Lord of the Mysteries Chapter 1 - Crimson

A gaudy, mesmerizing dreamscape filled with indistinct whispers disintegrated in an instant. Zhou Mingrui, deep in slumber, felt a sudden, thumping agony in his skull, as though he were repeatedly being lashed by a rod. No, it was more akin to a sharp implement driving into his temples with a violent, twisting motion.

In a daze, Zhou Mingrui tried to roll over, lift his head, and rise, yet his body refused to obey. It was as if he had entirely lost command of his own limbs.

Zhou Mingrui, not unaccustomed to such episodes, concentrated with all his might, desperate to break free from the suffocating darkness and confusion.

However, trapped within this reverie, his willpower felt fleeting, like mist caught in the wind. He found his consciousness drifting, unable to focus or introspect. Despite his best efforts, the distraction of random thoughts kept pulling his mind away.

The throbbing agony eventually overwhelmed Zhou Mingrui, granting him just enough phantom stamina to twitch his back and force his eyelids open. He had escaped the dream.

His vision was initially blurry, then washed in a faint, crimson hue. Directly before him sat a desk constructed of sturdy, dark wood. Open in the center lay a notebook with rough, yellowed pages, its title inscribed in striking, deep black ink using an archaic script.

To the left of the notebook rested a neat stack of eight books. The wall to his right was equipped with grayish-white pipes connected to mounted wall lamps.

Each lamp emitted a classic Western charm, roughly the size of a man’s head; they featured a transparent glass interior encased in a black metal grid.

Resting diagonally beneath a lamp was a glass ink bottle, enveloped in a pale red glow, its surface embossed with a faint, angelic motif.

In front of the ink bottle, to the right of the notebook, sat a dark, cylindrical fountain pen. Its nib offered a subtle glint, and its cap sat neatly beside a brass revolver.

Zhou Mingrui stared in sheer disbelief. Everything scattered across the desk felt entirely foreign. This was nothing like a bedroom he recognized.

Amidst his shock and bewilderment, he noticed that the desk, the notebook, the ink bottle, and the weapon were all shrouded in a crimson 'veil'—a result of the moonbeams streaming in from the window.

Instinctively, he lifted his chin and followed the source of the crimson light upward.

Suspended in the air, a blood-red moon hung high against a backdrop of black velvet, glowing in haunting silence.

Zhou Mingrui felt a surge of inexplicable dread, causing him to lurch upward in terror. However, his legs buckled instantly, his brain protesting with a sharp, pulsating pain. He lost his footing and crashed heavily back into the sturdy wooden chair.

The pain was barely a distraction. Bracing himself, Zhou Mingrui rose once more. In a flurry of panic, he spun around to survey his surroundings.

The chamber was modest in size, featuring a brown door on either side. Near the far wall sat a low, simple wooden bed.

Between the bed and the left-hand door stood a cabinet with its doors wide open, revealing five drawers beneath.

Beside the cabinet, a grayish-white pipe ran along the wall, connected to an unusual mechanical apparatus featuring exposed gears and bearings.

In the corner, near the table, lay items resembling a coal-burning stove, accompanied by iron pots and various cooking utensils.

Opposite the right-hand door stood a full-length dressing mirror marred by two cracks. Its base was fashioned from basic, unadorned wood.

As he scanned the room, Zhou Mingrui caught his own reflection in the glass—or rather, the reflection of the person he now was.

Jet-black hair, brown eyes, clad in a linen shirt, a slender build, with average facial features and a fairly prominent bone structure.

Zhou Mingrui gasped audibly as a wave of helplessness and confusion swept over him.

The antique-style revolver and the blood-red moon, so distinct from the one he knew on Earth, could only imply one reality.

Zhou Mingrui’s jaw slackened in realization.

Having grown up devouring web novels, he had often fantasized about scenarios like this. Yet, faced with the cold, hard truth, he found it impossible to immediately process.

In the span of a minute, he cursed his fate while simultaneously trying to manage the dire circumstances.

If not for the persistent, thumping headache that strained his cognitive focus, he would have been certain this was merely a nightmare.

Taking several deep, steady breaths, Zhou Mingrui fought to suppress his panic.

At that moment, as his nerves settled, a flood of memories surged into his mind, appearing with startling clarity.

Klein Moretti, a resident of Tingen City in the Awwa County of the Loen Kingdom, Northern Continent. A recent graduate from the Department of History at Khoy University.

His father, a sergeant in the Royal Army, had died during a colonial clash in the Southern Continent. The survivor's pension allowed Klein to attend a private language school, paving his way to university.

His mother, a devout follower of the Evernight Goddess, had passed away the year Klein secured his university entrance exam.

He lived in a two-bedroom apartment with his surviving elder brother and younger sister.

The family was far from wealthy, struggling to scrape by. Currently, their entire livelihood depended on his brother’s meager wages as an clerk at an import-export firm.

As a history major, Klein possessed a deep understanding of the ancient Feysac tongue—the root of all Northern languages—as well as Hermes, a dialect frequently documented on ancient sarcophagi and in sacrificial rituals.

Zhou Mingrui’s mind whirled as he rubbed his aching temples. He turned his attention back to the open notebook on the table. He watched as the script on the yellowed parchment shifted from strange to illegible, and finally, into something he could comprehend.

It was written in Hermes.

The dark ink read: “Everyone will die, including me.”

Zhou Mingrui felt a chill of genuine horror. He recoiled instinctively, desperate to distance himself from the notebook and those prophetic words.

Weak and unsteady, he nearly tumbled backward but managed to clutch the table edge in a panic. The air around him felt heavy and turbulent, as if faint, ghostly whispers were vibrating through the room, just like the chilling tales he heard back in his childhood.

He shook his head, convincing himself it was all an auditory hallucination. Steadying his stance, he tore his gaze away from the notebook and panted for air.

His eyes shifted to the shimmering brass revolver, and a sudden question ignited within him.

Zhou Mingrui frowned deeply, lost in thought, when he noticed a red smudge on the side of the table. Its hue was deeper than the moonlight and more viscous than the crimson 'veil.'

It was a bloody handprint.

“A bloody handprint?” Zhou Mingrui looked at his own right hand, which had been gripping the table. He turned it over and saw that his palm and fingers were caked in blood.

Concurrently, the throb in his head persisted, though it had dulled somewhat, refusing to fade entirely.

Zhou Mingrui pondered the situation as he turned and shuffled toward the cracked dressing mirror.

A few steps later, the image of a black-haired man of average height with brown eyes appeared clearly. The reflection bore a distinct, scholarly demeanor.

Zhou Mingrui froze momentarily. The dim nighttime lighting had masked the truth at first glance. He moved closer until he was inches away from the glass.

Using the crimson moonlight as a guide, he tilted his head to inspect his own forehead.

The reflection in the mirror was crystalline. His temple featured a grotesque wound, charred around the edges, with blood clotting the area and a glimpse of grayish-white brain matter pulsating rhythmically beneath.