Above the Sefirah Castle, within the Divine Kingdom,. A divine war that determined the fate of the entire world quietly drew to a close. The last victor — a truly great existence worthy of the name — the "Fool," Klein, raised his head toward the dark teal gate of light that represented the Sefirah Castle itself, where transparent "cocoons" hung suspended one by one. Each cocoon contained a life forcibly frozen in time, just as his own once had been. After a brief moment of connection, Klein closed his fingers. All the cocoons shattered at once. Those wrapped inside dissolved into points of light and flew out of the Sefirah Castle, falling toward people who had just died in the real world, beginning their thoroughly transformed lives anew. But Klein, plagued by the awakening will of the Celestial Worthy, had no energy to notice the joke fate had played — some people's lives were better off not continuing… PS1: All worldbuilding and settings in this story originate from Lord of the Mysteries by Cuttlefish That Loves Diving. Readers interested in those settings are welcome to check out that completed work. Those who haven't read it need not worry — neither has the protagonist. I promise to explain everything clearly. PS2: Gender-bender element appears after the opening, not at the beginning. No solo content in later chapters. Read at your own discretion. Ps mc name is Xue Gang change it to Ryan later on in the story he will have a female name Title: Mysteries: The Witch's Fate Author: 当年月照彼时人 raw link;https://wenku.read.qq.com/detail/1056841936?source=m_jump
Chapter 1 — Transmigration???
Ryan jolted awake from a deep sleep, shooting upright and gasping for breath. He couldn't remember why, but an overwhelming sense of dread and terror had been seared deep into his soul.
With no time for him to catch his breath, a dense, crawling pain spread across his arm. He looked down instinctively — and froze in horror. Scale-like patches, resembling fish or snake scales, were burrowing into his flesh. Countless scales writhed and twisted like living things, drilling into his arm one after another.
"What the hell!"
Ryan reflexively flung both arms outward. It was pure instinct — he didn't actually expect it to do anything. So when the pain vanished with the motion, he was baffled. That's not right. Even if they'd already burrowed all the way in, shouldn't there be some sign of them? These things couldn't have drilled into his flesh just to take a nap, could they?
He examined his arm in confusion. Whether this counted as good news was debatable, but there wasn't a single wound on it — as if the pain and the scales had been nothing but a hallucination. The worse news was that the arm didn't belong to him at all.
In fact, Ryan did a quick sweep of himself and his surroundings. To put it precisely, nothing here was his — not the body, not the room. He was not, and could not be, a hulking slab of a man who actually deserved words like "broad-shouldered and barrel-chested." Nor could he possibly be sleeping in a room from the last century that didn't even have a light.
He stared blankly around the absurdly sparse space: a table, a wooden wardrobe against one wall, and a bed beside it. That was the room in its entirety. As for lighting — it ran entirely on the crimson moonlight filtering in through the window.
Where the hell did I end up? Ryan pressed his fingers to the stranger's temple and rubbed. His head throbbed, his thoughts a jumbled mess. He was certain he'd been lying in bed scrolling on his phone just moments ago, without any stroke of outlandish luck. What was with this transmigration-level situation?
"This probably isn't a dream within a dream," Ryan muttered.
Because both the terror and the pain had been far too real. Even so, his hand honestly reached down and gave his thigh a hard pinch.
"Ow. This guy is built."
The sharper-than-expected pain reminded him once again that this was not his original body.
I actually transmigrated? That can't be right — I was lying in bed perfectly fine.
Ryan was at a loss.
He found it difficult to believe what he was seeing, but the leg — noticeably thicker than his own — was transmitting an undeniably real and vivid ache.
After a moment's hesitation, he tried to sift through his memories, curious whether there was anything new in his head.
If there wasn't, wouldn't that make it more likely this was just a dream? Everything around him right now looked nothing like a dream, but even the most absurd dream was more probable than — him transmigrating out of nowhere, doing absolutely nothing to trigger it.
He could swear on his life he hadn't had any stroke of outlandish luck.
But that small hope was crushed by reality without mercy. As he reached into his memories, he did recall things — fragments of a stranger's life that had absolutely nothing to do with him.
The last thread of hope quietly died. He really had transmigrated. On an ordinary, uneventful evening, without a single sign or warning, he had transmigrated into someone else's body.
My phone! My games! I want to file a complaint!
If transmigration is real, is there something like a Space-Time Management Bureau that handles this kind of thing? I didn't get any stroke of luck — this is an ILLEGAL. TRANS. MIGRATION.
Ryan felt himself spiraling.
He waited a few seconds. No voice, no figure materialized.
"…Web novels have misled me badly."
He let out a long sigh and resigned himself to combing through these memories that weren't his.
Things are what they are. Figure out the situation first.
Because here it was, the middle of the night, and this guy was just lying on the floor. By the crimson moonlight, Ryan could even make out the shattered glass bottle nearby. Something had clearly gone very wrong on this end.
