Siris Arpels lay sprawled on the ground, his skull shattered, body motionless. He looked completely dead.
"Haa… haa…"
Galad lowered the revolver, chest heaving.
Now that the frenzy of battle was gone, exhaustion crashed into him. His whole body throbbed where Siris had struck him earlier, every muscle screaming in protest.
His mind went blank. For a moment, the world felt unreal.
Am I dreaming? Transmigration, hallucinations, murder… None of this belongs to my twenty years of life. Could all of this just be a nightmare of my own making?
"Galad! Are you alright?"
Cecilia's anxious voice snapped him back. Her pale face filled his vision as she clutched his arm.
It wasn't a dream.
"I'm fine," he said hoarsely, forcing steadiness into his voice.
Cecilia searched his expression for a long moment, then said nothing more.
Among the debris spilled from the drawer, Galad noticed a small mirror. He picked it up and froze.
A young man stared back at him. Black hair. Blue eyes. Handsome, but thin to the point of fragility. He wore a thick, restraining garment, the kind strapped down with black leather belts that would hold him no matter how he struggled. His face was pale, almost sickly, and in the depths of his azure eyes lurked both pain and madness.
Handsome—yet broken.
Galad swallowed. This is me now.
The stranger from a distant world, dead in a car accident, had woken in the body of a tormented youth with shattered sanity. Memories weren't just memories anymore—they were his own.
Surprise. Confusion. Fear. Regret. They twisted inside him until finally he gave a bitter smile.
At least it's better than being truly dead. If this is reality, I'll accept it.
From now on, he was Galad Rondell.
He was about to say something to Cecilia when commotion rose outside the window.
He pulled back the curtain. A blood-red moon hung in the sky, washing the streets in eerie crimson. Gas lamps flickered along the road. Horse-drawn carriages clattered past. Neighbors stood outside, whispering nervously as they stared at his home.
The gunshots…
Galad tensed. He had fired six times in a row. Of course the neighbors had heard. If anyone came in and saw Siris's body…
He took a deep breath. No—calm down. It was self-defense. Siris attacked first. His body mutated into something monstrous before he died. Any sane person would see who was in the right.
"Cecilia," Galad said, turning back. "Go call the police."
"The police?" She blinked in shock.
"What else do you suggest? Running? Hiding the body?" His gaze hardened. "Reporting it immediately puts us in the clear. If we try to cover it up, we'll only look guilty."
After a hesitant pause, Cecilia nodded and hurried out.
From the window, Galad watched her disappear into the street. The bystanders flinched at her sudden appearance, scattering like frightened birds, only to regroup again once she was gone—curious sheep gathering around the shepherd's gate.
She'll find a patrol nearby. Hopefully not run all the way to the station.
The room fell silent again.
Drip… drip…
Blood trickled from the altar, pooling around Siris's corpse. His face was hideous: skull cracked, mouth torn wide into a grotesque grin.
Suppressing a shiver, Galad reloaded the revolver, only then feeling somewhat at ease.
That was when he noticed something.
On Siris's black robes lay several folded letters, the parchment stark white against the dark cloth. One sheet was slightly fanned open, revealing a name—
Galad Rondell.
His pulse quickened. A letter… about me?
He hesitated, then crouched down and carefully unfolded it.
The handwriting began neat and composed:
"Dear Ms. M:
As instructed, I have successfully gained control of Galad Rondell. You were right—he bears the aura of the Lord.
But, Ms. M, though I rejoice, I also despise him!He sees visions of the Lord. He hears His teachings. This is the supreme blessing every believer yearns for. Yet that wretch dares say he hates his fate, that he rejects these visions!
This blasphemer! This fool! He is unworthy of such grace. His body imprisons the Lord's will—defiled flesh binding sacred power.
I cannot bear it any longer. This must be the trial the Lord has set for me. I will prove my devotion with his death! Today, his eighteenth birthday, is the most fitting time…"
By the end, the writing devolved into scrawls, the sentences incoherent with fanatic madness.
Galad's stomach turned. So it was premeditated… Siris was following orders from some secret cult. He was supposed to report to this "Ms. M." But somewhere along the way, he lost control and went insane.
Still, the letter revealed something terrifying. His body—the body he now inhabited—really was different. Tied to some "Lord." Hunted by zealots.
Damn it… So I've been targeted by a cult since the beginning?
An uneasy chill ran through him.
But before he could think further—
Bang!
A crushing weight struck his chest. Galad's back slammed onto the floor, knocking the air from his lungs.
His eyes widened.
From the shadows of the ceiling, a mangled head loomed.
Siris.
Half his skull was blown apart, yet he was still moving. His body twitched unnaturally as he pressed down on Galad, inching forward with grotesque stiffness.
"No… impossible—"
Galad's scalp prickled. He raised the revolver and fired point-blank.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bullet after bullet punched through Siris's head, turning it into pulp. But even so, the body clung to him like an iron weight, refusing to fall.
Siris's rotted hand lifted slowly, palm outstretched. In its center writhed a mark—black, twisting, alive. It tore through the skin, coagulating into a blood-red sphere streaked with wriggling patterns. It hovered unnaturally in the air, pulsing with malice.
A suffocating dread surged through Galad.
"Stay away! Stay the hell away!" he roared, smashing at the corpse with the butt of the gun, struggling desperately. But the weight wouldn't budge.
Siris's ruined face twisted upward into a grotesque smile.
"Oh Lord… Please save us…"
With that hollow whisper, the blood-red sphere drifted downward—toward Galad's mouth