Adrian Hewes woke to the sound of eerie chanting, a strange phrase repeated over and over—"Oolo malu, oolo malu." The words echoed in his mind as he opened his eyes, only to be met with complete darkness. The chanting grew louder and more intense until it abruptly stopped, replaced by searing pain. He felt sharp objects stabbing into his body all at once. The agony was excruciating, but just as quickly as it began, it vanished.
Adrian jolted awake, his breath coming in rapid gasps. His hands instinctively moved over his body, searching for wounds, but there were none. "It must have been a dream," he muttered to himself, trying to convince his racing heart that it was nothing more than his imagination. But the vividness of the experience left him shaken. He was too afraid to go back to sleep, fearing that he might return to that nightmarish place.
He got out of bed and groped his way toward the light switch, but something on the floor caught his foot, causing him to trip. As he braced himself against the floor to stand, his hand landed in something sticky. He had felt this texture before, but he couldn’t immediately identify it. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the realization hit him—it was blood. A pool of dark red liquid spread out across the floor. His gaze darted to its source, and there, lying on the ground, was the dead body of a man in a room he didn’t recognize.
Adrian slapped himself hard, desperate to wake from what he still hoped was a dream. But nothing changed. Trembling, he got to his feet and noticed the faint outline of a gas lamp in the corner. He turned it on, illuminating the room. The slim body of a man lay motionless on the floor, a stab wound in his chest and a knife lying beside him. The small bedroom was entirely unfamiliar. Adrian’s eyes caught sight of a mirror, and he slowly approached it, only to be met with a reflection that wasn’t his own. The face staring back was that of a middle-aged man, fit, with combed-back hair and a spruce mustache.
A chill ran down Adrian’s spine as the reality sank in. "This isn’t a dream," he thought, his mind racing. "I must have transmigrated into another world." Questions flooded his mind—Did I die? Did the chanting have something to do with this? Who am I now? What world is this? And the most disturbing of all—Did I kill this man? Basic knowledge about this new world began to seep into his consciousness. He understood the language—Sidam—and knew the name of the place he was in—Perof. But beyond that, everything else was a blur.
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Before he could think any further, he heard a commotion outside the house. Moving quickly, he turned on another lamp and took in his surroundings. The house was modest, with two windows, a chair, a dining table, and a gas stove. Through one of the windows, he saw the first light of dawn, indicating it was probably around 7 a.m. He wiped the blood off his hand onto the wall, trying to steady himself before deciding to step outside and see what awaited him.
He opened the door cautiously, only to see a young man in a top hat and cane walking toward him. Panic bubbled up inside Adrian; he feared the man might recognize this body, this face that wasn’t his. But the young man’s demeanor was polite, almost reverent.
"Good morning, Inspector," the young man said with an English accent, extending his hand. "I'm Klint Shaw. I look forward to working with you."
Relief and dread mingled within Adrian as he realized the clue to his new identity—he was a police inspector. The difference in their ages and the tone of admiration in Klint’s voice compelled Adrian to respond with authority.
"Aye, lad," Adrian replied, shaking Klint’s hand.
Klint gestured for Adrian to lead the way back to the dead body. With no other choice, Adrian assumed the role of the investigator, despite having no idea what he was doing. He decided to bluff his way through, relying on vague memories of detective stories and crime dramas he had seen.
Klint handed him a parchment with several headings: Victim's Name, Cause of Death, Murder Weapon, Time of Death. Adrian quickly filled in what he could—Cause of Death as a stab wound to the chest, Murder Weapon as a knife. But he hesitated at the Victim’s Name. Feeling Klint’s eyes on him, Adrian stammered, "I... I forgot his name."
Klint looked puzzled but answered, "It's Albert Clarke, sir."
Adrian nodded, quickly writing down the name as if it had simply slipped his mind. "Let’s check the body for evidence," he said, trying to maintain control of the situation. He knelt down to examine the body, and as soon as his fingers touched the cold skin, his vision blurred.
Suddenly, he found himself no longer in the room but witnessing Albert Clarke’s final moments. He saw Albert walking toward his bed when a voice snarled, "You lying sack of shit, I'll kill you!" A figure rushed at Albert, stabbing him in the chest. In his incorporeal form, Adrian moved closer to see the attacker’s face, and to his horror, he realized that the murderer was the very body he now inhabited.