"Ahhhhh—it hurts! Ahhhh, everything hurts!"
My scream echoed off cold, unfamiliar walls. My body convulsed as I clutched my chest, gasping for air that felt thick and damp. The air reeked faintly of rot, wet stone, and garbage. I blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of where I was—but nothing looked familiar.
My mind felt fractured, like a mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. Slowly, fragments began to come back together.
"My name… Henry Richard. Twenty-five years old."
But my voice—why did it sound so strange? Higher. Weaker. Childish.
"What's going on…? Where is this place?"
Then, like a floodgate bursting open, new memories forced their way into my head—memories that weren't mine.
"My name is… Lurthar. Five years old. From the city of Dravenhold. No family. A subordinate… no, more like a slave, to Iskar—the gang leader of the Coffin Sleepers."
The pain was unbearable. Two sets of memories fought for dominance—my life as Henry and this child's miserable existence as Lurthar. The confusion made me tremble. I looked down at my hands. Small. Fragile. My heart pounded faster.
"I… I really am in someone else's body."
I stumbled to my feet, my head spinning as I took in my surroundings. I was in a narrow alleyway, hemmed in by crumbling brick and overflowing trash bins. Somewhere beyond the alley's mouth, I could hear the distant murmur of voices, the clatter of wheels, and the neighing of horses.
I moved toward the opening, drawn by curiosity and fear.
When I stepped out, my breath caught.
Stone buildings lined a wide cobbled street. Merchants shouted prices from wooden stalls, selling bread, fruit, cloth, and weapons. The people wore tunics, cloaks, and armor. Smoke curled from iron chimneys. Overhead, banners fluttered lazily in the wind.
"A medieval city…?" I whispered.
Dravenhold. The name from the child's memories echoed in my mind.
I turned in a daze, trying to piece it together. The last thing I remembered from Earth was lying in my backyard, watching the northern lights shimmer across the sky. It was supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime event—a rare phenomenon visible even from where I lived. I'd stayed up half the night watching, mesmerized by the swirling green ribbons of light. Then… I went to bed.
And now—this.
"Move it, brat!" a rough voice barked.
I stumbled aside as a burly man brushed past me, carrying a sack of flour. "S-sorry," I muttered automatically.
But then it hit me.
"I understood him…"
My eyes widened. The language was foreign, yet every word made perfect sense. The realization sent a thrill through my body—followed immediately by a wave of unease.
"What the hell is happening to me?" I whispered. "This isn't Earth… and somehow I can understand their language. Could it be…?"
A ridiculous thought crossed my mind, but I said it anyway. "System, open!"
Nothing. I waited, heart pounding, but there was no holographic screen, no robotic voice, no glowing letters spelling out my destiny. I tried again. "Status! Inventory! Skills!"
Still nothing.
I sighed. "So much for getting a cheat ability…"
My stomach growled loudly. The sound echoed through the alley, reminding me that I hadn't eaten. Or—more accurately—that this body hadn't eaten. I placed a hand over my small belly.
"Right. First things first—food."
I searched Lurthar's memories. He was an orphan, taken in—no, captured—by the Coffin Sleepers, a gang that ruled the northern district of the city. He had no parents, no friends, and barely any food.
I glanced back at the busy street. "If this city probably runs on money, I'm in trouble. I don't even know what they use for currency."
As I was thinking that, a sharp blow slammed into my back. I hit the ground hard, gasping in pain.
"Found you, you little brat!" a familiar voice sneered.
I turned, clutching my ribs. A tall man stood behind me, his grin twisted and cruel. Recognition came instantly—his name was Corven, one of Iskar's lackeys. The lowest of the low, which made him especially cruel to those beneath him.
"C-Corven…" I stammered.
He kicked me again, not hard enough to break bones but enough to hurt. "You think you can just disappear, huh? You made me wait, you useless rat."
"I—I got lost," I lied, wincing.
"Lost? You lying brat. Probably tried to run away." He spat near my head, his eyes full of contempt. "Whatever. Get up. We're going back to base."
He turned and started walking, not even checking if I followed. I groaned softly and pushed myself to my feet, brushing off the dirt. My small hands trembled.
As we walked, I sifted through Lurthar's memories again. Every detail was crystal clear—his daily chores, the beatings, the hunger. Yet something strange caught my attention: I could remember everything perfectly from both lives. Every book I'd read, every formula I'd studied, every lesson I'd learned on Earth—it was all still there.
"Is this… transmigration perk?" I muttered under my breath.
"Stop mumbling!" one of the goons snapped, smacking the back of my head.
I fell silent, but inside, my mind was racing. Two gaps bothered me. I couldn't recall the exact moment before I woke up here—or the first four years of Lurthar's life. It was like those memories were cut out deliberately.
We moved through the bustling streets. The smell of roasting meat mixed with the stench of sewage. I saw armored guards patrolling near a towering gate, customers haggling loudly, and merchants passing by in horse-drawn carriages. Over everything loomed a massive mansion of white stone—its spires stabbing into the gray sky.
That had to be the marquis domain.
Everywhere I looked, life teemed with danger and opportunity. Men drank and laughed outside taverns, women argued over prices of some fruit, and children darted through alleys like rats. The city was alive—and brutal.
As I stared at the distant mansion, a chill crept down my spine. I didn't know why I was here, or how to return to Earth. But one thing was certain:
This world was real. And so was the pain.
"I'm really in another world," I whispered, clenching my tiny fists. "And I have no idea how to get back."
But somewhere deep inside me—beneath the fear and confusion—something else stirred.
Determination.
If fate had thrown me into this world as a child slave, then so be it. I would survive. I would grow stronger. And one day, I'd uncover the truth—about how Henry Richard was sent here… and how to get back.