Mantes woke up on cold, hard stone.
His head throbbed. Dust filled his mouth.
He coughed.
All around him, people were working.
They swung heavy picks, shoveled stones, and pushed carts.
The tools looked old. Wooden and iron. Medieval.
Mantes blinked. His eyes widened.
"Am I… in a movie?" he whispered.
"This feels too real."
Suddenly, a guard in shining armor raised a whip.
It cracked against a man's back.
The man screamed, dropped his pick, and staggered.
Mantes stepped back.
His stomach twisted. "What… what is this?"
The guard turned toward him. Eyes sharp under the helmet.
"You! Pick up a pickaxe! Mine!" he shouted.
Mantes froze. His hands shook.
He saw a pickaxe lying on the ground.
He grabbed it.
He swung it. Nothing happened.
He hit the wrong spot. The stone didn't move. Dust flew in the wrong direction.
The guard's eyes narrowed.
"You call that mining?!" he bellowed, raising the whip.
Mantes swallowed. Fear ran through him like ice.
He didn't know where to dig.
He didn't know what to do.
"Wait!" A rough voice called.
An elderly man with a scar on his hand, which looked like a sharp stab wound stepped forward. Bent and strong, skin dark from years underground.
"He is helping me," the old man said. "Let him work with me."
The guard's whip froze mid-air.
But he didn't smile. He pointed a gloved finger at them.
"Helping you? Ha! Then why are you staring at his face like a fool?"
Mantes gulped. His hands clutched the pickaxe.
He swung again. He hit a rock. It didn't move.
The guard barked.
The old man grabbed Mantes' hand and showed him where to strike.
Mantes dug. Sweat ran down his forehead.
He didn't understand this world.
Everything was strange.
He only knew one thing:
He had to do exactly what they told him… or face the whip.
Mantes swung the pickaxe with the old man.
The rock didn't move fast, but at least he wasn't in danger of the guard for now.
The old man hummed softly, guiding him.
A bell rang. Loud and clear.
"Time for lunch," the old man said.
Mantes stopped and wiped sweat from his forehead.
He looked at the old man. "Wait… who are you?" he asked.
"And… where am I?"
The old man froze. His eyes widened.
He looked at Mantes, confused.
"Mantes?" he whispered.
"My… your name is… Mantes?"
"Yes," Mantes said slowly.
"But… I don't understand. I… I don't remember being here. I… I was… I was on a bus… and then…"
The old man's eyebrows furrowed. "Bus? What is this 'bus' you speak of?"
"It's… a kind of vehicle. People sit inside. Wheels. Roads…"
He stopped. The old man looked even more confused.
He didn't understand a word.
The old man shook his head.
"You… you hit your head earlier. Are you sure you're okay? Maybe… you are suffering memory loss?"
Mantes frowned. He looked outside.
Everything was strange. Stone walls. Dirt paths. Wooden carts. No machines. No roads. No vehicles.
And then… something strange caught his eye.
A horse, but not a normal horse.
Wings sprouted from its back. White, shining, moving in the sunlight.
"A horse… with wings.
Like a fantasy creature.
No movie set could make something that real."
Mantes' mouth went dry.
He whispered to himself, "…No… this can't be…"
He swallowed hard.
"Don't tell me… I've… reincarnated?"
Or transmigrated? Or… what was the word?
He realized slowly.
He was himself. Same name. Same mind.
But the body… the world… everything else…
Was different.
And it was all real.