Artham jolted awake, his chest rising and falling in quick, panicked breaths. A surge of terror coursed through him, but the memory of what had caused it slipped away like a fading dream. Something had been chasing him—something horrible—but now it was gone. Or was it? His mind grasped at the edges of the memory, but it crumbled before he could make sense of it.
Blinking in the dimness, he struggled to get his bearings. A faint sliver of sunlight seeped through a crack in the cave wall, casting a weak glow over the jagged, uneven floor where he lay. The cold stone dug into his skin, drawing blood where it pierced through his clothes. The cave felt alive, as if it was breathing around him—its walls pressing in, trapping him in its suffocating grasp. The only sound that broke the silence was the slow, deliberate drip of water, each drop echoing in mockery of his solitude.
His right hand felt heavy, cold. Slowly, he lifted it, and there, resting in his palm, was a black orb—cracked, fractured, surrounded by shards of sharp, jagged gems like shattered glass. His fingers were stained with dried blood, dark and crusted around the edges. A faint pulse thrummed through the orb, weak but undeniable, as if the object still clung to some form of life. It flickered dimly, a dying ember struggling to stay alight.
Artham felt a strange connection to the orb, a whisper at the edge of his consciousness, pulling at his thoughts. What is this? he wondered, turning it over in his hand. There was something unsettling about its presence, yet it felt familiar, as though it had always been a part of him.
He tried to stand, but his legs trembled beneath him, and the world spun. His head pounded with a deep, dull ache, and his vision blurred as he staggered to his feet. He ransacked his memory for answers—how he had ended up here, why this cave felt so ominous, why the orb pulsed in his hand—but his mind offered nothing. No answers, only fragments, disjointed and elusive.
I’ve lost something, he thought, his chest tightening. But what?
Suddenly, warmth spread across his chest, following the rhythm of his heartbeat. Artham’s breath hitched as he looked down, and there, glowing beneath his skin, was a strange symbol. It flickered like embers in a fire—a complex sigil, unlike anything he had ever seen. It pulsed once, twice, then faded back into his skin, leaving him staring in stunned silence.
"A sigil?" he whispered, running his fingers over the spot where the mark had appeared. The warmth lingered, but the glow was gone.
With a sharp intake of breath, he turned his attention to the walls of the cave. Something caught his eye—writing. Strange, flowing script etched into the stone, curling and twisting like a living thing. The language was foreign to him, yet it felt familiar, as if it was right on the edge of his understanding. The patterns drew him in, like a puzzle waiting to be solved.
"What is this?" he murmured, stepping closer, his fingers outstretched toward the symbols.
The moment his skin brushed the stone, a shock of electricity shot through his hand, knocking him backward. He hit the ground hard, his breath escaping in a pained gasp. The sigil under his arm flared again, this time brighter, searing into his flesh with an intense heat.
[Report.]
The voice pierced his thoughts, cold and mechanical. It was devoid of emotion, speaking in a language he didn’t recognize, yet somehow, he understood.
"Who said that?!" Artham shouted, spinning around wildly, searching for the source of the voice.
There was no one. Only the cave, its silence now oppressive. The voice wasn’t coming from outside—it was inside his head.
[Soul Synchronization complete.]
The pressure in his mind increased, as though the voice was settling into place, intertwining itself with his thoughts. He pressed his hands to his temples, trying to block it out, but the voice remained, calm and unyielding.
[Common language acquired from the memories of the previous owner.]
"Previous owner?" Artham muttered, confused.
[Analyzing the language…]
A brief pause. Then—
[Analysis complete.]
The writing on the cave walls shifted. The once-alien symbols twisted and morphed, the lines rearranging themselves into letters, words that he could now read. Artham stared in shock as the message before him unveiled itself:
"Do not seek my past, but carve your own future. Follow my path, and you will find nothing but a bottomless pit of darkness."
The words sent a chill down his spine, their meaning as cryptic as the voice in his head. What past? Whose path?
"What… what does this mean?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze lingered on the strange message, unease creeping into his thoughts. The sigil on his skin pulsed faintly once more, as if in response, but gave no further answers.
Artham stared at the glowing script on the cave wall, his mind swirling in confusion. He could decipher the words, but their meaning eluded him. A foreign language had been implanted in his brain, and though he understood the letters, they carried strange connotations that escaped him. This world was unlike anything he had ever known—a place filled with mystery, waiting to be unraveled.
And there's a voice in my head... he thought, a flicker of anxiety creeping in. Am I going crazy?
