Chapter One
Ugh... all this card shuffling is making my eyes heavy. I really want to sleep...
A young man, resembling a walking corpse with pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, and a weary face framed by slumped shoulders, sat in a worn chair at the corner of a round table. He ran his hands through damp hair; the cold water he had splashed on himself earlier did little to chase away the exhaustion.
The room was dim; the only light came from a flickering bulb overhead. Heavy curtains covered the windows, blocking sunlight and leaving the stale air undisturbed.
Across from him, an old fortune-teller settled a deck of yellowed, worn cards. Cloud, on the other hand, had been sleepless for the past two days, perfectly complementing his corpse-like appearance. The daily five cups of coffee and cold water splashes every half hour weren't working anymore. His eyes were hollow, and his hands trembled slightly.
His sleeplessness was caused by recurring nightmares of a bloodied samurai standing atop a mountain of corpses, blood flowing like rivers, and a katana glinting in the warrior's hands. After researching online, he was recommended to visit this run-down fortune teller's shop run by a crazed old man obsessed with tarot cards.
Finally, after so many hours stuck at the same table with this old man, he spoke:
"So, you've finally seen it, Cloud? The call?" There was a frayed quality to his tone, brittle with age.
Cloud scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You mean the dream that looks like some damn webtoon? Maybe it's because I've been reading too many of those — it's getting unhealthy. The worst part? It upgrades resolution every night, getting clearer, like the director and production team of my dreams are changing camera models every day... You know what I mean, old one?"
The old man said nothing, returning to shuffling his tarot cards. Cloud scowled and banged his head on the wooden table before slumping back into his chair, struggling to keep his eyes open — every time he closed them, the dream returned.
After holding in his patience for so long, Cloud finally burst out:
"Are you going to do anything, or just keep flashing those yellow game cards of yours, sir?"
The fortune-teller had run out of tolerance as well, and replied curtly:
"You good-for-nothing generation shit! Would you mind keeping your bloody mouth shut!? Huh?!"
A harsh cough followed as he raised his voice beyond what it could handle. Cloud looked away, mumbling under his breath with a grimace.
Once he regained composure, the old man dropped the deck on the table and fixed his gaze on Cloud.
"Let me tell you a story. First, three others came here with the same problem as you, but well... they are where they should be now."
Cloud interrupted sarcastically, "Heaven? Yeah, seems about right…"
"No, you idiot!" The old man facepalmed, waving a hand to stop himself from snapping again. Then he continued, "Young man... you may think yourself ordinary, but your blood isn't clean. Long ago, sensing mankind's decay, the world blessed four sacred bloodlines with fragments of divine authority. They were called the Guardians."
Cloud rested his elbow on the table, propping his chin in his hand, eyes half-lidded. The old man's words floated in one ear and nearly out the other.
"…tasked with maintaining balance between realms," the fortune-teller went on. "But when humanity turned its back on the gods, those forgotten Lords returned to tear the world apart. Yet the Guardians didn't side with the gods, nor with mankind's arrogance. They fought to protect the weak, prompting the First Legendary War. The Samurai Bloodline, the Dragon Bloodline, the Titan Bloodline, and finally the Seraph Bloodline—all fought in this war."
Cloud yawned inwardly.
I could be in bed right now. Cold room, heavy blanket. No work. No customers whining about discounts and blaming me for their cards getting declined. No manager breathing down my neck. Just me... and sleep.
"...The war lasted almost a century. In the end, the Guardians struck down the forgotten Lords. But the defeated gods left curses upon them in death. Curses that cling to their bloodlines, so even now, their descendants suffer."
The old man's gaze sharpened.
"You carry one of those curses, boy. The last act of the Samurai Bloodline's leader—the Great Slasher—ended the First Legendary War. His blood runs in you."
Cloud exhaled softly through his nose.
"You done?"
The old man didn't so much as stir.
"This curse… it's why your nights aren't your own. The visions. The restlessness. The stirring of power in your veins."
Cloud glanced at the door, then at the barely flickering bulb above.
If I bolt now, I might still catch discount hour at the kebab place...
He rubbed his eyes. "Look, old man, not to be rude, but I came here to see if you could stop the nightmares. Not to hear some war history lesson that's not even recorded in any book."
A mild smile touched the old man's lips; privately, he was cursing Cloud to the depths.
