Chapter 2: Assault

As I took slow, deliberate steps toward the revolver resting in the drawer, an unfamiliar sensation coursed through me—a mixture of intrigue, unease, and something else I couldn't quite place. The weight of my new reality pressed upon me like an iron shackle, but amidst the uncertainty, one thing remained steadfast: my instincts as a detective. Even in an unknown world, even within an unfamiliar body, some habits could not be erased.

I reached for the firearm with measured precision, wrapping my fingers around the smooth wooden grip. The cold steel sent a shiver down my spine as I lifted it into the dim light, examining it with a practiced eye. Even before I analyzed the finer details, I could already tell—this was no ordinary weapon.

From my years in law enforcement, I recognized it instantly. A Colt 1851 Navy Revolving Pistol. A weapon with history, prestige, and lethality. But this particular piece—this exact firearm—was far more than just a relic from the past.

My gaze swept over its surface, scrutinizing every marking, every groove. The serial number stood out to me almost immediately: No. 2. My mind began working through the details automatically. This was an early model, one of the first produced in Colt's London Armoury near Vauxhall Bridge, England. Its bullets would travel at an approximate velocity of 256 meters per second—an exceptional feat for its time.

A revolver like this was exceedingly rare, incredibly valuable, and difficult to acquire. Which begged the question—how the hell did a university student living in poverty manage to get his hands on it?

The puzzle gnawed at me, but there were no immediate answers. Instead, I let out a slow breath and turned my attention back to the room. The memories of Alaric Thorn, the young man whose body I now inhabited, had come to me in fragments—his life before sleep, his interactions with his siblings, his daily struggles. But there was nothing—absolutely nothing—that explained the presence of this revolver.

If his memories ended when he went to bed, that means I took over the moment he lost consciousness. I was, for all intents and purposes, a foreign entity occupying his existence.

It wasn't a pleasant thought.

I moved toward the wardrobe, sifting through Alaric's clothing. As I expected, most of it was worn, faded from years of use, with only a few pieces standing out as well-maintained. He took great care of the expensive garments—his late father's suit among them. The fabric was thick, sturdy despite its age, though a layer of dust had settled upon it from neglect.

I exhaled sharply, brushing away the dust before donning the attire. It was a perfect fit—tailored for a man who once wore it with dignity, now worn by a stranger seeking answers.

The revolver slid easily into the suit's jetted pockets, hidden but within reach.

And with that, I stepped out of the room and into the unfamiliar world beyond.

The Streets of Leopold

The Thorn family's home was small yet functional—a modest dwelling that bore the telltale signs of financial hardship. Cracks in the walls, furniture that had seen better days, and an overall air of quiet struggle. Not destitution, but certainly a life teetering on the edge.

As I stepped outside, the morning air greeted me with a crisp chill. The streets were cobbled, uneven beneath my steps, and the scent of coal smoke and damp stone lingered in the atmosphere. Victorian architecture dominated the landscape, buildings standing tall yet worn, their facades lined with intricate details that had faded with time.

The sound of an argument drew my attention to the left.

The landlord.

Mister Carlos, an aging man with a face hardened by years of dealing with struggling tenants, was already shouting at one of the residents. His voice carried over the street, laced with irritation. A man like him wouldn't hesitate to demand rent the moment it was due, regardless of whether his tenants could afford it. I silently hoped to avoid any direct interaction with him, at least for now.

As I turned to walk away, a voice called out to me.

"Alaric!"

I halted, my body moving before my mind could fully process the name. When I turned, my gaze met that of a young woman.

Rose Luna.

The recognition struck instantly, drawn from Alaric's memories. She was a close acquaintance, perhaps even a friend—someone who often interacted with him on the streets of Leopold.

She approached with a warm smile, her dark brown hair neatly tied back, her attire practical yet subtly elegant. We were the same height—both standing at 5'10"—a fact that felt strange to me, given that in my original body, I would have towered over her.

"You look good today," she noted, tilting her head slightly. "What's the occasion?"

I hesitated for only a moment before responding. "I have a job interview," I lied smoothly, adjusting my suit as if to emphasize the statement. "I thought it best to look professional."

Rose hummed thoughtfully. "Well, that makes sense. Oh—don't forget about the inauguration of Emperor Arthur Augustus."

She said it so casually, as if it were common knowledge.

I barely managed a nod before she waved and walked away, leaving me to process the information.

Arthur Augustus.

