Oh! Oh! Oh! My head! My head is aching so badly! The dream—strange, whispering, fragmented—breaks apart rapidly. Zhou Mingrui, still half-asleep, feels an intense pain in his head, as though someone had violently swung a stick at him. No, it's more like a sharp object has pierced his temple and is being stirred around! Gag—while half-conscious, he wants to turn over, to cover his head, to sit up, but his body refuses to move. It feels as though his limbs have lost control. It seems I haven't truly awakened yet—I'm still in the dream. Maybe I'll even find myself convinced I'm awake, only to realize I'm still asleep. Zhou Mingrui, who has experienced this before, strives to focus his will, determined to break free from the darkness and the haze. Yet, when half-asleep, his consciousness remains elusive, drifting like mist—diffuse, hard to grasp or contain. No matter how hard he tries, his thoughts keep wandering, new distractions keep surfacing. What on earth is happening? How could he suddenly feel such a severe headache in the middle of the night? And how is it still so intense? Not a stroke, is it? Wow, am I really going to die so young? Wake up! Wake up! Hmm, the pain seems less intense than before—though my head still feels like a dull knife slowly slicing through it… I guess I can’t go back to sleep. What will I do tomorrow at work? What about going to work at all? With a real, solid headache, I’ll just take the day off. Don’t worry about the manager’s long-winded speeches! In fact, this might not be so bad after all, hey—half a day of leisure stolen from the daily grind! One wave after another of sharp pains gradually builds up a sense of strength in Zhou Mingrui. Finally, with a determined effort, he straightens his back and opens his eyes, fully breaking free from the half-asleep state. At first, his vision is blurry, then gently tinged with a soft red hue. Before him, he sees a wooden-table desk, with a notebook open in the center. The paper is rough and slightly yellowed, and the words written in an unfamiliar script at the top are deep black, vivid and striking. To the left of the notebook, resting against the edge of the table, is a stack of neatly arranged books, about seven or eight in number. To the right of these books, the wall is embedded with gray-white pipes and wall lamps connected to them. This lamp has a distinctly Western classical charm—about half the height of an adult's head—its inner layer transparent glass, with a black metal frame forming a grid around it. Below the extinguished lamp, a black ink bottle glows with a soft, pale red light; surface embossments form a slightly blurred image of an angel. In front of the ink bottle, on the right side of the notebook, a thick, dark steel pen rests quietly, its tip emitting a gentle luminescence, its cap placed beside a brass-colored revolver. Revolver? Single-action? Zhou Mingrui was completely stunned—everything before him felt so unfamiliar, so unlike the room he knew! Stunned and bewildered, he noticed that the desk, notebook, ink bottle, and revolver were all draped in a delicate, rose-glowing "light veil"—the radiance streaming in from the window. This book is first published on October 11, 2023, offering you a seamless reading experience with error-free and properly ordered chapters. Involuntarily, he lifted his head, gradually shifting his gaze upward: High above, suspended on a black "velvet curtain," a full crimson moon hung serene and bright. What...? Zhou Mingrui felt deeply unsettled, springing to his feet—yet before his legs had fully straightened, a sudden sharp pain struck his head, momentarily weakening him and causing his center of gravity to shift downward, his buttocks crashing hard against the solid wooden chair. Crack! The pain did not deter him. With one hand pressed against the table, he rose again, turned hurriedly, and surveyed his surroundings. It was a small room, with a brown door on each side. Adjacent to the wall opposite was a wooden bed of varying height. A cabinet stands between it and the left door, with an open top and five drawers below. Along the edge of the cabinet, at a height of one person, gray-white pipes are embedded in the wall, but they connect to an odd mechanical apparatus, with some gears and bearings exposed. Near the right wall, close to the desk, there are stacks of items resembling a coal stove, along with saucepans and iron pots used in the kitchen. Beyond the right door lies a dressing mirror with two