Holy Mystic Empire

This… is not the ceiling of my house.

That's the first thought that hit me when I opened my eyes.

No, wait. No. That's not right.

Is it this dark because it's nighttime? Or… am I dreaming?

That's the second one.

But no. No.

This is real.

I can feel it in my chest, in my skin, in that deep, pulsing pain shooting through my—

Ah—!

Shit.

I'd tried to sit up. Reflex. Instinct. Whatever.

And it was a mistake. A stupid one. Because the moment I moved, a bolt of pain stabbed right through my abdomen.

Like something had ripped me open. Like something was still inside me.

Twisting.

It took me half a second longer to register the pounding in my skull.

Like a war of angry clouds was crashing inside my brain.

Too heavy. Too loud.

I gritted my teeth and forced my gaze downward.

My clothes—rough, white, coarse—were soaked in black.

Dark red in this light, but I know what it is.

Blood.

I know the smell.

I know that sour, raw-metal taste that hits the back of your throat even when you're not trying to breathe it in.

No. This is bad.

"Oh, shit—"

The sweat hit me like a bucket of ice water.

It just poured out.

Dripped off my chin. My neck.

Every nerve felt cold. Too cold.

I didn't even bother trying to make sense of the room around me—unfamiliar, shadowy.

I just moved.

Hands to my gut. Automatically.

The blood—God, the blood.

I'm going to go into shock if I don't slow this bleeding.

Low blood volume. Then anemia. Then the weakness. Then the fatigue. Then unconsciousness. Then...

…death.

No. Not yet.

Okay. Okay. Think.

I peeled my fingers back, carefully opening the tattered fabric of my shirt.

It stuck.

Because of course it did. Dried blood, fresh blood—it glues itself to you.

And the moment I pulled it loose, the tearing sensation nearly made me vomit.

Yep. That's a hole. That's definitely a hole.

How deep?

Shit. That's deep.

I can see part of the—

Nope. Don't look too long. Focus.

Treatment. Steps. Prioritize.

Except—except—I'm not in a hospital.

I'm not in an ER.

I'm not even anywhere that resembles anywhere I've ever worked.

So where the hell am I?

I snapped my eyes up.

Scanned the room. Frantic.

But there's... nothing.

One bed. One wardrobe. No desk. No drawers. No medkit. Not even a goddamn chair.

I couldn't even spot a piece of cloth I'd trust to tie off a wound.

This is—

Wait. Wait wait wait. Don't panic. You can't afford to panic.

Panic makes the heart beat faster.

Faster heart, faster bleeding.

Just breathe.

…This is a newly rented place.

That's why it's so empty.

Wait, what?

How… how do I know that?

I blinked, feeling my mind slip. A second voice chimed in—like it had always been there.

Like it had never not been there.

No. No no no. That's not me.

Why would I know that this is newly rented?

Why would I know the landlord charged 2 silver Narc's a week?

What the hell is a "Narc"?

I grabbed my head, fingers digging into my hair, trying to fight the pain.

The confusion was making it worse.

But my body pulled my gaze downward again.

Because something was happening.

My abdomen—where the gash was—was moving.

Squirming.

No. No, no. No. No. That's not—

Muscle, tissue, skin—it was... rebuilding itself.

Right in front of me. Fast. Too fast.

My breath caught. I was too afraid to blink.

Even though it was my body.

Even though it was my flesh.

It still felt... wrong. Unnatural. Wrong again.

Within minutes—minutes—it was like the wound had never been there.

I touched the spot. Gently. Then a little harder.

Solid.

Blood still there, though. Sticky. Warm. Real.

"…What is this…"

My voice cracked. I barely recognized it.

The pain in my gut had almost completely faded.

The headache hadn't.

But at least I could think.

Sort of.

I looked around again. Still that same sparse room.

Where am I?

13 Staple Street. Hudew.

Rented it just last week from a landlord so tight-fisted he charges for water and floor space.

No—what?

I don't—I shouldn't know that.

And yet, I do.

