After work hours ended, Adrian headed home. He looked up at the city sky that had already lost its color. The tall buildings around him stood grand and cold, reflecting the glow of streetlights and the moving lights of passing vehicles.
As usual, Adrian took the train, then walked a short distance to the bus stop and rode it to the stop nearest his apartment. Once he arrived, he walked inside with weary steps, his shoulders slightly slumped, as if the day had left behind an invisible weight.
He closed the door and turned the key once.
Silence immediately greeted him.
He took off his shoes and placed them neatly on the rack. His work bag was set down carelessly on the sofa. Adrian loosened his tie while letting out a long breath, then walked into the simple yet tidy and clean living room, where a bookshelf filled one side of the wall.
He switched on the light and went straight to the shelf.
His hand stopped at a book with a dark cover: The Kingdom of War. He had been reading it for the past few nights, and tonight only a few pages remained before reaching the end. He went into his bedroom and sat down, leaning back against the chair, then opened the page marked by a thin bookmark.
The story moved toward its climax.
The moment when the main character finally defeated the villains. The long war came to an end, and the kingdom stood in a peace that, to Adrian, arrived far too quickly and too perfectly. All the villains were punished, as if that world could only be saved by one person standing firmly on the side of righteousness.
Who else could it be but the protagonist?
Adrian read through the final remaining pages, then closed the book and placed it on the table, his fingers tapping against the wooden surface in an impatient rhythm.
He felt restless—unlike his usual self, when finishing a book brought him relief. Now, there was no sense of satisfaction at all after reaching the end, only a strange emptiness.
He stared at the book's cover for a long moment, his brows slightly furrowed. To him, the ending felt off—not because it was wrong, but because it felt dishonest. The author seemed too confident that humanity could stop being greedy simply because the war had ended.
"No kingdom survives just because its villains are dead," Adrian murmured softly.
A sudden heaviness pressed against his head. Adrian reached for a small bottle in the pocket of his jacket—the pills he usually took to calm his mind. Without a second thought, he swallowed one, then took a glass of water and drank it down before leaning back in his chair.
The wall clock ticked softly.
At first, he only felt his eyelids grow heavy. Then, all at once, the world seemed to drift away, like a sound slowly being turned down. The book The Kingdom of War lay open on the table, its pages stirred by a faint breeze from a window that was not fully closed.
Adrian pressed a hand to his chest as it tightened, his breathing growing labored. His stomach twisted painfully, nausea rising within him. In that state, the faces of his parents suddenly flashed through his mind—both of them wearing gentle smiles—and then everything went dark.
***
Cold brushed against his skin, and Adrian opened his eyes with a sharp gasp. He no longer felt tightness in his chest or nausea, nor did he smell the familiar scent of his room. Instead, he stared up at a vast blue sky stretching endlessly above him.
Wait—this wasn't his ceiling. And why was the sky so blue? Wasn't it supposed to be night?
Adrian sat up abruptly and looked around, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. This was ground, not a floor—and the cold he felt was wind, not air conditioning.
His heart pounded hard.
"Wait… I…" His voice trembled without him realizing it. "Where am I?"
The words drifted uselessly into the open air, and in that very moment, Adrian realized something that sent chills down his spine—this was not a dream.
He looked around. A vast expanse of grass stretched as far as the eye could see, swaying gently in the wind. Amid the dominant green, various flowers bloomed—white, pale yellow, soft purple, and faint pink. Their petals were small but vivid, as if this place had never been touched by buildings or human feet for years.
The view was beautiful.
Adrian took one step forward, then stopped. His foot pressed into the soft, slightly damp earth. He bent down, plucked a purple flower, and gently crushed it between his fingers. It was real. Not an illusion, not a dream image that would fade when he woke.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps came from behind him.
Adrian stiffened.
He turned quickly, his heart racing. A man stood a few steps away—neatly dressed in a long dark coat, his posture upright, his expression restrained but respectful. His hair was combed neatly, and a sword hung at his waist, secured in its sheath.
This man was no farmer or commoner.
"Young Master, please return," the man said calmly, as if those words were something he said often.
Adrian fell silent.
Young Master?
The title felt wrong. Young master of what? Who? Him?
