Lucius stared at the puppet, paralyzed by disbelief. Everything had happened in an instant. The eerie glow in its eyes had faded, and its mouth remained frozen shut, as if nothing had occurred.

“What… what just happened?” he whispered, his voice trembling over the thunder of his heartbeat.

He was certain it had spoken—he knew he had heard it.

His eyes darted through the room, scanning the stillness. Moonlight poured softly through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. The air hung heavy and stagnant, no longer stirring. The rope hung motionless, and the puppet sat silently on the shelf. Yet somehow, it felt watchful, its gaze seeming to follow his every move.

I wasn’t hallucinating… was I?

With a shaky breath, Lucius jabbed the puppet experimentally with his finger.

Nothing.

He prodded it a second time, his fingertips brushing against the worn fabric.

Still nothing.

Swallowing his nerves, he leaned closer, inspecting it with trembling hands and a heart pounding like a war drum. His gaze landed on the mark he’d noticed before.

A rough, faded piece of text—yet unmistakably clear: Lucius J.

“This puppet…” Lucius whispered, his voice barely audible. “It couldn’t be that puppet, could it?”

The clothes, the smile—they were identical. And the mark… why did everything about it feel so eerily familiar?

Then it hit him. The text wasn’t just familiar. It was written in English.

Lucius froze, his breath catching. This world’s Lucius might have known several languages, but English wasn’t one of them. That was the language of his world.

"Is this… the puppet my father gave me before he disappeared? It looks the same, but how could it be here?"

His father’s parting gift before vanishing without a trace. A cherished keepsake, once so close to his heart, now a distant memory resurrected in the most impossible of places.

Who had given this puppet to Lucius? And why?

He racked his brain, sifting through the fragments of this Lucius’s memories. But nothing surfaced. There was no explanation—this Lucius simply had it, as though it had always been there.

His father’s last words echoed in his mind, haunting and unforgettable:

"Son, this gift is from the great Lord of Horrors itself. Whoever owns it will be subjected to sadness, pain, misery, and horror for all eternity."

"What? Why would you give me that?" Lucius had asked, horrified.

His father merely laughed, his tone light and teasing. "I’m a jester, son. How can there be laughter without sadness, pain, misery, and horror? My act would flop without them!"

"I don’t want it," Lucius had protested, clutching the puppet reluctantly.

"Come on, son, this could be my last gift to you before I mysteriously disappear. Don’t break your old man’s heart," his father teased with an exaggerated pout.

"You wouldn’t do that. Mom won’t let you live if you pull a stunt like that."

"Yeah, you’re right." His father chuckled, his smile tinged with something Lucius couldn’t recognize back then. "Anyway, the milk’s finished. I’m going to the store. Take care of your mom and sister while I’m gone."

Lucius had sulked for days when his father really did disappear, vanishing without a trace. He hadn’t liked the puppet one bit at first, but over time, he grudgingly accepted it as his deadbeat dad’s final gift. He’d even carved his initials into it, trying to make it his own.

Later, though, he discovered his mother had thrown it away, unable to bear the painful reminder of the man who had left them behind.

The words from earlier still echoed in his mind like a sinister refrain: Morningstar… Sacrifice. Even the memory made his skin crawl.

He shifted his gaze back to the puppet, lying still and silent.

For a fleeting moment, he considered hurling it out the window, ridding himself of the cursed thing once and for all. But something stopped him—a strange pull.

Could this puppet have caused my transmigration?

Was my deadbeat dad dabbling in demonology?

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Or… was this Lucius involved in something sinister?

Or is there something else entirely going on here?

“If this were a novel,” he muttered under his breath, “the protagonist usually gets a cheat item—a ‘golden finger’—to climb the ladder of power. Could this puppet be mine?”

The puppet remained still, offering no answer.

Lucius sighed. “Keeping this thing around is like taking an axe to my own foot,” he muttered, grimacing at the absurdity of even considering it. “But… it could also be a way home.”

The thought lingered, heavy and unwelcome.

He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to think rationally. Surely, there had to be another way. Plenty of fantasy stories involved reincarnators and transmigrators—surely, he wasn’t the only one dropped into a strange world.

And this world… it clearly harbored many supernatural elements. According to his memories, Lucius’s uncle had even told him that the gods here were real, and people have claimed to have met them.

“If those gods were real, they seemed like a better first choice for assistance”

Glancing warily at the puppet once more, he muttered, “You’re my absolute last resort, buddy. Let’s keep it that way.”

Carefully, he placed the puppet on the highest shelf, stepping back to observe it.

No reaction.

All at once—

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“EEEAHH!” Lucius shrieked, nearly leaping out of his skin.

“Oi, kid! Quit screaming and open the door!” a loud, gruff voice boomed from the other side, cutting through Lucius’s panic.

The door? Someone’s knocking?

Right—it wasn’t his real home, just a cheap dormitory near the slums.

“Coming!” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

Stumbling over a loose floorboard, he rushed to the door. Another round of hard knocks rattled the frame.

“Open up, kid!”

“All right, all right!” Lucius fumbled with the rusty lock. After a harsh yank, the door swung open, revealing a burly man with a scruffy beard, a permanent scowl, and an eyepatch.

