In a cramped attic, a boy of fourteen or fifteen sat slumped against the raw timber wall, his face tinged with blue. Blood had flowed from the back of his skull, soaking the wooden planks beneath him and pooling on the floor. His black hair was matted into sticky, clumped strands.
He sat in a pool of his own blood. The sharp, metallic scent mixed with the room's usual stale odors, creating a nauseating stench that hung heavy in the air—the kind that made you want to gag.
No one knew how long he had lain there, forgotten. Then, suddenly, the boy's eyelids twitched. A moment later, his pale fingers moved as well.
His head throbbed with a pain so intense it felt like it would split open. Every muscle in his body ached with a bone-deep weakness.
Fighting against the crushing fatigue, Raymond clawed his way back to consciousness. He forced his eyes open, and a blurry, confined space slowly came into focus. A small, hard bed sat against one wall, its linens rumpled and giving off a faint, unpleasant odor. On a rickety object that barely qualified as a table rested an oil lamp, its flame flickering weakly, casting dim, dancing shadows.
Still slumped against the wall, Raymond's gaze drifted to the attic's only window. Through it, he could see the faint orange glow of fire outside and hear the crackle and pop of burning wood.
He tried to turn his head for a better look, but a searing jolt of agony from the back of his skull made him grunt in pain. His vision swam, and before he could stop it, darkness claimed him once more.
When Raymond next woke, he didn't know how much time had passed. But this time, his mind was flooded with memories that weren't his.
They belonged to a boy with no name—a simpleton, born with a dull mind, a servant with no freedom to call his own. Scattered fragments showed a life spent entirely in this very building, doing odd jobs, fetching drinks, sweeping floors. His entire world was this old house and the old master he served. His universe had a radius of less than a hundred meters.
The only other people in his life were a fat cook and a strong but simple-minded coachman who also lived in the house.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Raymond slowly pushed himself up and staggered to the window. Gripping the frame for support, he looked out.
A fire raged below. The entire stable was nearly consumed, the flames painting the courtyard in an eerie, flickering light. The luxurious carriage that had been parked outside was now just a skeletal framework of thick, blackened metal. Beyond the circle of firelight lay an impenetrable darkness. The wind carried a foul stench—a mix of decay and burnt matter—and a strange buzzing sound, like the wings of countless insects.
"A mentally challenged servant? Did I... transmigrate?" he mumbled, pressing a hand to his forehead, his expression blank with disbelief. "The last thing I remember was just... reorganizing some adult films from that island nation."
He looked around the tiny room again—the thick log walls, the gloomy interior, the old-fashioned lamp. Everything was foreign. The rough, uncomfortable clothes he wore felt like neither linen nor cloth.
Raymond, a reclusive otaku by nature, had to accept the absurd reality with a resigned sigh.
Digesting the simpleton's fragmented memories, he caught a final image before the boy's death: a sinister, cold-eyed face. It belonged to an important visitor who had arrived that evening and been warmly received by the old master. This man had suddenly struck the boy on the head with some object.
Raymond gingerly touched the back of his head. The sticky, clotted blood under his fingers confirmed it. The guy had come to kill.
"Did the idiot servant do something to piss him off?" Raymond muttered, frustrated, and habitually raised his fingers to rub his temples.
BEEP!
A long, clear tone rang through his mind, jolting him from his daze.
"Personal Gene-Chip HX278060 at your service. Manufactured by Huaxia Corporation, supervised by the Earth Federation Artificial Auxiliary Intelligence Regulatory Department," a magnetic, sweet female voice announced inside his head.
Raymond felt no panic. He recognized it immediately. It was the chip implanted at birth for every Earthling. This startup message only happened the very first time it activated.
Developed in the 23rd century, this chip was standard issue. Its functions were simple—recording, analysis, storage—but essential for humanity, now traveling between planets. Implanted directly into his genes, it worked like an extension of his own brain. It wasn't truly A.I., but its recording function could capture everything his senses perceived: sights, sounds, even smells. Its analysis function provided basic logical modeling, using math and physics to process information. And its storage capacity grew as he did, theoretically capable of holding millennia of sensory data. It was the tool that had freed humanity from rote learning, making everyone a scholar with a perfect memory.
Raymond took a deep breath, still leaning against the wall, watching the fire through the window. He needed a moment. If his gene-chip had come with him, then his original genes must have as well, becoming part of his new body.
"Please name the chip," the sweet voice prompted again.
"One," he said simply.
"Name accepted. Chip system restarting..." The sweet female voice cut off.
Raymond winced. With the restart, the hundreds of thousands of hours of adult films stored in his chip's memory would be lost forever. This whole mess probably had something to do with him using the chip's high-speed data copy function right before... whatever happened.
After the restart, the chip would become an inseparable part of his brain. Its voice would now sound like his own inner thoughts, the sweet female voice gone for good.