He swallowed, his gaze sweeping over the man from head to toe, searching for signs of deception or a joke. There was none—no smile, no confusion. The man simply waited with practiced patience.
"Return… to where?" Adrian finally asked, forcing his voice to stay steady.
The man frowned slightly—not in suspicion, but in concern. "To the residence, of course. The wind here is too cold for you, sir."
The word residence sent another shiver up Adrian's spine.
He glanced once more at the field of grass and flowers around him. Everything felt too vivid—the sharp colors, the air biting into his lungs, the solid ground beneath his feet. This was not a dream. Nor was it a hallucination brought on by exhaustion or the medicine he had taken.
He truly did not belong here.
Adrian swallowed hard, his thoughts spinning rapidly. He had read countless books—about transmigration, about people waking up in other worlds, inhabiting foreign bodies, or being dragged into stories they once read. Back then, he had dismissed all of it as entertainment. Fantasies far too exaggerated to believe.
But now, the concept stood directly in front of him.
If this is transmigration… he thought, then I'm not just lost. I'm living inside someone else's story.
His gaze returned to the man still waiting patiently, as if the silence were nothing more than a brief pause. Adrian took a deep breath, forcing calm upon himself.
If this truly was another world—if this really was a story he had once read—then one thing he knew for certain: he had to be careful.
But the question remained—how had he ended up here?
Adrian lowered his head, his brows knitting together. His memory drifted back to the quiet apartment, to the glass of water in his hand, to the small pill he had swallowed without much thought. After that, there had only been darkness.
Was it because of that pill?
The thought made his chest tighten. He had never taken more than the recommended dose. Never. But if this wasn't a dream, then something had severed the life he knew from the world he now stood in.
"Am I… dead?" he murmured softly, barely audible.
He quickly shook his head, rejecting the possibility. His body felt too real. His heartbeat was clear, his breath warm, the cold wind piercing his skin in a way no dead man could feel.
That meant he was alive.
Or at least, alive in a different sense.
Adrian slowly lifted his head. Whatever the cause—the pill, exhaustion, or something far more absurd—
"Young Master," the man called again when Adrian still did not respond.
His tone remained polite, but this time clear concern seeped through. He stepped half a pace closer, stopping at a distance that still respected the etiquette of a servant toward his master.
"The wind is growing colder. If you fall ill, the Duke will be furious," he added, more softly now, as if afraid of touching on something sensitive.
The words "the Duke" made Adrian fall silent once more.
He looked at the man—his face sincere, his demeanor trained, his stance one of unwavering loyalty. This man clearly knew him. Or rather, knew the body Adrian now occupied.
Adrian took a long breath, then gave a small nod, trying to imitate the calm composure a "Young Master" was supposed to have.
"Alright. Let's return," he said at last, his voice slightly lower than usual.
The man visibly relaxed. He gave a brief respectful gesture before turning around to lead the way. As Adrian followed behind, a bitter realization crept into his mind—whatever role he was now playing, he had no choice but to play it.
For now.
Adrian sat inside the carriage with his back straight, though his body remained stiff from tension that had yet to fully fade.
The interior was anything but simple—clearly made for nobility. Thickly upholstered seats, small windows draped with dark curtains, and polished wooden floors. Every creak of the wheels rolling over the ground sounded real, reinforcing once again that none of this was an illusion.
He turned to look out the window.
The field of grass and flowers slowly receded, replaced by a more compact dirt road. Trees lined both sides, their leaves swaying gently in the wind. In the distance, a stone wall grew increasingly clear—towering, solid, and carrying an aura of age and cold authority.
A kingdom.
Adrian clenched his fingers atop his knees. The Kingdom of War. The title echoed in his mind—the last book he had read before everything went dark.
Could it be… that he had entered that book?
The thought sounded impossible, yet it fit far too well with his current situation. The title Young Master, the way the people around him behaved—the first man who addressed him, then several others he saw when boarding the carriage. They looked exactly like the guards often described in novels.
Adrian swallowed.
If this truly was The Kingdom of War, then where was he within the story? At the beginning, the middle, or the end?
The carriage continued forward, its wheels thudding softly as his thoughts grew increasingly tangled. Adrian stared at his own hands—hands that were no longer just his, but belonged to someone with status, a family, and a future in this world.
If I really am inside a book… he thought, then who am I here?