Zhang Lu slumped over his desk, his cheek pressed against the yellowed pages of his favorite novel. Above him, the single mana bulb flickered weakly, its glow stuttering as if it were about to give up entirely—much like him.
A thin trickle of magic leaked from his core, just enough to keep the bulb alive. Barely.
It dimmed again, shadows stretching across the cramped room like grasping fingers.
"Pathetic," Zhang Lu muttered, voice hoarse from too many sleepless nights. "Can't even keep a light on for five minutes. Some magician I turned out to be."
Twenty-two years old. Technically an adult. Practically a failure.
A magic academy dropout—tuition had crushed him after the first year. A mana pool so shallow that lighting a candle too fast gave him nosebleeds. His former classmates had gone on to real careers: enchanting artifacts, healing patients, illuminating streets for the city council.
Zhang Lu repaired broken trinkets for pennies. Tutored children who surpassed him effortlessly. Scraped by.
And yet, at three in the morning, here he was again—rereading *Chronicles of Mysteries* for the umpteenth time.
The book was worn soft with love. Its spine cracked, pages dog-eared, corners curled from years of handling. It was his escape. His single indulgence.
In its pages lived everything Zhang Lu was not.
Lewis.
Brooding. Handsome. Powerful.
Dark hair falling just right over sharp brown eyes. A past steeped in tragedy—his mother, a goddess in disguise, dead under mysterious circumstances after his graduation. His father, a cold and distant sergeant imprisoned within the infamous Dark Castle. Lewis and his siblings surviving in a decaying apartment in a vast gothic metropolis, unraveling ancient mysteries that threatened to break the world apart.
Zhang Lu envied him.
Not the danger—that sounded exhausting.
But the potential.
The way Lewis entered a room and commanded attention. The way magic bent to his will—dark, elegant, absolute. The way his life had direction, even if it was wrapped in shadow.
"If I had even half your mana pool," Zhang Lu whispered to the illustration on the open page.
Lewis stood on a balcony overlooking Nocturne City, neon-lit spires piercing eternal twilight. His cape billowed behind him. A brass lantern glowed in his hand, casting ethereal blue light.
"Hell," Zhang Lu murmured, exhausted. "I'd settle for a quarter."
His eyes burned as he yawned.
Orion—his younger brother—was probably asleep in the next room. Seventeen, taller than Zhang Lu already, with a lazy grin that got him out of trouble far too often. They shared this tiny two-room apartment: peeling wallpaper, leaky ceiling, a kitchenette barely large enough for one person.
Poverty wasn't glamorous.
But it was theirs.
Zhang Lu's head dipped forward. The scent of old paper and cheap ink wrapped around him, familiar and comforting. Tomorrow loomed faintly in his thoughts—another job interview, another rejection. Instant noodles for dinner. Orion pretending not to care.
Darkness took him.
Complete. Suffocating.
Zhang Lu's first coherent thought was panic.
*Am I dead?*
His head throbbed dully, as though something heavy had struck him without finishing the job. He couldn't see anything. No mana bulb. No streetlight bleeding through the curtains.
Just void.
*Please don't let me be dead.*
The thought was raw. Childish. Desperate.
*I can't leave Orion alone. Who's going to make sure he eats something other than chips? Who's going to pay the rent?*
His body felt distant, unresponsive. Time stretched until it lost meaning.
Then sensation returned.
The ache sharpened, then dulled. He became aware of a hard surface beneath his cheek.
Wood.
His desk.
Light filtered through his eyelids—soft, growing stronger.
Morning.
Zhang Lu groaned and opened his eyes.
Thank the gods.
He was alive.
Just another hangover from mana exhaustion and bad life choices.
Sunlight streamed through… a window?
That was strange. His window had cheap plastic blinds that never quite closed. This light was warm, dusty, golden—filtering through actual glass panes.
Whatever. He was alive. That was enough.
His copy of *Chronicles of Mysteries* lay open beneath him, pages crinkled. Beside it sat his old hourglass trinket—the flea market junk that was supposed to measure mana flow but never worked, its sand eternally stuck halfway.
Zhang Lu smiled faintly.
He pushed himself upright, joints popping, and stretched.
"Orion," he called hoarsely, "you little shit. If you ate the last of the bread again—"
No answer.
Typical.
He glanced around, expecting chaos. Clothes on the floor. Snack wrappers. Orion's school bag tossed aside.
Instead—
The floor was spotless.
Not tidy. *Clean.*
Zhang Lu frowned. "Orion?"
Silence.
The drowsiness drained from him.
The walls weren't beige wallpaper.
They were stone.
Rough-hewn gray stone, cold and ancient, veins of cracks running through them.
His heart skipped.
He stepped forward. Bare feet met cold flagstone.
Flagstone.
The desk remained—similar wood grain, similar shape—but the clutter was wrong. His novel was gone. In its place sat leather-bound tomes thick with age. His hourglass remained, but its brass fittings were ornate now, the sand glowing faint blue.
"Orion," Zhang Lu whispered, unease curling in his gut. "This isn't funny."
He moved to the window.
Iron bars.
Beyond them stretched a vast gothic city beneath eternal twilight—spires and towers piercing the sky, lights floating like will-o'-wisps.
It was beautiful.
And horrifying.
His breath caught.
He knew this city.
He spun around.
Bookshelves. Cobwebs. A single chair. No bed. No posters. No charging cable.
A tower chamber.
"What the actual fuck…" he breathed.
He staggered back to the desk, eyes landing on a polished metal tray propped against the books. Its surface reflected like a mirror.
Heart pounding, he leaned closer.
Dark hair—perfectly tousled. Sharp brows. Deep brown eyes filled with quiet intensity. Pale, flawless skin. An angular, striking face.
Black attire. A tailored suit. High collar. A dark cape draped over one shoulder.
White gloves.
In his hand—a brass lantern glowing soft blue.
Lewis.
Exactly Lewis.
Zhang Lu stumbled back, books crashing to the floor.
"No," he whispered. "No way."
He stared at his gloved hands. Touched his smooth jaw.
"I look like him."
The realization crushed him.
"I *am* him."
Transmigration.
Isekai.
The stupid trope he'd mocked.
And now it was his life.
"I didn't want this," Zhang Lu choked. "I just envied him. I didn't want to *be* him."
Lewis's world devoured the weak.
Mysteries. Death. Secrets that killed the curious.
Zhang Lu slid down against the stone wall, lantern flickering brighter in his grip.
Then he saw it.
Words bleeding through the stone opposite him.
Crimson. Wet. Alive.
**THERE IS NO ESCAPE**
Zhang Lu stared, breath frozen.
The message knew.
Knew he didn't belong.
He was trapped.
In another man's body.
In a world that would not forgive weakness.
And there was no way out.