Ugh… help! I can’t breathe. My chest… It's crushing me. Cold. Why is it so cold? Why can’t I open my eyes? ... A young man tumbled to the floor of an unfamiliar room, clutching his skull as a migraine tore through his senses. Every pulse of pain felt like his head might split open. “Where… where am I?” His last memory hit like a blade, the last thing he remembered was his tiny cubicle room, a CGPA of 1.95 staring back at him from his laptop screen. Out of despair he took poison and committed suicide. He forced his eyes open. Wooden walls surrounded him, rough but orderly. Two beds, two hangers, a small table beside one of the beds, likely for reading. The air smelled faintly of cedar and candle smoke. “Am I… dreaming? Or is this another world?” A pounding in his head grew unbearable, memories that felt alien and yet familiar, flashed across his mind, laughter that wasn’t his, a room that wasn’t his, a life that didn’t belong to him. The door creaked. A boy, around sixteen b

“What was that gaze for?” Adrian muttered, unsettled. He watched the officers chase someone off and shivered. ‘Soon that could be my life too, running after criminals’. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. He hurried onward. After only a few steps, the hum of voices drew him toward the town square. A crowd had gathered. At the center stood a storyteller on a wooden platform, arms spread wide as he commanded the listeners’ attention. “Listen closely,” the man began, his voice cutting above the murmur. “Long ago, thousands, perhaps billions of years past, there was only the True Creator. From Him came two worlds. One, the Demon World: untamed, violent, filled with monsters and chaos. The other, our world: home to humans, animals, and all living things. These worlds were separate, balanced, and meant to remain so.” The crowd leaned in. The storyteller’s eyes swept over them, sharp and deliberate. “But balance is fragile. The Demon World seethed with extremes. Its cre

“Ready, son?”Adrian’s father’s voice cut through the crisp morning air. They stood outside their small home, the faint silver glow of the moons still lingering above the rooftops. Despite the early hour, the streets were already alive with vendors setting up stalls, workers rushing toward their shifts, and the distant clatter of carriage wheels on stone.A horse-drawn carriage slowed to a stop in front of them, the coachman raising a brow.“Zion Street, MPF station,” Jorden said.The man tipped his hat. “One Ceira note.”Adrian’s gaze lingered on the folded paper his father handed over.This world uses banknotes that are stamped with golden sigils. A hundred Lira makes a Ceira. A thousand Ceira for a Pound. ‘Quite strange for a medieval age to be using currency notes’ They climbed inside. The ride stretched long, hours slipping by until a massive iron sign loomed into view: MoonBrook Station. The heartbeat of the city’s law.Inside, the air was thick with the smell of ink, sweat, an

Adrian’s blood still burned hot, his senses sharper than ever. He could smell it, yes, smell, he could smell the monsters’ fear and feel their strange respect for him.‘Why are they scared of me?’Before he could think further, his father’s arms wrapped around him from behind.“Son! What are you doing here?” Jorden’s voice cracked as he pulled Adrian tight. Just seconds ago, he was sure he would die.Adrian blinked, stiff in his father’s embrace. Should I… hug him back? He knew one thing, charging in like that had just painted a target on his back.“Yeah, right. Not dangerous, huh?” Adrian smirked, giving his father a mocking look.“Hahaha! Well… not dangerous until today.” Jorden chuckled, patting his son’s shoulder, relief still in his eyes.“Hey, kid! Over here!” one of the Special Squad members called out.Adrian looked at his father. Jorden sighed, then gently pushed him forward.He walked over, the squad captain loomed above him, a tall man built like a wall. “So young, yet so b

*Knock Knock* A dull thud echoed through the small dining room, cutting through the warm clatter of spoons against plates. Steam curled up from a pot of porridge, and the faint scent of fried eggs lingered in the air.Lydia pushed her chair back, ready to rise, but her mother’s hand shot out, fingers tightening around her wrist.“I’ll get it,” she said softly, already moving toward the door.Her palm lingered on the handle. “Yes? How can we help you?”A deep voice responded from the other side, calm but heavy. “Greetings. We’re here for the name Adrian Alexander.”The door creaked open, and the morning light revealed two men in black suits, polished shoes reflecting the dust of the road. Their white ties were crisp, one wore sunglasses, while the other wore a hat.“That’s my son,” his mother answered warily. “I hope there’s no problem?”From the table, Adrian and the others leaned forward, the food forgotten.The taller of the men inclined his head. “We come on government order. We h