Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World

Pain. Deep, unrelenting pain that pulsed with each ragged breath.

Then came the cold—raw, unnatural cold, like winter itself had taken root in Moe's chest. It spread outward in waves, numbing his limbs and freezing his blood. The sensation was so vivid it dragged him up from the depths of unconsciousness.

With a sharp gasp, Moe's eyes shot open.

The first thing he saw was an unfamiliar ceiling, high and decorative,its surface carved with intricate patterns of intertwined leaves and majestic symbols. In the center of the ceiling, a grand chandelier hung, its crystals refracting a warm and soft light, a fixture more suited to a king's palace than a humble house. The design was regal, elegant, and far beyond anything he was used to. His breathing hitched. This isn't my room.

His room—wherever it was—had a worn, utilitarian feel to it, with a single bed pushed against a dull beige wall, a small, rickety desk in the corner, and a battered, second-hand dresser that seemed to lean precariously against the adjacent wall. A lone, flickering overhead light cast an unforgiving glare, illuminating the space's sparse furnishings and the faint scent of stale air that clung to everything. It was a space that seemed to exist solely for functionality, a temporary refuge for a struggling person like him, and nothing more.

Summoning his strength, Moe turned his head, and then he felt it—a sharp stab through his ribs, like claws tearing into him. His hand shot to his chest.

And there it was.

A jagged spear of ice pierced straight through him, the surface shimmering as though carved from pure frost. It glowed faintly with an eerie blue light, faint veins of frost spiraling outward from where it entered his body. For a moment, his mind failed to comprehend it, his fingers trembling as they brushed the slick, frozen surface. There was no blood. No warmth. Only the cold.

Moe was still in disbelief, woken up to an unfamiliar ceiling that loomed above him. The memory of being shot with a shard of magical ice lingered, its icy grip still seared into his skin. He was confused between the possibility of being trapped in a dream and the harsh reality that He has been shooted and was about to die. A wave of confusion washed over him as he struggled to move his shoulder, the pain a stark reminder of his predicament.

 In a desperate attempt to shake off the confusion, Moe bit his tongue, the sudden jolt of pain and the metallic taste of blood a harsh confirmation that he was, indeed, awake. "Ohh, it hurts," he mumbled to himself, the words barely audible. The physical sensation was a cruel reality check, and Moe's eyes widened as he realized that this was no dream.

In a desperate attempt to recall any useful information, Moe's mind wandered back to the online content he had once read about treating wounds. He remembered the crucial advice: when a sharp object enters the body, it's essential not to remove it, but to call for help instead. Summoning with a little strength he had, Moe prepared to shout for assistance. But before he could utter a sound, the ice shard vanished, and his body began to heal at an alarming rate. 

His skin repaired itself before his very eyes, the process unfolding like a timelapse video. The pain dissipated, replaced by a new, overwhelming sensation – shock. Moe's thoughts of seeking help were forgotten, consumed by the astonishment of his miraculous recovery.

As he gazed in shock at his rapidly healing wounds, Moe began to feel a surge of strength returning to his body. It started with a slight twitch in his fingers, followed by a gradual loosening of his muscles. With each passing moment, he felt his vitality increasing, allowing him to move his limbs with greater ease. Before long, Moe was able to sit up straight, as he leaned against the pillow, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings.

The room was a large, dimly lit chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling. The walls were made of polished wood and were decorated with faded tapestries that depicted scenes of battles, feasts, and mythical creatures. A large, ornate bed frame stood against one wall, its velvet drapes worn and faded. A wooden desk sat in the corner, cluttered with parchments, quills, and strange, arcane artifacts. A large, stone fireplace stood near the bed heating up the room smoothly. Some wooden portraits of various people were also hung on the wall.

As he scanned the room, he slowly regained his strength and carefully stood up, his eyes fixed on the study desk. He took a tentative step to walk toward the desk and sat on the chair, his gaze drawn to a quill lying on the surface. Next to it, a small, fancy hand held mirror caught his attention. The mirror's surface was smooth and unblemished, reflecting the room's warm, golden light. Without thinking, Moe picked up the mirror, and as he did, his face was reflected back at him. But it wasn't his face. The person staring back at him was a stranger, with a round, chubby face and a prominent double chin. Moe's eyes widened in shock as he took in the unfamiliar features.

He turned the mirror, examining the rest of the body reflected in its surface. The arms were thick and flabby, the hands were stubby. The legs were equally unrecognizable, with a noticeable paunch around the midsection. Moe's mind reeled as he struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. He had been in so much pain when he suddenly woke up that he hadn't noticed the changes in his body. But now, staring at the mirror, he was faced with the shocking truth. "Did I really transmigrate or become possessed into another person's body?" he whispered to himself, his voice trembling with dismay. "And of all the bodies in the world, why did I end up in this...this...".

Just as he was about to utter the final words of his despairing thought, a searing pain shot through his brain, like a bolt of lightning striking his mind. His vision blurred, and his body betrayed him, sending him crashing to the wooden floor. He rolled uncontrollably, his limbs flailing wildly as he struggled to regain control. The pain was excruciating, a throbbing ache that seemed to pulse through every fiber of his being. Time lost all meaning as he lay there, helpless and writhing in agony.

But eventually, the pain began to subside, and Moe's strength slowly returned. He lay still for a moment, catching his breath and waiting for the room to stop spinning. Then, with hard effort, he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled towards the wooden chair, collapsing onto its seat with a soft groan. He sat there, motionless and silent, as he reflected on the memories that had flooded his mind during his ordeal. Fragments of a life not his own had flashed before his eyes, like a jumbled montage of images and emotions. The memories were disjointed and unclear, but they were undeniably real, and they belonged to the body he now inhabited. Moe's mind reeled as he struggled to make sense of these new memories, and the life that had been thrust upon him. Moe realized that the person he transmigrated into was named King Arthur Jr.