
Fresh.
Glowing faint blue.
EVERYONE DIES.
The lantern flickered.
Then ignited on its own.
Golden flame.
Warm.
Steady.
Ancient.
Zhang Lu stared.
In the novel, Anthony finds an ancient lantern that reveals hidden truths—and attracts things that should never see the light.
He picked it up.
The metal was cold.
Solid.
Real.
"Okay," he said softly.
"If I'm Anthony now… then I know how this story goes."
A breath.
A steadying one.
"And I'm not dying in chapter three."
The bell of the city tolled somewhere below.
Deep.
Mournful.
Dawn—or curfew.
The cape settled on his shoulders like it belonged there.
First step: find Orion.
Second: decode the wall.
Third: survive long enough to rewrite fate itself.
He stepped into the archway.
Spiral stairs descended into shadow.
Behind him, the words pulsed once.
EVERYONE DIES.
Zhang Lu didn't look back.
"Not everyone," he muttered.
"Not today."
The lantern burned.
The dust shimmered.
And the story began again—
not as a reader,
but as the one trapped inside the page.