Ugh… His mind felt like it was wading through thick molasses, each thought sluggish and indistinct. Panic surged through him as he tried to move, but his limbs refused to cooperate, as if invisible chains bound them.

Although he couldn't move, an intuitive sense of wrongness coursed through his body. An uncomfortable tightness enveloped him like his body had been squeezed into a space far too small for it. Something is dreadfully, unmistakably wrong.

His eyes fluttered open, a heaviness weighing down his eyelids, forcing him to squint.

A blurry figure hovered above him, and he blinked, trying to bring the world into focus.

"Who...?" Panic tinged his feeble voice. Where was he? And why did it feel so wrong? This sense of being confined, trapped in a space too tight and misshapen for his soul, only fueled his panic further.

The figure leaned in closer, a soft voice murmuring something he couldn't quite catch. A cold hand pressed gently against his forehead, sending a jolt through his mind.

Gradually, the haze began to lift, allowing the edges of the world to come into sharper focus. There was a presence hovering over him, yet he couldn't quite discern if it was friend or foe.

"Try to open your eyes, Victor," a woman's voice gently coaxed, markedly softer and more melodious than the muddled thoughts echoing in his head.

Who's Victor?

Before he could ask, the cold hand pried his eyelids open, ushering in a harsh burst of light that sent spears of pain shooting through his brain. "Arghh..." he groaned, the sensation sharpening his awareness of the stark contrast between the woman's calm instructions and the tumultuous uproar within him.

Before he could fully process what was happening, instinct took over. Fear and confusion drove him, and he lashed out, his fist connecting with flesh and bone.

The contact sent a jolt through him, and he recoiled, shocked that he had actually hit someone. What am I doing? The whole motion of the punch felt horribly wrong to him.

"Hey!" The figure stumbled back, and his eyes cleared up as they focused on the ceiling above.

Unlike the flat, featureless ceilings of modernity, this one was a testament to the craftsmanship, made of dark polished wood. The high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings stupefied him for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. The hell?

"What do you think you're doing?" The sharp, reprimanding tone of the woman’s voice shattered the brief respite, pulling his senses back to the immediate surroundings.

The loud voice made his heart race slightly, but he was glad to hear a human voice. Slowly, he turned his head to the side, trying to take in his surroundings.

His eyes settled on the person he had unwittingly struck—a young woman with long, auburn hair cascading in loose waves, the beginnings of a red bruise blooming on her cheek. Her eyes, a striking emerald green, vast and filled with indignation and shock, bore into him. Her fair skin was flushed with anger, highlighting the bruise on her cheek even more.

She wore a black dress, simple yet elegant, with flowing fabric adorned with subtle embroidery of flowers and mystical symbols. A belt with various pouches and vials cinched her waist, giving her an air of practiced precision and care. Also, the pair of drop earrings with tear-shaped rubies and a golden ring with some strange inscriptions on her right wrist.

Her skin was porcelain fair, and with a straight nose and high cheekbones, she looked like a young fashion model.

Realizing he was staring at her like a lost child, he lowered his gaze. Why is she dressed like that? His thoughts raced, noticing her clothes seemed to belong to another era.

Attempting to rise, he pushed himself up with shaky arms, but a wave of dizziness slammed into him, forcing him back down. His body felt wrong, not just in strength but in proportion. "Who...who are you?" he stammered, his voice sounding strange and high-pitched, a far cry from his usual tone.

Why does my voice sound like that?

The woman’s expression morphed from anger to confusion and then to understanding, though a shadow of irritation still lingered. "You must be confused. You just woke up from a severe poisoning. It's a miracle you're even awake." Her tone softened slightly as she assessed his state.

Severe poisoning? His mind raced through the whirlwind of information. As a college student, his days usually revolved around classes, late-night study sessions, and the occasional regrettable fast food binge—nothing that should have ended with him severely poisoned. Is she talking about food poisoning?

He glanced down at his stomach, and his breath caught.

His hands— they were tiny. His whole body was small.

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Instead of the familiar lines and contours of a man in his twenties, he saw the small, delicate hands of a child, no older than fourteen.

They peeked out from under the cuffs of the white silk shirt, looking pale and fragile. And his legs, hidden under a thick, soft blanket.

This has to be some sort of hallucination. Maybe it's stress? Or perhaps that last pizza really did do me in. But hallucinations don't come with physical changes, do they?

He looked down at his hands again, the smallness of them unsettling. They were the hands he'd last seen in childhood photos, not the ones used to typing out essays and gripping textbooks.

"No way this is real. I must've dozed off on the couch again, dreaming weird stuff after cramming for midterms," he murmured to himself, hoping for some logical explanation to cling to.

