The room was silent, save for the faint crackle of a half-melted candle that stood vigil on the wooden desk. Shadows danced upon the wallpaper, warped and rippling, as though the flame whispered secrets to the gloom.
A young man slept uneasily on a wooden chair, head slumped forward, dark hair messy and unkempt. His breathing was shallow, as if caught between dreams and something else, something far less forgiving.
His eyelids fluttered.
Then, without fanfare, he opened his eyes.
He sat still for a moment, unmoving, his pupils slowly adjusting to the dim amber light. A soft groan escaped his lips as he rubbed his eyes. The sleep hadn't left him refreshed. It clung to him like cobwebs.
But the next instant, his eyes snapped open. The grogginess melted away, replaced by alertness... and growing dread.
This isn't my room.
The thought emerged unbidden, cutting through his daze with startling clarity. He jerked upright and glanced around. The walls were faded beige, lined with wooden panels. The bed in the corner was narrow, covered in coarse sheets. The air was stale, tinged with old wax and parchment.
Everything was foreign, quaint, and antiquated. Nothing resembled his bedroom in the apartment where he lived with his sister. The last thing he remembered was his name Arthur and the clinking of glasses, the laughter of friends, the weight of exhaustion after a long evening then the soft embrace of sleep.
But this? This was a stranger's dwelling. A world away.
His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling in an erratic rhythm. Yet, after several moments of spiraling thoughts, he forced himself to calm down. Years of stressful training and overwork he did as a software engineer grounded him and helped him calm himself in this strange situation, this time with more discerning eyes.
The furniture was old-fashioned, too old. The candle was of the wax-drip type he'd only seen in films. The parchment on the desk was slightly yellowed. He squinted at the wall-hung clock ticked, but the design was reminiscent of a pre-electric era.
Not a dream, then.
His gaze fell on the desk. A plain, leather-bound notebook sat neatly at the center. Something about it tugged at him.
He reached out, fingered brushing over its textured cover, and opened it.
Page after page was blank.
Until the very last one.
There, in ink that had not yet dried completely, a message unfurled in looping cursive:
**"If you are reading this, the ritual was successful.
Whether you are me or I am you, it no longer matters .
From this moment forward, you are a citizen of darkness.
Look at your right palm, but remember: never reveal it to anyone.
It is best to conceal it, even with artificial skin if necessary.
This is all I can offer you.
Once you close this notebook, this page will cease to exist.
Goodbye, new me."**
As his eyes lingered on the final line, the ink began to blur. Before he could react, the letters faded into nothingness, absorbed into the paper like water into sand.
Arthur— now froze.
He didn't understand what any of it meant, but he obeyed instinctively, turning his gaze to his right palm.
There, upon the skin, was a black mark. A silhouette of a human figure, silent, unmoving etched with uncanny clarity. Approximately five centimeters in length.
An ominous pressure emanated from it.
Driven by some unknowable force, he focused his thoughts upon the mark.
Something shattered his mind in the next moment.
A deluge of alien memories, not dreams, not illusions rushed into him. Searing pain lanced through his skull, and he clutched his head, biting back a scream. Visions, knowledge, names, places all flooded him, layered atop his own identity.
When the storm subsided, he was soaked with sweat and gasped for breath.
He now knew he was in a nation called the Radiance Empire, residing in the modest quarters of a young man named Grey. An Amity University student, a commoner, is studying the history of gods.
An orphan.
His mother had died when he was five. His father, a soldier, perished three months ago in a border war.
His name, his background, his pain, all buried within Grey's flesh and bone. Now, Arthur wore it like a second skin, a remnant of his former self.
He fell back into the chair, light-headed, but steadier than before.
Then, as if answering a silent call, another memory surfaced. Not from Grey but from something else. Something deeper.
A whisper within his blood:
[Citizen of Darkness Authorities Unlocked]
1. Time of Darkness – Darkness increases your physical attributes by 100%.
2. Stealth of Darkness – In complete darkness, you erase your presence from the perception of ordinary humans.
(Note: Effectiveness decreases against higher-order beings.)
He exhaled slowly.
"A supernatural world," he muttered.
For a brief, dangerous moment, he considered whether his former life on Earth had been the illusion. But the ache in his chest, the vividness of memories — birthdays with his sister, the taste of coffee on a rainy evening — proved otherwise.
Both were real.
He stood and made his way to the small kitchen, guided by inherited instincts. His body moved with familiarity not his own. He found stale bread on the counter and, without complaint, chewed it slowly, absent of emotion.
The hunger receded.
He returned to his desk, sat once more under the dying light of the candle.
Knock knock.
A sound broke through the quiet.
A knock at the door.
His breath caught.
He hadn't been expecting anyone.
And yet, someone or something was waiting just beyond that wooden frame