The memories, when he dug into them, wiped the expression right off his face.
Gambling addiction, got thrown out of the family home. Chased rumors of supernatural power. Believed a scrap of paper at face value. Dead on his own doorstep in the dead of night.
Four sentences summed up everything that had happened to this poor idiot. And the cause of death? Two words: self-destruction.
He had genuinely believed a man he'd only met twice — the one who'd sold him a slip of paper. He'd spent three years scouring the occult black markets of several cities for the ingredients listed on that scrap, calling it a potion formula. Then, the very night he finally gathered everything, he mixed them together, drank whatever came out, and died chasing so-called supernatural power.
As for occultism — anything related to supernatural power broadly fell under its umbrella. Even though most people in this world didn't believe occultism was real, there was no shortage of people obsessed with it.
By any measure, this looked like a fool who trusted a con man, brewed a dubious remedy from an unverified recipe, and successfully poisoned himself to death.
That's exactly what Ryan would have thought — if he didn't have this big idiot's memories. If the memories didn't clearly show that those mostly solid ingredients, simply mixed together, had genuinely transformed into a pool of dim, unassuming liquid that made you inexplicably thirsty for no reason. And if the strange sensations the idiot experienced while dying weren't eerily similar to what Ryan had felt waking up — and far too bizarre to be chalked up to poisoning.
He would have thought exactly that.
As for those sensations — "dread and terror" was a simplification; the real experience defied precise description.
If Ryan had to put it into words: it was like going mad while remaining fully lucid. More accurately — every part of him, mind included, plunged into some frenzied state, raging at everything within reach, venting a pain that had no name. And yet he stayed conscious through all of it, watching every inch of himself — including his own mind — howl and thrash as if something alive had taken over.
He'd never drunk anything he shouldn't have, and he'd never died before. But he instinctively felt that experience was no hallucination. It had been far too vivid, too searing, too deeply unsettling — the kind of thing that sent ice crawling across your skin just at the memory of it.
Even now, with those sensations faded, the mere thought of them stirred the same impulse: a mirror image of the feeling in that moment — an urge to destroy everything around him, himself included.
Ryan shook his head hard, forcing himself away from those now-disturbing impressions.
And the strangeness didn't stop there. Perhaps because the big idiot was dead, or perhaps because of the potion itself, the memories were fragmented and riddled with gaps. Even ones that should have left a strong impression were blurred — like his birth parents' names. Or the scrap of paper he'd treasured for years, convinced it would grant him supernatural power — Ryan couldn't reconstruct its exact contents.
He picked himself up off the floor and quickly skimmed through what memories remained, confirming this was true across the board: everything was impressionistic at best, hazy and broken, completely stripped of continuity and missing a heap of specific details. It left him wondering whether he'd even be able to read the writing in this world — and it left him cursing the gambling addict whose shoes he now wore.
You've managed to endanger yourself and potentially me too. You absolutely deserved to get conned. If you'd just asked the formula seller to demonstrate this so-called supernatural power first, I'd at least give you a point for having some sense.
Ow — when did I stop noticing how cold this floor is? Great. Hope transmigrating into this idiot hasn't dragged my IQ down with him.
He'd paid special attention to the memory of when the big guy had purchased the potion formula. The seller said it, the idiot believed it — zero hesitation, zero skepticism.
Objectively speaking, the seller hadn't completely lied. From the big guy's memories, Ryan could confirm that what happened when the potion was brewed would have defied common sense even by the standards of this world.
Still not a reason for you, you idiot, to believe it was going to give you supernatural power!
Ryan exhaled slowly, pulling himself back to calm. He turned his attention to the only table in the room, where a stone-weighted slip of paper lay — the potion formula:
Sequence 9: Assassin
Primary ingredients: Root tendrils of the Shadow Poisonflower; black feathers of the Cockatrice.
Secondary ingredients: 100ml concentrated vinegar; three petals of the Shadow Poisonflower; 10 drops of buttercup essential oil; one live spider.
"Assassin?"
Ryan had just allowed himself a small sigh of relief at still being able to read the script of this other world — and then glanced at his current stocky frame. He almost laughed.
But when his gaze drifted to the boxes on the table containing the materials listed in the formula, he went completely silent. Familiar objects nudged the memories back to life — and Ryan recalled a scene so ridiculous he didn't know whether to laugh or despair:
Before brewing the potion, the big idiot had discovered that the live spider — one of the secondary ingredients — was dead. Rather than go catch a new one, he'd shrugged it off with close enough and gone ahead without it.
You absolutely deserved it, Ryan finally thought, no longer holding back. You really, truly deserved everything you got.
Author's Note (this chapter):"My phone! My games! I want to file a complaint!"
尖酸苹果 / 额地圣剑 · 03-20 08:32 · Guangdong