cracks, its wooden base featuring simple and plain patterns. A quick glance reveals Zhou Mingrui faintly seeing himself in the mirror—his current self: black hair, brown eyes, wearing a linen shirt, slender in build, with ordinary features and a somewhat defined contour. This… Zhou Mingrui draws in a sharp breath, a wave of helplessness and confusion sweeping through him. The left-hand revolver, the classical European-style furnishings, and that peculiar crimson moon—none of them can be mere coincidence! Am I… not going through? Zhou Mingrui's mouth opens slightly. He grew up reading online novels, often dreaming of such things—yet when faced with them in reality, he found it hard to accept at first. Isn't this exactly what's known as Ye Gong loving dragons? After a few seconds, Zhou Mingrui humorously self-remarked. If it weren't for the persistent headache keeping his thoughts tight and sharp, he would have doubted he was dreaming. Calm, calm, calm… Taking a few deep breaths, Zhou Mingrui made every effort to steady himself. At that moment, as his body and mind harmonized, a series of memory fragments suddenly burst forth, unfolding slowly into his mind. Klein Moretti, from Tinggen, Ahova County, the Kingdom of Roon in the North Continent, a recent graduate of the Department of History at Hoy University... His father was a sergeant in the Royal Army, who sacrificed himself during the colonial conflicts on the South Continent; the pension he received enabled Klein to attend a private grammar school, laying the foundation for his eventual university education. His mother was a devoted follower of the Goddess of Night, who passed away the year Klein successfully cleared the entrance examination for Hoy University. He also has an older brother and a younger sister, who live together in a two-bedroom apartment. The family is not wealthy—indeed, could be described as modest—and currently relies entirely on his brother, who works as a clerk at an import-export company. As a graduate in History, Klein has mastered the Old Fussak language, regarded as the origin of writing in the nations of the North Continent, as well as the Hermes script, frequently found in ancient tombs and associated with rituals and prayers. The Hermes script? Zhou Mingrui felt a sudden spark of awareness, reached out and pressed gently against the throbbing spot on his temple, then directed his gaze toward the open notebook spread across the desk. The words on the yellowed pages seemed to shift—first strange, then unfamiliar, then familiar, and finally comprehensible. This was Hermes script! The deep, almost dripping ink declared: "All will die, including me." Gasps! Zhou Mingrui felt an inexplicable dread, instinctively leaning back, trying to distance himself from the notebook and from those words. He was weak, nearly staggering, and hurriedly steadied himself by gripping the edge of the table. The air around him seemed to stir, and faint whispers murmured softly in his ears—like the childhood memories of listening to elders tell ghost stories. Shaking his head, he convinced himself it was all just a vision. Steadying himself, he shifted his gaze away from the notebook and took deep, steady breaths. At that moment, his eyes fell upon the revolver, gleaming with a warm brass luster, and a sudden question surged to the forefront of his mind. "Given Klein's family background, how could he possibly afford a handgun—or even have the connections to buy one?" Zhou Mingrui furrowed his brows. As he pondered, he suddenly noticed a half-red handprint on the edge of the desk—deeper in color than the moonlight, thicker than a sheer veil. It was a bloodstain! "Bloodstain?" Zhou Mingrui instinctively opened his right hand, which he had just rested on the desk edge, and looked down. His palm and fingers were now streaked with blood. At the same time, the throbbing pain in his head persisted, though slightly less intense, continuing steadily. "Did I knock myself out?" he mused, turning his body toward the cracked dressing mirror. A few steps later, a well-proportioned figure with black hair, brown eyes, and a clear scholarly air came into sharp focus. This is me—Klein Moretti, isn't it? Zhou Mingrui paused, slightly startled, since the room was dim and the lighting wasn't sufficient to see clearly. So he stepped forward, until he was just a step away from the mirror. Leaning against the delicate, rose-colored moonlight, he tilted his head to check the condition on his forehead.