"It was never about stopping them, Cloud. It's about knowing what they mean."
Cloud raised an eyebrow. "So now that I know, the nightmares will stop, right? Well, that was some history, though. The Last Legendary War..."
"It said First, not Last! For God's sake, put emphasis on the bloody sentence. Yes, it's been a thousand years since the last one. Improvements made and all that, but time to prepare for another... or stop this one before it starts... Cloud."
Without delay, the old man gathered his tarot cards and resumed shuffling.
The fortune-teller considered the young man's impudence sufficient cause to abandon the telling and advance to the next step
Cloud mocked the story again. "Wait, are you sure I'm not from the Bloodline of Poverty? Because last time I checked, I'm living in a literal dump of a room. And if you call that samurai in my dream a warrior, I'd say his katana was worth about two million dollars on the black market, if it even exists. That means my ancestors—and all the way to my generation—should be filthy rich after multiple investments. But I don't even have a parent. Huh?"
"Ugh ~"
The old man remained composed throughout. Then, settling his hand on a particular card, he began to ramble about the Georgian Era as he revealed it—a samurai wielding a bloodied katana, uncannily similar to the figure in Cloud's dream. But the heaviness pressing down on Cloud's thoughts left him too weary to make the connection.
"Fix your gaze on the figure in this card while I count to thirty in my head and share a few details. It'll sort out your nightmare—don't worry, motherfu—ah, I mean, lad. Heh-heh-heh."
Cloud gave a sceptical scoff but, too drained to argue, chose to humour the moment. He fixed his eyes on the card.
The old man chuckled quietly, turning his grin towards the heavy curtains. Cloud kept his eyes on the card, his thoughts gradually slipping into a vacant haze.
"Ah... the Georgian Era," the old man muttered fondly. "Never cared much for their ale, but the scent of the streets at dusk... unmatched."
Cloud noticed his vision beginning to falter, but for some unknown reason, he couldn't move, speak, or resist—he became a literal dummy, utterly focused on the card.
"Do you know," the old man lowered his voice, "that others like you have come through this room? Oh, I told you recently, but no harm in saying it again. Descendants of the Dragon Bloodline, the Titan Bloodline, the Seraph Bloodline... proud, reckless, foolish, just like you. And yet, necessary."
Cloud intended to move—perhaps lean back, scoff, or look away. But his limbs felt heavier than before. His tongue refused to respond. He couldn't even form a thought into words.
"They came looking for answers too," the fortune-teller said, resting a hand on the table. "In their own era—just before France's little revolution. Back when England was split between two warring kingdoms. Funny thing is, you won't find any mention of them in history books. Not a trace. It was an alternate timeline, frozen in place by the gods. Some historical events happened. Others didn't. Fascinating times, truly."
Cloud's fingers twitched against the tabletop, but he couldn't lift them.
"Ah… the Encers. How could I forget them?" the man grinned. "Mages, artificers, arrogant little scholars running a secret organisation, all devoted to preventing the Second Legendary War. Pity they're trapped in that frozen timeline. Still, fortunate, really—it was the only strand capable of interfering with the war in the first place. No one remembers their part, of course. That's what freezing a timeline does. But you will. In your precious modern era—just a few years from now—if you fail to stop the war from your end, it will begin."
The young man's mind fought to stay focused. His vision blurred; the lines on the card wavered, reshaping themselves with each glance. His eyelids grew heavier with every word the old man spoke.
"Imagine," the old man said softly, "how clever the gods are. Planting their endgame in an era long past, waiting for fools like you to stumble through history's cracks. Perhaps, when you wake, you might find yourself in your ancestor's skin. A chance to see the world's prime... the stench, the filth, the chaos. Kingdoms and territories erased from history, some changed now, yet London, Paris, Venice... few to none then, all here now. What confusion."
He laughed quietly.
"Isn't it a strange timeline, boy?"
Cloud's head drooped as his breath slowed.
"Listen carefully," the old man leaned forward sharply. "When you wake, do not tell a soul, not even your own reflection, that you're from this modern world. Do not speak of your era, your knowledge, your home. Should you do so... the Doom will come faster. The process will break, and your world will drown in blood."
The young man's lips parted to answer, but no words came. The weight on his mind was too much. His vision narrowed.
A final grin spread across the old man's face.