[No, you are not. The voice you hear is mine,] the presence inside his mind responded, its tone cold yet calm. [I am here to assist you and explain the situation. The message you see was left by the previous owner of this body. He wishes for you to live your own life, free from his past.]
"His past?" Artham’s brow furrowed, the weight of the situation sinking in. "So, he wrote this? How could he have known about me, or this... transmigration? Who was he, and why would he leave this message for me?"
The voice offered no immediate answer, its silence deepening the mystery. Artham shook his head, overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all. It was as if the world itself was conspiring to confuse him.
"Argh! This is too much," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "One mystery after another. So... who are you, anyway?"
[I have not been given a name yet. Please assign me one.]
"A name?" Artham paused, his mind spinning. "Let me think... How about Mire?"
[Name registered. Mire,] the voice replied with the mechanical precision of an AI. [I am a smart holographic system designed to be your companion, retaining all knowledge and experience you acquire.]
"Holographic... mind?" Artham repeated, his eyes widening as the broken orb in his hand began to glow. Its jagged edges smoothed out, transforming before his eyes into a sleek, black sphere with faint blue hues. It floated in mid-air, emitting a soft, pulsating light, like a heartbeat in the darkness. A beam of light projected from the orb, scanning itself, while texts written in his native language—English—flashed across the surface.
Artham gaped at the hovering orb, feeling an odd connection to it, like an extension of himself. "Wait, you're the one talking to me?"
[Yes,] Mire’s voice echoed from the orb. [This is my physical form. I am bound to serve you as my new master.]
"Master?" Artham recoiled slightly, his discomfort rising. "Why are you calling me that?"
[Because you activated me,] Mire explained, its tone respectful yet robotic. [According to my system protocols, you are my master.]
Artham stared at the orb in disbelief, feeling warmth spread through his palm as he held it. The glow from the sigil under his arm pulsed faintly, syncing with the orb’s energy. When did I even activate this thing?
[You did so when you touched the orb for the first time,] Mire replied, as though reading his thoughts. [You triggered a hidden mechanism that bonded the orb to your soul.]
Artham’s gaze shifted to the sigil under his arm. That explains why it glows...
[Indeed,] Mire confirmed.
"Great," Artham sighed, half in resignation. "I don’t remember signing up for any of this, but I guess it’s too late now. So, Mire, you're basically my personal library, the librarian, and I’m the author and reader, all in one?"
[Precisely, master.]
"Is there anything you do know about this place? I don’t remember why I’m here or what happened to me."
[Apologies, master. I do not have access to information regarding your arrival or this location.]
A frustrated groan escaped Artham as he rubbed his temples. The flood of questions and lack of answers only added to his disorientation. His body ached, his mind felt like a tangled mess of half-formed memories, and now he had a floating orb tethered to his soul. What kind of twisted joke is this?
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
With a deep breath, Artham pushed himself to his feet. His legs wobbled beneath him, barely able to support his weight. A heavy pressure settled in his chest, making it difficult to breathe, but he ignored it for now. He had to get out of the cave.
The moment he stepped outside, the blinding sunlight hit him like a hammer. He squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the brightness. As his vision adjusted, he found himself standing at the mouth of the cave, staring out at a lush forest. Towering pine trees stretched toward the sky, their branches swaying in the breeze. Vibrant flowers bloomed in every direction, painting the landscape in shades of violet, red, and gold.
It was beautiful—too beautiful. Artham felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Something about this world felt off, like an illusion too perfect to be real.
As the sunlight warmed his skin, an intense thirst clawed at his throat, so sudden and overwhelming it felt like he hadn’t drunk water in days. He stumbled forward, his mouth dry, his lips cracking as he licked them instinctively.
"Mire..." Artham rasped, his voice weak. "Is there water nearby?"
[Scanning the area,] Mire responded, a gentle hum emanating from the orb. After a moment, it spoke again. [There is a stream approximately 200 meters east from here.]
"Lead the way," Artham muttered, his legs moving despite the heaviness in his body.
As he followed Mire’s guidance through the unfamiliar forest, one thought echoed in his mind—What have I gotten myself into?
The sun's rays pierced through the dense canopy, creating dappled patterns of light and shadow across the forest floor. The scent of fresh pine filled the air, mingling with the dampness of the earth beneath his boots, but something else lurked beneath the natural smells—a faint trace of blood.