Uncle Burnard—the landlord, just as Lucius remembered.

Burnard barged past him without waiting for an invitation, giving Lucius a rough shove in the process. “Don’t you know what time it is, kid?” he snapped, his gravelly voice sharp and punctuated by a spray of spit. “Folks’re complainin’ about weird noises comin’ from this room. Didn’t I warn you about the nine-to-five noise curfew?”

“Strange… noises?” Lucius echoed, his mind whirling.

Oh yeah… all that screaming. Of course, someone would notice. Now, how do I explain this?

Burnard snorted, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk. His gaze swept over the toppled chair, the rope hanging ominously from the fan, and the snapped noose lying conspicuously on the floor.

His glare swung back to Lucius, sharp and demanding.

Shit—I should’ve cleaned that up before opening the door.

“Kid—”

Lucius broke into a cold sweat under Burnard’s piercing gaze. “I—I can explain!” he stammered, waving his hands in frantic defense. “It’s—uh—”

Think, Lucius! Think!

“It’s… it’s for exercising!” he blurted out.

Burnard’s skeptical eyebrow shot up. “Exercising?”

“Yes! Exercise!” Lucius grabbed the broken noose in a desperate display, awkwardly pretending to tug it like some kind of improvised workout band. “Didn’t you know? Growing boys need plenty of exercise to stay, uh, healthy! Wealthy! And wise!”

Burnard stared at him, deadpan, as Lucius flailed with the rope like a man possessed. The room fell uncomfortably silent, save for the faint creak of the fan overhead.

Finally, Burnard sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Kid, you’re lucky I don’t charge extra for bullshit. Do whatever you want, just not on my property. The devil’s forest isn’t far from the city—they’ll clean-up for free if you kick it there.”

Lucius swallowed thickly and nodded; his mouth too dry to respond.

Burnard crossed his arms over his barrel-like chest. “And another thing: your rent’s goin’ up five bits. Pay the extra by next week or pack up.”

Lucius’s stomach sank. “B-but I just paid you yesterday!”

Didn’t the other Lucius already pay?!

Burnard glowered, his one good eye narrowing. “It’s a special fee for the noise and that rope stunt. Don’t argue, or I’ll toss you out right now.”

Is this how adults behave here? Lucius seethed inwardly. This boy—this Lucius—had clearly been through enough already. Did no one have an ounce of sympathy?

“Please, Uncle Burnard,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “That’s… uh—half my monthly wages. I can’t afford it.”

Burnard snorted, shifting his weight with a huff. “Rules are rules, kid. You screw up, you pay. Sailor’s law.”

“Uncle Burnard, come on. I’ve lived here for over a year, and you know I haven’t actually… done anything.” He glanced uncomfortably at the rope, his words trailing off.

A sneer twisted Burnard’s lips. “Yeah, you’re too chicken to do it for real. So it’s five bits more, or you’re out.”

Lucius swallowed his pride, forcing down a surge of anger. “Fine… but you know I can’t pay that. You don’t want to lose a tenant over a little noise, right?”

Burnard gave him a mocking smile. “Don’t play dumb. Everyone in Karni knows you landed that gig at the mayor’s place—performin’ at his daughter’s birthday party, right? That old man will shell out generously if you manage to put the tiniest smile on her face.”

Lucius blinked. What? That’s news to me. He didn’t remember anything about a birthday party. When did that happen?

Burnard squinted at him, suspicion darkening his expression. “Guess that’s why you had the rope, huh? Second thoughts ’bout your big debut?”

An icy ripple ran down Lucius’s spine. Did the original Lucius try to kill himself because of this birthday gig? It seemed extreme, but… maybe performing for the mayor’s daughter wasn’t as simple as it sounded.

“Why… why would I be scared of a birthday party, Uncle Burnard? You must be joking,” Lucius said, his voice quavering despite his attempt to sound casual.

Burnard rolled his eyes. “Don’t play dumb. Plenty have tried—and failed—to make that girl smile. They say she’s a devil in human skin. Some even call her a Militia-made robot.” He shrugged, his indifference as casual as it was chilling. “I’ve seen enough folks in Karni end up as ‘human seekh kebabs’ to start believing it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll land yourself in the gas chamber instead. Wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve seen.”

Lucius felt his blood run cold. Human seekh kebabs? Gas chamber?

When did this go from a kid’s birthday party to a war crime scenario?

Burnard turned toward the hallway, his bulk casting long shadows in the dim light. “I ain’t got all night, kid. Pay me by next week if you survive. If not, I’m selling your junk. Leave a note if anything’s sentimental—maybe I’ll spare it when they toss out your corpse.”

With that, he slammed the door shut, leaving Lucius alone in the suffocating quiet.

Lucius staggered back onto the rickety bed, his limbs trembling. “What the hell kind of mess did I—did the original Lucius—get us into?”

He buried his head in his hands, trying to steady the frantic swirl of thoughts. The rope above swayed gently from the ceiling fan, creaking faintly with the motion. On the top shelf, the puppet sat in eerie silence, its mouth curved into an eternal smirk, watching him like some twisted sentinel.