"Break your bloodline's curse," he murmured. "Find your lost sword arts... and save your world, Great Slasher's descendant."
Cloud's body slumped forward with a dull thud against the table, unconscious. The old man gave him a casual shove, tipping him onto the floor, then broke into a low, mad laugh. He cast one final glance at the card Cloud had last focused on, then rose to his feet.
"Let the game begin."
***
"Ugh... What in bloody hell just happened?"
"Feels like my head's filled with bricks..."
"That's a first—waking up with a hangover and not a drop of drink. Coffee, maybe?"
Before sight or sound, it was the stench that greeted him.
It wasn't subtle. Nor was it something the nose might grow numb to after a while. It was thick, cloying — an oppressive stench of sour ale, stale sweat, cheap tobacco, and something worse. The sickly-sweet tang of spilt liquor mingled with the unmistakable reek of vomit. His stomach lurched on instinct. A low, pained groan slipped out before he was even fully conscious.
A dull, incessant throb pulsed through his skull, each beat slowing his thoughts to a crawl. His eyelids lifted with effort, only for his vision to blur under the waver of an oil lamp swinging weakly above. The ceiling came into focus—aged timber, cupped and darkened with damp, like it hadn't been dry in decades.
Where the hell...?
He tried to lift his head, but the movement triggered a fresh wave of nausea. His entire body felt heavy, every joint was stiff and unresponsive. It took him a moment to register the hard surface beneath him — two tables, unevenly pressed together, serving as a makeshift bed.
The room around him was poorly lit, its corners shrouded in shadow, hiding half-glimpsed figures slumped over tables. The low murmur of drunken voices rose and fell around him, threaded through with the clatter of tankards and the grit of boots dragging across warped floorboards.
A crumpled sheet of paper lay half-folded against his chest. Cloud blinked twice, his bleary gaze dropping to it, struggling to make out the faded ink. It was a newspaper.
Slowly, his fingers curled around the page. The act felt strangely foreign. He squinted, forcing his eyes to adjust.
The Amsgale Courier
February 18, 1786
Amsgale...? February 18, 1786!?
For a long moment, his mind just wouldn't take it in. The date stared back at him in bold, wobbly print, and something cold pressed beneath his sternum.
His eyes moved lower, catching on the bold headline.
'Unrest In Frace Escalates — Noble Houses Fear Open Rebellion.'
The world around him tilted slightly. The tavern noise dulled to a distant murmur as he read the words again.
What the hell is this?
...Where am I?
God—
A low groan slipped out as his head throbbed again, pressure building behind his eyes.
He swung his legs down and tried to stand, nearly losing his balance as the floor seemed to tilt beneath him. Suddenly, something caught his eye—a shard of cracked glass on the table nearby. Through it, he saw the faint reflection of a man sitting a short distance away.
Cloud went still.
The man wore a coat of dark, heavy fabric, the high collar pressed close against a pale throat. A silver chain caught the light over an embroidered waistcoat, and his features were angular and aristocratic — narrow jaw, high cheekbones, neatly styled brown hair, and a pair of nut-brown eyes.
There was something… faintly familiar about that face.
…It looked… far too much like mine.
Another sudden, splitting pain tore through his head. He grasped the table as unfamiliar memories surged forth — names, faces, places he did not recognise, yet felt disturbingly certain of.
Elias Warden.
The name surfaced unbidden.
Who the hell is —?
Then came a third surge. The flood of memories—none his own—nearly sent him crashing to his knees. The ache eased a little, settling low at the base of his skull.
Suddenly, a light touch on his arm snapped him back. He flinched.
"Sir… are you quite alright?" a soft female voice inquired with a hint of worry laced in her tone.
Cloud turned wearily to find a young woman standing beside him. Her hair was loosely gathered at the nape, a few stray strands escaping to frame her face. She wore a simple linen dress, a pale apron faintly stained from a long night's toil. A glimmer of concern surfaced on her face.
For a moment, he could neither speak nor move, his mind trapped somewhere between the pain, the oppressive stench of the room, and the unbearable weight pressing down on him. The fading light veiled her face in shadow, making it seem distant and almost unreal.
His thoughts spun aimlessly, failing to latch onto anything firm, and all he could do was fix her with a half-empty gaze.
And finally, with a bewildered expression, a thought surfaced:
...Have I really transmigrated to the Georgian Era? 1786!?