Zhang Lu's room smelled of instant noodles and stale fabric—salt, oil, and the faint sourness of clothes worn too many times between washes. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering every few minutes, its weak light stuttering as if even electricity had grown tired of staying awake.
It was past two in the morning.
The apartment was quiet in the way only old buildings ever were—never truly silent. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Pipes clicked behind the walls. Somewhere upstairs, a neighbor shouted in their sleep, a single muffled curse before the world settled again.
Zhang Lu was seventeen and exhausted.
School by day. Convenience store by night. His body ached with the dull, accumulated fatigue of someone too young to be this tired—but his mind refused to shut down.
Cold blue light washed over his face as he scrolled on his phone, eyes tracing familiar lines for the fourth time this month.
Chronicles of Mysteries.
His escape.
A sprawling dark-fantasy epic—abandoned gods, awakening bloodlines, an empire built atop lies so ancient no one remembered they were lies anymore. The world was cruel, beautiful, and mercilessly written.
His favorite character wasn't the protagonist.
It was Leonard Voss.
A side character. A footnote in the grand tragedy. Silver-haired. Brilliant. Lonely. Born into a fallen divine house, carrying a legacy that crushed him long before it ever empowered him.
Leonard died halfway through the story.
Sacrificed to a prophecy no one fully understood.
Every reread burned the same helpless anger into Zhang Lu's chest. Every time, he thought the same impossible thought—
If I could just reach into the pages…
He paused mid-scroll.
Someone had posted fan art in the comments.
Leonard stood beneath a starlit sky, white jacket catching the light, eyes pale as winter ice. His expression was quiet, watchful—like someone who had already accepted an ending no one else could see.
Zhang Lu saved the image without thinking.
The artist had captured it perfectly.
Too much weight. Too much silence.
His vision blurred.
He rubbed his eyes, stifled a yawn, and let his forehead sink onto his folded arms atop the desk. The phone slipped from his fingers, clattering softly against the wood.
"Just… five minutes," he mumbled.
The last thing he saw was the final line of the chapter glowing faintly on the fallen screen.
…when the stars fall silent, everyone dies.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Darkness—thick, absolute.
Zhang Lu floated within it, time stretching into something meaningless. There was no sound. No sensation. Only a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes, slow and insistent.
Panic flickered.
Am I dead?
He tried to move. To scream. To breathe.
Nothing answered.
The ache sharpened. His lungs burned, as if he had been holding his breath for years.
Then—
A sliver of light.
Faint. Fragile.
He clawed toward it.
His eyes snapped open.
Dust motes drifted through pale moonlight.
For one disoriented heartbeat, he thought he was home. His cheek rested against wood. A book lay open beneath his arms. His neck screamed in protest from the awkward angle.
He blinked, waiting for the familiar mess to swim into focus—
Posters peeling from the walls. A mountain of laundry in the corner. Orion's abandoned game controller on the floor.
Instead—
Stone.
Arched windows.
Shelves upon shelves of leather-bound volumes rising into shadow.
The air smelled of candle wax and ancient paper.
Zhang Lu sat up slowly.
His heart slammed once—hard and terrified.
This wasn't his room.
The desk was antique, dark wood etched with faint runes that glimmered softly in the moonlight. An hourglass stood beside the open book, its sand long since spent. Journals were stacked haphazardly—some cracked with age, others bound with faded ribbon.
He looked down.
White jacket.
Black accents.
A heavy metallic badge pinned to his chest—a starburst encircling an unblinking eye.
The fabric was fine. Cool. Expensive.
Beneath it, a fitted vest and a silk tie woven with subtle constellation patterns.
His hands—
Longer fingers. Paler skin. Calluses he didn't recognize.
A chill crawled up his spine.
He stood too quickly and swayed, catching the desk as the room tilted, then steadied. Moonlight spilled through a narrow window high in the wall, painting everything silver.
"Hello?" His voice came out hoarse.
Unfamiliar.
Lower. Smoother.
"Orion?"
Silence answered.
Boots whispered against a threadbare rug as he moved. The room was small—almost cell-like. A narrow cot in the corner. An unlit lantern by the door. No outlets. No wires.
No hum of electricity.
His pulse thundered.
He crossed to the window.
A city spread below—vast, impossible. Spires and domes pierced a night sky bruised with stars. Floating lanterns drifted between buildings like slow-burning fireflies.
Far away, a black fortress crouched atop a cliff, its windows glowing red.
Zhang Lu knew that fortress.
He had read about it a hundred times.
The Dark Castle.
Seat of the Empire's shadow council.
"No," he breathed.
He turned—and saw his reflection.
A polished silver tray rested on a side table. His hands shook as he lifted it, angling it toward the light.
Silver-white hair.
Skin pale enough to reveal faint blue veins at the temples.
Eyes—sharp, glacial blue—wide with disbelief.
Leonard Voss.
The tray slipped from his fingers and clanged against stone.
"This isn't real," he whispered. "I'm dreaming. Bad ramen. Hallucinating."
He pinched his arm.
Pain flared.
The world remained.
He slid down a bookshelf, books pressing into his spine, and buried his face in his arms.
Think.
Facts:
He fell asleep reading Chronicles of Mysteries.
He woke in Leonard Voss's archive room.
He was wearing Leonard's body.
Conclusion—
Zhang Lu laughed, cracked and hollow.
"Of all the characters," he muttered, "it had to be the one who dies."
Then—
Heat.
He looked up.
Across the stone wall, letters burned themselves into existence.
EVERYONE DIES.
The words pulsed once—brilliant as falling stars—then cooled into scorched black.
Zhang Lu's mouth went dry.
That line wasn't supposed to appear yet.
Something had already gone wrong.
By the time the academy clock struck four, Leonard Voss was no longer waiting for the story to reach him.
He was moving.
He had read this world before.
This time—
He would rewrite the ending.