Tap. Tap. Tap.
Vijay stood before the window pane, lost in the night's silence. Seeing his own reflection, he flinched and stumbled back in shock.
The man in the glass was not himself. He resembled a desiccated corpse.
How could anyone remain alive with such a massive wound?
Disbelieving, he turned his head to look again. Even from a short distance, and despite the dim, jaundiced glow of the moon, the gaping hole on his forehead and the dark, crimson-black bloodstain were unmistakably clear.
"This is..." Vijay drew a deep, shuddering breath, forcing himself toward calm.
He stretched out a hand and pressed it against his left chest. He could feel his heart hammering a frantic, unnatural rhythm, a wild vitality pounding against his ribs.
Then he touched his own skin, realizing with a start his state of undress. A fine, grey ash was smeared across his body. Instinctively, he moved to cover himself, then quickly grabbed a woolen blanket from nearby, wrapping it around his waist.
He crouched, testing the bend of his knees, before rising again, steadying his nerves.
"What the hell is happening?" he muttered, furrowing his brows. He needed to examine the wound on his head more carefully.
Taking two steps forward, he abruptly halted. The sickly yellow moonlight was far too faint for any detailed inspection.
A fragment of memory sparked in Vijay's mind. Remembering he was near Adhithan's house, he hurried to pick up the pistol. His own home lay just beyond the rarely frequented cremation grounds. He walked swiftly, crossing the silent, desolate cemetery and reaching the back of the house. Grabbing the drainpipe, he scaled it to his window. Thankfully, it was open. He turned his head, his eyes searching the wall near the study desk for the candle.
It was the most common lighting method of this era. These wax candles provided excellent, steady light, their flames unwavering and bright.
In Adhithan's family circumstances, even a kerosene lamp was a distant dream. Gas lamps were unheard of. Candles suited their station. But four years ago, when Adhithan had to study late for his university entrance exams, his older brother Rasan, believing this was pivotal for the family's future, was determined to create a better study environment, even if it meant taking on debt.
Of course, Rasan, having worked for years, was no reckless fool. He had his clever strategies. He convinced the landlord that installing gas lines would upgrade the property and increase future rental value. The landlord agreed and provided funds for the basic modifications. Then, leveraging his position at an import-export firm, Rasan procured a new gas lamp at a near-cost price. In the end, he only had to dip into his savings. No loan was needed.
With this memory flickering in his mind, Vijay approached the desk. He turned the gas valve and began rotating the lamp's switch.
Click-click-click. The friction produced sparks, but no light followed.
He tried several more times, but the lamp only emitted futile clicking sounds. The darkness remained unbroken.
"Hmm..." Vijay withdrew his hand, pressing his left temple, sifting through his muddled thoughts for a reason.
After a few seconds, he turned and walked toward the door, reaching for the grey-white candle mounted on the wall. He lit it. Then, he retrieved a coin from his trouser pocket.
It was a coppery-brown, with a dull bronze sheen. The obverse bore the engraved profile of a man wearing a crown. The reverse showed the number '1' atop wheat stalks.
Vijay knew this was the most basic coin of the Neithal Kingdom, commonly called a 'Copper Kalanju' (small copper coin). The purchasing power of one kalanju was equivalent to about three or four rupees (Indian currency) from before his birth. There were other denominations—five kalanju, half kalanju, quarter kalanju—but in daily life, one often had to buy various small items together to spend a single coin.
After staring at the candle for a few seconds, Vijay turned back to the heavy wooden desk.
The candle flame grew steadily, its bright light first filling the glass enclosure of the wall sconce, then piercing the transparent pane to bathe the room in a warm, golden glow.
Darkness retreated rapidly. A red-tinged light spilled out the window. For some inexplicable reason, Vijay felt a wave of calm. He hurried back to the mirror.
This time, he scrutinized his forehead meticulously, leaving no detail unexamined.
After several rounds of inspection, he ascertained that apart from the original bloodstain, no fluid was leaking from the horrifying wound anymore. It seemed to have achieved perfect hemostasis. Despite the visible, slowly pulsating grey-white brain matter and the clearly regenerating muscle and blood vessels around the injury, it implied that in thirty or forty minutes, or maybe two to three hours, only a faint scar might remain.
"Did I somehow get some kind of... healing factor?" Vijay raised the corner of his right mouth, muttering slowly to himself.
He then let out a long sigh. Whatever the case, he was still alive!
Having calmed himself somewhat, he opened a drawer, took out a small sliver of soap, grabbed an old, ragged cloth hanging near the cupboard, opened the door, and walked toward the shared bathroom on the second floor.