"I'm so thirsty," Artham muttered, his throat dry and aching. But he forced himself to ignore the gnawing thirst and pressed forward, venturing deeper into the unfamiliar forest. His footsteps crunched softly on the forest path, the only signs marking his passage through the otherwise untouched wilderness. Birds chirped in a melodic chorus above, while squirrels darted across his path in quick, jittery movements. The forest was alive with a symphony of sounds, yet something about the way he heard them felt different.
Is it just me, or can I hear everything more clearly? Artham wondered aloud, startled by how heightened his senses seemed to be—every rustle of leaves, every flutter of wings was sharp, precise, as though the world had come into hyper-focus.
[It is not just you,] Mire responded in his usual calm, robotic tone. [Your soul is still adapting to your new body, Master. This form possesses heightened senses, far beyond those of your previous life.]
Artham halted mid-step and glanced at the floating orb beside him, which hovered with a faint, pulsating glow. "A new body… enhanced senses… I felt unfamiliar with myself, but now it makes sense."
He looked down, realizing for the first time that his clothing was different. He wore a set of sturdy leather armor that covered his torso and arms, complemented by thick leather gloves. His pants were made of the same tough material, though one leg had a metal knee plate attached for extra protection. His boots were well-worn but clearly made for long journeys. He touched the leather armor, feeling the fine craftsmanship, the smooth texture, and its durability.
"Was this body’s previous owner an adventurer?" he mused, examining the silver dagger at his waist—its handle was carved with intricate designs, and a leather bag filled with strange alchemical tools and potions hung from his belt. A longsword rested at his hip, its weight and balance felt both familiar and foreign in his grip, as though it was an extension of him yet alien all the same.
Curiosity piqued, Artham rummaged through the leather bag. Vials of various colors clinked together, some filled with thick, shimmering liquids, others with strange powders. He pulled out a crimson vial, a familiar sight from the countless fantasy novels he had read.
"Aha! This red one must be a healing potion," he said with some excitement, raising it to the light.
Without a second thought, he uncorked the vial and downed the potion in one gulp. The liquid seared his throat like molten fire, leaving a bitter aftertaste that made him gag. But as he grimaced, the wounds and aches in his body mended themselves instantly, the soreness fading into nothing. Yet despite the healing, a deeper, more insistent hunger stirred within him—a thirst that went beyond the need for water.
"Ugh, that was awful! But at least it healed me," Artham grumbled. Then, his frown deepened as the thirst clawed at him, unrelenting. "Why am I still so thirsty, Mire? The potion should’ve fixed everything."
[Analyzing master’s status…] Mire’s voice echoed softly in his mind.
A moment later, the orb responded, its tone clinical. [Master, the thirst you feel is due to an abnormality in your DNA. You are not entirely human. Your blood cells exhibit unique patterns and require a special fluid for sustenance.]
Artham froze, his pulse quickening as he felt a chill settle in his bones. "What kind of special fluid?"
[Blood, Master. You need to drink blood.]
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Artham’s mind reeled, struggling to process what he had just heard. "Blood? Are you saying I’m a… vampire?" His voice trembled with disbelief. "But that doesn’t make sense. If I’m a vampire, why can I walk in the sun without burning up?"
[You are partly correct, Master. You are not a pure vampire, but rather a hybrid—a Dhampir,] Mire explained with the same detached precision. [You possess both human and vampire traits. While you are not vulnerable to sunlight, you require blood to survive. Based on my analysis, you have less than an hour to find sustenance. If you do not, your body will begin to shut down.]
"What?!" Artham’s heart skipped a beat, panic rising within him. He felt his hands trembling, his thoughts racing. "An hour? That’s all the time I have left?"
[Yes, Master. You can verify this by checking your status. Simply say 'Status.']
Desperation clawed at him, but with a deep breath, he steeled his nerves. He needed to focus. "Status," he said aloud.
[Loading master information…]
[Updating information…]
[Update completed!]
Artham's eyes fixated on the details that flashed across the glowing orb as it hovered beside him:
[Character]
* Name: Artham Lanis
* Race: Dhampir
* Abilities:
* 「Extraordinary Smell, Sight, and Hearing」 (Level 1, 1%)
* 「Feed」 (Level 1, 0%)
* 「Blood Thirsty」 (Level 1, 0%)
* Genetic Traits:
* 「Bloodline Awakening」 (Level 1, 0%)
* 「Daywalker」 (Level 1, 0.39%)
* 「Nightcrawler」 (Level 1, 0%)
* Negative Traits:
* 「Blood Dependency」 (Level 1, 0%)
* 「Sunlight Sensitivity」 (Level 1, 0.6%)
* 「Sacred Ground Weakness」 (Level 1, 0%)
* Talent:
* 「Extreme Abnormal Adaptability, Growth, and Mastery of All (Rank: Unique)」
* 「???
