Pain! Oh, pain! My head hurts terribly! The luminous and varied dreams, filled with low murmurs, quickly fracture. Zhou Mingrui, still half-asleep, feels an intense throbbing in his skull—like someone has vigorously swung a stick at him. No, it’s more like something sharp has pierced his solar plexus and is now stirring violently within! Sigh… While drowsy, Zhou Mingrui tries to turn over, shield his head, or sit up—but he can’t move his limbs at all. His body seems utterly out of control. Clearly, I haven’t fully woken yet—I’m still dreaming. Maybe I’ll even think I’ve awakened when, in reality, I’m still asleep. Zhou Mingrui, who has experienced such scenarios before, strives to focus his will, determined to break free from the darkness and illusion. Yet during this half-awake state, his awareness drifts like smoke—fleeting, hard to hold onto. No matter how much he tries, thoughts scatter and stray thoughts emerge. How could I suddenly feel such severe headaches at this hour? Even worse—the pain is so strong! Could it be cerebral hemorrhage? Wait—am I going to die young like that? Wake up! Wake up! Ah… The pain seems less intense than before, though a dull blade still slowly cuts through my mind like a slow-moving saw. I can’t stay in bed any longer—I’ll miss work tomorrow! And what about work? With such real, tangible headaches—what could I possibly do but take time off? No need to worry about the manager’s endless chatter! Now that I think of it—it might not be so bad after all. Ahh, a little slice of quiet in the midst of life! One wave of pain after another builds up Zhou Mingrui's sense of reality. Finally, with one strong effort, he lifts his back and opens his eyes—fully breaking free from the half-dreamed state. His vision starts blurry, then gradually overlays a gentle fiery red tint. Before him lies a desk made of natural wood, at its center rests an open notebook—the pages rough and yellowed—with a sentence written in odd letters. The ink is deep black, vividly clear. To the left of the notebook, neatly stacked beside the edge of the desk, are about seven books. To their right wall, gray-white pipelines run along the surface, connected to wall lamps. These lamps have a classic Western touch—about half the height of an adult’s head—with transparent glass inside and black metal framing forming a grid. Below the lamp, which has been extinguished, rests a black ink bottle glowing with a soft pinkish light—the raised contours on its surface forming a faint, blurred image of an angel. In front of the ink bottle, to the right of the notebook, lies a dark steel pen resting gently. Its tip glimmers softly; beside it is a brass-colored revolver, its cap placed casually against the side. Revolver? Brass? Zhou Mingrui stands utterly stunned—what he sees feels so unfamiliar, nothing like his own room! In surprise and confusion, he notices that the desk, notebook, ink bottle, and revolver are all veiled in a layer of “fiery red”—a soft, ethereal gauze cast by light filtering from outside. Subconsciously, he lifts his head and slowly shifts his gaze upward: Floating above him, on a dark velvet curtain, hangs a full moon, glowing crimson—calm and serene. What… Zhou Mingrui is startled and bewildered—rising suddenly, but before his legs fully straighten, another wave of pain strikes. This time he loses balance and falls slightly, his buttocks colliding firmly against the wooden chair surface. *Plunk!* The pain doesn’t stop him—he reaches out to press his hands on the desk and rises again, then turns around hurriedly, scanning the surroundings. It’s a modest room—two doors flanking each side. Facing the opposite wall is a wooden bed of medium height. Between it and the left door stands a cabinet—with an open top and five drawers below. At the same height as the cabinet’s edge, gray-white pipelines run along the wall, but this time they connect to a strange mechanical unit—some parts exposed with visible gears and bearings. Near the right wall, adjacent to the desk, are items resembling coal stoves and kitchenware such as pots—the pot is both a soup kettle and an iron pot. Beyond the right door lies a dressing mirror, simple in design and elegant in its wooden base, slightly cracked along two seams. As he takes in all this, Zhou Mingrui gradually sees himself reflected in the glass—his current self: Black hair, brown eyes, wearing linen clothing, slender build, ordinary features with a deeper silhouette… Ah! Zhou Mingrui inhales sharply—the air suddenly feels cool and chaotic—and a sense of helplessness and confusion surges within him. The revolver—a classic European-style piece—and that crimson moon unlike anything on Earth—all point to something remarkable! I—I must have been transported, then! Zhou Mingrui’s mouth opens slightly. He grew up reading web novels—full of such fantasies—but when it actually happens, he finds it hard to accept. Perhaps this is precisely what the story goes: *Ye Gong's admiration for the dragon*? After a few seconds, Zhou Mingrui chuckles at himself with quiet amusement. Were it not for the persistent pain in his head—keeping his thoughts sharp and clear—he would have doubted he was dreaming. Calm… calm… calm… He takes several deep breaths to steady himself. At that moment, as his body begins to settle, one after another, memory fragments emerge abruptly and begin to unfold slowly within his mind: Klein-Moretti, born in Ahova County, Lun Kingdom, Tingen City—graduate of the History Department at Hoey University… His father was a sergeant in the Royal Army; he died during colonial conflicts on the Southern Continent. The pension he received enabled Klein to attend a private grammar school, laying the foundation for his university studies. His mother was a devoted follower of the night_goddess—and passed away the year Klein was accepted into Hoey University. He has an older brother and a younger sister—living together in a two-bedroom apartment. Their family is not wealthy—indeed, it could be described as modest. Currently, their household relies entirely on the income from his elder brother’s job at the Import-Export Company as office staff. As a graduate of the History Department, Klein has mastered both the ancient Gufusak Language—the foundational script of the Northern Continent—and the Hermes Script—frequently found in ancient tombs and associated with rituals and prayers. Hermes Script? Zhou Mingrui’s mind stirs—he reaches to press gently on his solar plexus—turns his gaze toward the open notebook at the desk. The sentence on the yellowed pages now shifts from strange, to unfamiliar, then familiar—and finally becomes clearly readable. This is written in Hermes Script! The deep black ink whispers: “Everyone will die—including me.” Oh! Zhou Mingrui is startled—his body instinctively recoils as if pushing away the notebook and these words. He feels weak—he nearly stumbles, reaches out to press against the edge of the desk—and suddenly senses that the air around him pulses with activity. A soft whispering grows faintly audible—a feeling like listening to a grandparent narrating a ghost story from childhood. Shakes his head—just a momentary illusion! Zhou Mingrui steadies himself, removes his gaze from the notebook, and takes deep breaths. Then his eyes fall upon the brass-colored revolver—his mind suddenly forming a question: “How could Klein afford such a gun given his family’s financial background?” Zhou Mingrui frowns slightly. While pondering, he notices that a half-shaped red impression now appears at the edge of the desk—a deeper crimson than the moonlight, thicker and more solid than the delicate gauze. It is a blood imprint! “Blood imprint?” Zhou Mingrui instinctively opens his right hand—then lowers it to examine the palms and fingers. They are covered in blood stains. At the same time, the throbbing in his head continues—but now slightly less intense, persistent yet steady. Did I knock my head? Zhou Mingrui wonders—as he turns around and walks toward the dressing mirror with a crack along its surface. A few steps away, a medium-height figure with black hair and brown eyes—clearly carrying the air of an intellectual—comes into sharp view in his reflection. This is who I am now—Klein-Moretti? Zhou Mingrui pauses—he can’t see clearly due to insufficient nighttime lighting—and walks forward until only one step remains before he touches the mirror. With the soft, gauze-like light of the crimson moon, he turns his head slightly and checks the area above his forehead. The mirror reflects truthfully—on his solar plexus, a gruesome wound lies in full view—the edges scorched, surrounded by blood—and within it, grayish brain matter slowly pulses and moves.