He knew nothing about this strange world. The original owner of this body was an empty vessel, a low-IQ servant. The only strong memory the boy had was of the white-haired old master, who possessed a terrifying power to inflict pain whenever the boy made a mistake.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Three long tones signaled the restart was complete. Raymond relaxed his body and mentally commanded, "Check physical status."
Instantly, a 3D model of himself materialized in his mind. Waterfalls of data cascaded before his eyes, numbers flashing rapidly.
"Minor fracture detected at the occiput of the skull. Estimated healing time: 132 hours."
"WARNING! WARNING! Undetermined toxic substance detected within the body. Estimated time until host paralysis: 198 hours."
His eyes flew open in shock. Staring blankly at the open window, he froze.
Eight days? He'd be dead in eight days?
The initial thrill of having his chip was brutally crushed by this sudden death sentence. The chip's mechanical voice was indifferent to the horror; it just kept feeding him information.
It was going to take time to process everything—the apparent transmigration of his genes and chip, and now this.
The original owner's memories were nearly useless, a blank slate. Without data about this world, his chip couldn't build a proper database.
"Maybe the toxin isn't as bad as the chip detected," he tried to reassure himself weakly.
But the fire from the stable was spreading, threatening to ignite this building too. Forcing his weak body to move, Raymond headed for the door.
His gloomy attic room was at the very top. Holding the wall, he slowly made his way down. On the second-floor landing, he saw the first body: the plump cook. She'd been cut clean in half. Her brains, like white bean curd, mixed with torn organs and blood, splattered against the wall, now dried to a dark brown.
Stepping carefully around her, Raymond reached the ground floor entrance. The strong coachman lay there, or what was left of him. Only one thick thigh remained somewhat intact near the door. The rest of his body was a skeleton picked clean, with only scraps of flesh and sinew clinging to the bones.
Just outside the open door, countless black, winged insects swarmed over his remains, their click-clack of mandibles audible even from here.
Raymond crept closer, peeking outside. The moment he did, the chip screamed a warning in his mind: "WARNING! WARNING! Unknown toxin detected. Contamination radius exceeds fifty centimeters. Evacuate immediately!"
He stumbled back in shock, but his foot caught a vase. It crashed to the floor with a loud smash. The sound had barely faded when a hoarse, aged voice rasped through the house, echoing in his ears.
"Come to my room."
His body reacted before his mind could. He snapped to attention and answered loudly, "Yes, sir!"
It was pure instinct from the original owner. As soon as the words left his mouth, his skin crawled. He knew he'd messed up.
"Hurry," the voice rasped, weak but carrying an intimidating pressure, followed by a violent, wracking cough. The sound from his chest was like an old, dry air pump, rusted and struggling for oil.
Turning away from the entrance, Raymond silently commanded his chip to analyze the insects. A magnified image appeared in his mind: tiny black midges, barely two millimeters long, with sharp mouth parts filled with rows of razor-like teeth. The coachman's bones were already pitted with fine holes from their feeding. Countless millions of them buzzed against some invisible barrier at the doorway, unable to enter, their combined wings creating a deafening, grating drone.
Following the corridor, Raymond reached the door to the innermost room. He stopped at the threshold, stunned.
The large, once-orderly room was in shambles. Everything was overturned. A sharp, irritating smell stung his nostrils.
Then he saw the old master, sitting in the corner.
"Hmph. Strange aura. An inexplicable mental fluctuation." The hoarse, weary voice spoke again. "You are not my servant. What is your name?"
The old man was dressed in a white robe, his face twisted in pain. He sat rigidly upright, but his body had an eerie sheen to it, like gray rock. In the lamplight, the effect was grotesque.
"Raymond," he answered truthfully, and silently commanded his chip, Scan this person.
Thin, blood-red threads appeared in his vision as the scan began. A 3D model formed before him. But it was wrong. The model showed that only the upper half of the body, from the waist up, was human flesh. From the waist down, the man was turning to stone.
"Scanning subject surrounded by turbulent energy field. High threat level!" One's mechanical voice echoed. The rocky portion in the 3D image was visibly creeping upwards, even as he watched. Data cascaded, but Raymond's face had already gone pale.
"Curious little creature," the old man rasped. "What does it feel like, coming back from the dead?"
"Headache. Weakness all over."
Raymond's honest answer drew a hoarse laugh from the old master. As he watched, the fabric around the man's midsection was slowly changing color, taking on the same stony gray as his lower body.
The old man's eerie gaze made Raymond uncomfortable. On impulse, he added, "This isn't my world."
He paused, looking at the old man staring at him like he was some kind of freak. "And," he hesitated, then just came out with it, "I've been poisoned. I have less than a week."
The old man's eyes narrowed, studying Raymond intently until he squirmed under the scrutiny. Finally, he looked away and spoke, his voice low. "Do you want to hear a story?"