“What is this pain...?”

This was his first thought upon regaining consciousness. The pain he felt was as if his head had been hit with the edge of a rock.

In his daze, he tried to move, to open his eyes, and to discover; however, far from satisfying his wishes, he quickly realized that he had no control over his limbs.

“I am consciously awake, but I am still in a reverie... Have I fallen into a deep sleep in the office? No, that doesn't explain why I'm unable to make my body respond. Perhaps the position I fell asleep in numbed some central nerve?”

With his questions that did nothing but evoke uncertainty, he did the least possible to unravel the mystery clouding his reasoning.

However, the only thing he managed to summon were ethereal ideas that were dissipated by a greater attraction; the pain in his head prevented him from delving into answers. For someone who spent days and nights drowning in books, calculations, and statistics, this was greatly missed.

“It doesn't make sense, none of this. I always sleep on the couch and make sure to lie on my back.

Assuming that a nerve has been neutralized because, at some point in my unconsciousness, I have turned to a bad posture

How would that have to do with the excruciating pain I feel?”

The pain seemed to be pumping out suffering as if it were blood, but it was that very suffering that induced a habit in him.

When he got used to the pain after experiencing it for a few minutes, he realized that now he could move his fingers, then his neck, and his eyes. Finally, the mist lifted, and the chains that bound him to the darkness were released.

His vision was dimly lit by a soft yellow light that cast a warm glow over the place.

When his eyes stopped blurring, he realized that the source of the light was a lamp.

The carriage, with its walls lined with rich velvet and brocade fabrics and the ceilings and floors adorned with wood paneling, was all illuminated by the light of that lamp.

He was seated on a luxurious and comfortable bench with ornate armrests and high backs. The upholstery was embroidered with intricate designs and patterns, and there was a second layer of comfort consisting of red cushions with gold embroidery.

A small table occupied the space between him and the seat in front of him. The table was adorned with a vase of fresh flowers that were blown by the cold wind that made its way through the open window.

When his wild-eyed gaze returned to the interior of the carriage, his immediate attention fell on the empty seat in front of him, where the brown violin case inscribed with the words “St. George's Stradivari” rested in the right corner. In its left counterpart, a sword scabbard engraved “Thornhill & Co.” stood stoically against the wood near the door.

On the table that took up part of the space, and in the upper left corner, was a very neat stack of books, five in all. "The Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred" by Omar Khayyam was the only one out of place. Going down to the lower right corner, a pair of glasses with thin legs and thick lenses reflected the little light that the cloudy day evoked on the table. In front of him and at the center of the table, there was a sack of ink and a pen that waited for the black fuel.

But all this, even the luxurious and elegant sword, faded into the background when he felt something cold and metallic at the level of his left rib. Slowly, he put his right hand in until he found an apparently leather case and finally took out a revolver.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Westcliff Arms? A weapon?”

Though his movements were slow and measured, he couldn't be more restless inside. Because nothing that was arranged on the stage in front of him was anything he was familiar with.

Subconsciously, he looked out once more.

He could hear seagulls, taste the salt with his nostrils, and feel a shock of agony that made him vomit blood all over the table.

*Puagh!*

He grabbed the edges of the wooden table, the neatly arranged books falling to the floor and the glasses shattering as his left hand crushed them. The glass sank into his palm, and as the pain hit him, he lowered his head to realize he had a hole in his ribs under the fancy black suit.

The pain pushed him back to his seat. But his will forced him to his feet, and his body commanded him to put aside his stubbornness, causing another pang of pain and pulling him back to his seat.

“Damn! What the hell is going on? The wound... How the hell did I get hurt like that?”

In an act of desperation, he realized that he had to take a closer look at the wound to draw a conclusion.

Thus, when he opened the black suit in half, he realized that he was wearing a white collared shirt with a large bloodstain all over his left side. However, he first had to undo his tie, which was knotted in a Windsor style. But when he brought his hand into his field of vision, he discovered that he had a pair of black leather gloves that made it difficult for his fingers to move.