"What was that?" the woman asked, not catching his words.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will himself awake from what had to be an elaborate dream. He pictured his apartment in vivid detail: the worn couch in the living room, the coffee table cluttered with notebooks, and the view of the city skyline from his window. Everything was so evident in his memory. How could it all just disappear to this?

"It’s alright, don’t be agitated." The woman’s voice was calm, and grounding, even as she gripped his wrist reassuringly. "You were poisoned and have been unconscious for days."

"No, No, No…. This has to be a dream. Just a weird dream," he repeated, trying to convince himself more than her.

She gently pinched his cheek, a slight but sharp reminder of the reality of his sensations. "Wouldn’t hurt if it’s a dream, would it?"

The pain snapped him out of his chaotic thoughts for a moment. His eyes flew open, meeting her concerned gaze.

"nol a dreal…" His words slurred together, trying to stop the woman from pinching his cheek vigorously. Is she angry that I hit her?

"Listen to me, Victor," the woman said, her tone firm but gentle. "You need to calm down. You're safe now. Whatever you remember, it must be a side effect of the poison. You're in the present, and I need you to focus." The woman’s face, though still unknown, was filled with concern.

Not at all meshing with the sharp pain he was experiencing.

"Ah-.. yel, sowry fol hitting you miss." He stammered. And please stop pinching it so hard. Damn, woman!

His gaze flickered to the bruise on her cheek, his mind racing with apologies. But before he could voice another, she removed her hand as the mark faded, healed right before his eyes.

His mouth fell open in shock. "How is that possible? The bruise... it's disappearing."

"What are you talking about?" The woman gave him a knowing look, her eyes filled with amusement. "I'm the best healer in town. Don't you see it healing in seconds?"

His confusion deepened, brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of her words. "A healer? But... that's not possible. People don't just heal like that."

That removed the amusement from her eyes, replaced by a more serious demeanor. She stepped closer, examining his eyes. "Are you feeling alright? You know I've got a Water Essence with Restoration skills."

Hearing her words, a chilling realization dawned on him. His mind raced, Could it be that I'm not just sick or hallucinating? What if... what if I've been transmigrated into another body, into another world entirely? This thought, wild as it seemed, began to make strange sense. At least in the way the bruise healed in seconds.

As the pieces began to fit together in his mind, he maintained a neutral expression, consciously relaxing his facial muscles to avoid betraying his growing realization. Internally, his thoughts raced, but outwardly, he aimed to appear calm and collected.

Her talk of 'Water Attribute' and 'Restoration skills'—terms that would fit better in one of his fantasy video games than in his previous reality—suddenly framed his bizarre experience in a new light.

As these thoughts tumbled through his mind, he discreetly reached out with his consciousness, attempting to access what he hoped would be a 'menu' akin to those he had navigated countless times in video games. Focusing inward, he imagined the flick of a mental finger, trying to summon any form of user interface. The idea felt absurd, but the whole chance to see a system screen was too tempting.

For a moment, nothing happened, and he almost sighed in frustration. But then, a faint shimmer appeared in his peripheral vision, crystallizing into a translucent screen floating.

Name: Victor Drakonis

Stage: Mana Condensation

Cores:

* Mortal Core - Blank

* Spirit Core - Blank

* Earth Core - Blank

His heart raced like he'd just downed three espressos back-to-back. Whoa, this was insane! Actual menu pop-ups in real life—or whatever this life was now? Despite the flicker of understanding in his eyes, the text and icons before him might as well have been written in an alien script. He didn’t have a clue what any of it meant.

Stay calm, brother. Don't let on that you're starting to piece it together. If this is another world, and she's really a healer with magical abilities, better to hide that you might have hijacked a teenager's body.

Her fingers tilted his chin upward, eyes narrowing in concentration. "Your eyes are clear, but why are you asking as if you have no memory of me?"

He pulled back slightly, the pressure of her fingers lingering on his skin. "I'm sorry. My mind's a bit foggy."

Her frown deepened, concern etching lines on her otherwise smooth face. "Foggy? Since when?"

"Since I woke up." He shrugged, avoiding her piercing gaze. Please, tell me she can’t read minds.

"Hmm… a temporary memory loss?" She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "There are no other symptoms showing, so it should clear in a few hours. You should try to sleep. It might help you recover faster."

"Sleep… right," he muttered, his voice tinged with skepticism. He couldn't shake the eerie feeling that this was more than just a severe case of poisoning. Could it really erase parts of his memory, grant him different memories, and twist his reality so profoundly?

The woman's hands retreated from his chin, and she stepped back, giving him space. "I'll be staying the night. Just call out."

He nodded, his mind still reeling, but grateful for a reprieve from the surreal and stressful conversation. As he lay back down, trying to relax, his thoughts continued to whirl. Sleep might indeed be the best thing for me now. Maybe when I wake up, all of this will make more sense.