Riyan Descartes stood alone in his private quarters, staring at the data crystal containing the Fers Domain archives, and felt the familiar weight of knowledge he could never share pressing against his consciousness like physical burden.
He knew who the killer was.
Not through investigation, not through tactical deduction, not through the archives he'd claimed to be cataloging. He knew because three-four years ago, when he was 15 years old, his consciousness had been replaced by memories from another world, another life, where this reality had been a story he'd read obsessively.
A transmigrator. That's what the novels from his previous life would have called him. Someone whose soul had been displaced across dimensional boundaries, inhabiting a body in a world that shouldn't exist but did, living a life that had once been fiction but was now undeniably, terrifyingly real.