So he first took off his gloves, then undid his tie, and lastly, he undid his shirt.

Finally, when he was about to check the wound, another stab of pain hit him. However, this time it wasn't just a pain, he had come up with something...

Slowly, the idea formed in his mind, and the first thought that appeared was:

“H-Have I transmigrated?”

Memories had flooded his head with images of a life he had never lived.

His name was Edward Fitzgerald; he was born on the Arcturia Continent in the southern hemisphere of the Circle of the Young Kingdoms, in the city of Havenport of the Empire. He was currently studying at Eldridge University, the first university in the Empire to offer equal opportunities in courses and degrees, including law, medicine, science, and the humanities, to all walks of life.

His father, Reginald Fitzgerald, was a successful merchant who made his fortune importing spices and silks from the East. He was known for his astute business sense and impeccable taste in fashion and art. He was summoned by the Military Service Act of 1865, which dictated that all male citizens of the Empire, between the ages of 18 and 45, were required to serve in wartime military service to fight in the Great Transatlantic War.

The Great Transatlantic War was the most devastating conflict the Empire suffered at the hands of one of the Young Kingdoms. The war broke out over a dispute over ownership of several islands in the Red Sea, which both sides claimed as their own due to their physical proximity. The islands were strategically located near major shipping lanes and were believed to be rich in natural resources, including oil and minerals.

Tensions between the two sides had simmered for years but came to a boil in 1869 when an Imperial warship intercepted and captured a Young Kingdoms merchant ship suspected of smuggling arms to the rebels in one of the disputed islands. The government of the Young Kingdoms demanded the release of the ship and her crew, but the Imperials refused, citing their right to defend their territorial waters.

His mother, Beatrice Fitzgerald, was a beauty who came from a distinguished family of lawyers and judges. She was famous for her wit, charm, and grace, and she was a fixture at all of Havenport's most exclusive events. Beatrice was a devoted mother who doted on her two sons and daughters and encouraged their intellectual pursuits. She was also an accomplished pianist who often played a duet with her most favored son, Reinhardt. Beatrice passed away when Edward was 16, leaving him with his older brother and his two younger sisters.

And though the noble Fitzgerald house had been part of the most prominent houses in all of Havenport, that was when the pillars of the family were still alive. When Reginald and Beatrice died, the financial situation of the children had been taking a nosedive.

Currently, Edward uses the scholarship that the university offered him and his part-time job to support his two little sisters. While his brother Reinhardt worked as a manager for a variety of tasks, including record keeping, correspondence, and communication with clients at Burlington, a commercial bank on the other side of the continent.

“So many memories... It's all too confusing.” His mind was a tumult of inconsistencies that wandered everywhere, causing confusion and doubt. When he raised his head to see the mess he was supposed to have caused by vomiting blood, he could see that there was not a single drop of fluid anywhere in the car.

“Was it something created by my imagination? No, that was very real. As real as the pain I felt.”

But now that he looked carefully, he realized that the only book that hadn't fallen off the table was "The Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred" by Omar Khayyam.

For no apparent reason, he opened the book's cover only to find... nothing.

Turn the page.

Nothing.

Turn the page.

Nothing.

Turn the page.

Each of the many sheets was blank.

For some inexplicable reason, he was uneasy about this outcome. His body warned him to stay away, but his mind knew that this book hid more than just blank pages.

The wind shook his head, and it was what woke him from his horror, forcing him to close the window of the carriage.

“You're just being paranoid. Take it easy...”

Shaking his head and regaining his composure, his eyes drifted to the sword on the seat in front of him, the violin case, and most of all, the Westcliff revolver.

His brows drooped, and he narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

“Where did Edward get the funds to cover the costs of all these items?”

As the question went through his mind, he suddenly remembered his injury. As he set the revolver down on the table and it wriggled out of his grip, he discovered a smear of blood on the handle of the gun.

“Is it my blood? Have I shot myself?”

As the thought popped into his mind, his eyes dropped to his supposed wound. Only to discover that his skin tissues were intertwined.

The hole in it was slowly regenerating.