Yes, I need to clean off this blood and ash first. Otherwise, it'll raise suspicions. This is too frightening. If my little sister Menaka saw me like this... that would be it!
The external corridor was plunged in deep darkness. Only silhouettes were visible, cast by the yellow moonlight from a window at the corridor's end. They looked like a pair of silent, monstrous eyes watching the living in the dead of night.
Vijay softened his footsteps, walking with a slight tremble toward the common bathroom.
Upon entering, he found more moonlight, allowing him to see everything clearly. He stood before a washbasin and turned the tap knob.
Using the damp cloth, Vijay repeatedly wiped the bloodstains from his face.
After checking himself in the old bathroom mirror and confirming only a terrifying wound and a pallid face remained, he felt a measure of relief. He then took off his cotton shirt and used the soap to scrub out the bloodstains.
At that moment, he frowned, recalling a potential problem.
The wound had been severe. The blood loss substantial. Traces of his injury might still be in his room, not just on his body!
A few minutes later, after wringing out the cotton shirt, Vijay hurried back to his apartment with the damp cloth.
After ensuring his room was clean, he picked up the pistol and returned to the side of his desk. He opened the magazine and spilled the contents onto the wood.
There were five brass cartridges and one empty shell, all with a dull, coppery glint.
"Actually..." Vijay looked at the empty shell before him. Shaking his head, he reloaded the cartridges into the magazine.
He recalled the sentences scrawled on the crematorium wall: 'When this world perishes, Lucifer shall reign.' More questions bubbled up inside him.
Where did the pistol come from?
Was it suicide, or a staged one? Were those bodies already there?
What kind of trouble could a poor history graduate possibly be involved in?
How could such a suicide method leave behind so little blood? Did it heal because I... displaced at the right moment?
After a moment of thought, Vijay changed into another cotton shirt. He sat down on the chair and began to ponder the crucial issues.
Adhithan's experiences weren't his immediate concern. The real problem was figuring out the reason for his displacement and whether he could return!
His parents, relatives, friends. The intoxicating digital world, the myriad of delicious foods... These were all reasons he desperately wanted to go back!
Click. Click. Click... Vijay's right hand automatically worked the pistol's magazine, sliding it out and tapping it back into place repeatedly.
I've never been particularly lucky. So how did I manage to transmigrate?
Unlucky... Wait. Yes! I tried a luck-enhancing ritual before dinner tonight!
A thought flashed in Vijay's mind, illuminating memories obscured by the fog of confusion.
As a self-styled keyboard politician, keyboard historian, keyboard economist, keyboard biologist, and keyboard folklorist, he had always considered himself "a little knowledgeable about everything."
Of course, his best friend often teased him as being "half-baked at everything."
One of those "half-baked" interests was astrology.
Last year, on a trip back to his hometown, he'd found a bound, antique-looking book in an old bookstore titled "The Essential Astrology and Secret Arts of the Trimurti." It seemed fascinating, and thinking it might help with online content, he bought it. Unfortunately, his interest was short-lived. The archaic script made for a poor reading experience. After flipping through the first few pages, he had tossed it into a corner.
He'd been experiencing a streak of bad luck the past month—lost his phone, got scammed by a client, made mistakes at work. That's when he suddenly remembered the simple luck-enhancing ritual described in the opening pages of "The Essential Astrology and Secret Arts of the Trimurti." The requirements were exceedingly simple. No special ingredients needed.
One had to hold the five elements (water, earth, fire, air, ether) in mind, take a step with hands clasped,
thanking the earth that supports me for the first step, thanking the water that nourishes my body for the second, thanking the air that gives me breath for the third, thanking the fire that provides warmth for the fourth, and finally, thanking the ether that holds my birth star for the fifth step. Then, he had to close his eyes and wait in the original spot for five minutes. Only then was the ritual considered complete.
Since it cost him nothing, he dug out the book, followed the instructions, and performed it before dinner. However... nothing happened then.
Who could have guessed he would undergo a transformation at midnight?
Displacement!
"There's a unique possibility this could be due to that astral luck-enhancing ritual... Yes, I must try it again tomorrow. If it truly was the cause, there's a chance I could displace again!" Vijay stopped fiddling with the magazine. He sat up straight suddenly.
No matter what, he had to try.
He had to make one final attempt.
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Author's Note:
This is a work of complete fiction. Any resemblance to existing novels, characters, or events is unintentional and coincidental. All characters, scenes, and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are not intended to infringe upon any copyright.