Two voices. No—one voice. But with two memories.

Mine.

And... someone else's.

I sat still. Tried to breathe through it. Tried to piece the fragments together.

And slowly… they came.

Like bits of torn pages falling in snow.

A name—Feron Mornez.

Born and raised in Hudew, Fallshire, within the Wagon Empire.

Age twenty.

Orphaned young. Grew up poor. Not remarkable.

Firm belief in something called the Saltmother Veriditas.

Profession—Enigma Hunter.

What the hell is a Enigma hunter?

A title. A job. A dangerous one. He hunts things. Things called "Enigma's."

I didn't understand it either—until I did.

"Enigma" isn't just a word here.

It's... alive.

A living being. A strange phenomenon. Something that unlocks... the extraordinary.

I froze. The taste of disbelief was back in my mouth.

Like metal. Like blood.

This is real.

This is real.

This is real.

"I'm not dreaming, am I?"

I muttered. Bitter. Soft. Almost laughing. But not really.

I don't dream like this.

This isn't how dreams smell. Or feel.

I don't know why I'm here, or how, but I remember turning off my lamp and falling asleep and—

That was it. Nothing in between.

Now this. Now him.

From Mornez's memories—what little I've managed to gather—this place is roughly equivalent to Earth's early industrial period. Steam. Cogs. Oil.

But it's not the science that worries me.

It's the gods. The magic. The extraordinary.

Did this body—my body—get hurt during a Enigma hunt?

No memory of that.

Could be trauma. Could be memory loss.

Neither option is good.

And yet...

That healing just now? That was extraordinary.

But Feron—me—I mean, the original Feron—wasn't extraordinary. Not yet.

According to memory, the only way to become extraordinary is to perform something called a secret contract ceremony.

You bond with a "Enigma." Merge with it.

Pay the cost. Reap the power.

Only... the materials for the ceremony are too expensive. Way beyond anything a low-level hunter could afford.

So Feron worked for the Church. A contractor. A grunt. A pawn.

They call him a non-staff Enigma hunter. It's a glorified way of saying disposable.

He risks his life in the wilderness, hunting anomalies and unexplained horrors, hoping one day he'll earn enough money to become more than just meat.

So—if he wasn't extraordinary—why the hell did I heal like that?

Is it because of the "me" that came along for the ride?

A golden finger? Some transmigrator's cheat code?

No. Don't be ridiculous. That only happens in novels.

Still…

I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. Useless speculation won't help.

Not right now.

I waited for the throb in my skull to lessen. When it did, I pushed myself off the bed, legs trembling. Barely holding.

I limped to the small, separate bathroom.

The only reason I rented this place was because of that tiny washroom. Two silver Narc's a week. Highway robbery.

The thought drifted through my head like it belonged to someone else.

Which it kind of did.

I lit a match from the shelf. The candlestick on the gray wall flickered to life.

Brass tap turned. Water gurgled.

I stripped out of my ruined clothes and scrubbed the blood from my skin with shaking fingers. Every inch. Every pore.

Didn't stop until I was clean.

Didn't realize how long I'd been staring into the mirror until the flame started to sputter behind me.

The face looking back at me was... unfamiliar.

Bun of dull flax hair, like it was chopped with a kitchen knife.

Sea-glass blue eyes.

High nose bridge. Sickly pale skin.

Tall—over 1.9 meters—but too thin.

Like a scarecrow on stilts.

"...I used to be better looking than this guy."

The joke fell flat.

Because I wasn't joking.

I breathed in.

Then again.

"My name is Feron Mornez."

The words tasted like dust.

"My name is Feron Mornez."

Again. Louder.

"My name is Feron Mornez."

And just as I said it—

A shadow.

No—a face.

Dark. Smoky. Grinning.

It merged with mine in the mirror.

Eyes gleaming.

Wrong.

Wrong.

My blood turned to ice.

I staggered backward and slammed into the cold, gray wall behind me.

My breath caught.

Something's here.

Something... is already inside.