* Alignment:
* Character Summary: Artham Lanis, an out-of-place human from another dimension, is thrust into the body of a Dhampir in a magical realm. As lost as a fish in the desert, his immediate goal is painfully simple—survive, at least long enough to give Sinahtra a piece of his mind for his twisted transmigration.
[Status Conditions: Life Until 53:42 Downtime]
Artham’s heart skipped a beat as he read the last line. A countdown—he had barely 53 minutes left. It was like being in a race against time without any of the advantages, and the stakes were his life.
53:30…
53:25…
He felt a surge of panic rise in his chest. His pulse raced as the seconds ticked away. This wasn’t a game—he was going to die if he didn’t drink blood soon.
Without thinking, he bolted forward, sprinting through the forest like a man possessed. The towering trees blurred past him as his enhanced senses kicked in—dodging branches, avoiding roots, his movements were fluid, instinctual. He moved with the speed of something… not human. He had only been in this world for a few minutes, yet he was already fighting for his life.
'This is insane. Why did that bastard Sinahtra give me a body that’s going to die so soon? What kind of sick joke is this?' he thought bitterly as he pushed himself harder.
A faint sound caught his attention—the gentle rush of water nearby. He followed the sound and soon reached a clear stream flowing through the greenery. His thirst clawed at him mercilessly, and he knelt by the water’s edge, scooping up handfuls of the cold liquid and gulping it down.
51:14…
50:21…
But the water might as well have been sand. It did nothing to quench the burning thirst that gnawed at him from within. He felt like he was dying from the inside out.
His eyes darted to his reflection in the water, and he froze. The face staring back at him wasn’t his. It was sharp, fierce, with a strong jawline and white hair that contrasted starkly against his pale skin. His red eyes gleamed with an eerie glow—eyes that seemed to pierce through the very soul.
"This… this is me? But why do I look so… badass?" Artham muttered, torn between disbelief and a twisted sense of admiration.
He tilted his head, inspecting his new appearance from different angles. There was something undeniably powerful about this form—he looked like a character ripped straight out of a fantasy novel.
49:51…
But then reality hit him like a hammer. The countdown was still ticking. His body might look capable, but it was still on borrowed time. He slapped himself hard across the cheek.
"Snap out of it, Artham! You’re a freaking Dhampir now, and that means your time’s running out!"
As if on cue, he spotted movement in the underbrush—a small creature, a rabbit with two long tails and elongated ears. It was cute, almost ridiculously so, but to Artham, it was food. He had no time for hesitation.
"Sorry, little guy, but it’s either you or me."
With a swift movement, he caught the rabbit, its small body trembling in his hands. He stared into its innocent eyes, a pang of guilt rising in him. "Well… here goes nothing," he murmured.
He sank his fangs into its soft flesh, feeling the warm blood fill his mouth. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced—foreign, but not unpleasant. He could feel the life force in the blood surging through him, revitalizing him, though the taste left a metallic tang in his mouth.
Suddenly, Mire’s voice echoed in his head:
[Report. Your life countdown has been extended by +3 minutes. Congratulations, Master.]
Artham nearly choked. He spat out the blood, wiping his mouth angrily as he glared at the orb. "Three minutes?! I just drank blood from a two-tailed rabbit, and all I get is three measly minutes? Are you kidding me?"
The small creature’s lifeless body dropped from his hands as he stood up, frustration bubbling inside him. He couldn’t afford to waste time. He needed more blood—something bigger, something that could give him more than just a temporary reprieve.
"Congratulations, my ass," he muttered under his breath, his eyes scanning the forest. "I need real blood, and fast."
He took off again, sprinting through the woods, driven by sheer desperation. He could feel the hunger growing, the thirst becoming unbearable. Every beat of his heart reminded him of the ticking clock—every second that passed brought him closer to death.
"Alright, Artham," he muttered to himself, his jaw clenched. "You’re not going down like this. Not today."
The forest stretched out before him, wild and untamed. Somewhere in this vast, unknown world, his next source of survival awaited. He just had to find it before his time ran out.
And if he didn’t…
Well, there wouldn’t be a next time.