The name echoed through my mind. From Alaric's memories, I knew that Emperor Arthur ruled over the Morgana Empire—one of the most powerful nations in this world. And in five months, the country of Leopold would officially fall under his rule.

Leopold was neither destitute nor prosperous—a country caught in limbo. A struggling nation standing on the precipice of something greater, for better or worse.

And yet, that still didn't explain the revolver.

The Colt 1851 Navy was not manufactured in Leopold.

So how did Alaric acquire it?

I needed answers. And there was only one place to start.

The Gun Shop

The establishment was unmistakable—Victorian in style, cobbled exterior, the faint scent of oil and gunpowder lingering in the air.

As I stepped inside, I was immediately met with a towering presence.

The shopkeeper.

A gruff man standing at 6'1", his expression hardened with years of experience. The moment his eyes landed on me, his brow furrowed with suspicion.

"What's a kid like you doing here?" he asked, his tone sharp. "People under twenty aren't allowed to own firearms."

I knew better than to argue outright. Bribery was a common practice in Leopold, but given Alaric's financial situation, I lacked the means to make such an exchange.

Instead, I played a different game.

I straightened my posture, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "You don't know if I'm under twenty," I countered smoothly. "So please, step aside and allow me to look around."

His eyes flickered to my suit—the one relic of wealth I possessed. He grunted but ultimately stepped aside, allowing me to peruse the shop.

As I walked through the rows of firearms, I spotted a man dressed in a suit vest, engrossed in examining a rifle. My steps were silent as I passed him—quick, efficient.

And in that brief moment, I pickpocketed him.

A crime, yes. But I was no longer a detective by law. And I needed information far more than I needed morality.

With my newfound leverage, I turned back to the shopkeeper, my gaze flicking toward the back room. He understood immediately, leading me inside.

To my mild amusement, he pulled out a bag of cocaine.

So he was a drug dealer as well.

Ignoring the narcotics, I pulled out the revolver and placed it before him. "I need to know the worth of this firearm and its origin."

His expression shifted instantly. He whistled low, eyes gleaming.

"Jiggety jig—look at this beauty," he murmured, turning it over in his hands. "Oh yeah, this is real. Worth about sixty-seven pieces."

Pieces, not dollars. A new currency system to familiarize myself with.

"And the origin?" I pressed.

He frowned. "Strange. Most revolvers like this have manufacturer engravings. This one doesn't."

A dead end.

But at least I had a name.

Samuel Burton. Owner of Burton Hayes.

I would remember him. If nothing else, he might be useful later.

The Streets of Leopold

As I stepped out of the gun shop, Burton Hayes, the lingering scent of oil and gunpowder clung to my clothes, a quiet reminder of the world I now found myself in. The weight of the revolver in my pocket felt heavier than before, not just in its physicality but in the questions it raised—who was Alaric Thorn, really? A struggling university student? A simple young man trying to make ends meet? Or something far more complex, far more dangerous?

The cold air bit at my skin as I ventured further into the city streets, weaving through the morning crowds that bustled along the uneven cobblestone roads. Leopold, as drawn from Alaric's fragmented memories, was a nation steeped in history, one that owed its very foundation to a deity of the night.

Goddess Nyx.

A name that resonated with weight, whispered in reverence and feared in equal measure. One of the seven great high gods of this world, the ruler of the endless dark. It was said that Nyx was the embodiment of night itself, a primordial force birthed from the great chaos—an entity beyond comprehension, a place where all things began and where all things would one day return. In Hesiod's Theogony, Nyx was depicted as the mother of countless entities, many of whom personified the darker aspects of existence—Doom, Deception, Retribution, and Death.

But Nyx was not alone.

From what I could gather, there existed another Lord of the Night, one prophesied to be born 5,000 years into the future—a concept I found both intriguing and troubling. Did the people of Leopold truly believe such a being would emerge? And if so, what would it mean for the balance of this world?

Every month, under the red moon, also known as the Red Eclipse, devotees of Nyx gathered in fervent worship, offering prayers and dedicating themselves to the shadowed goddess. Alaric's mother had been a devoted follower, a woman who spoke of Nyx and the Great Chaos with unwavering faith.

"The Great Chaos is where all things come and die," she had once told her son. "For the Great Chaos, there is no sameness or contrast, no coming or going, no decrease or increase."

Her words lingered in my thoughts as I walked, my mind sifting through possibilities, through questions with no immediate answers. **Gods, prophecies, chaos—**it was all too much.

But right now, I had more immediate concerns.

Countun Bar

The streets of Leopold were filled with potential targets, unwary citizens who never felt the subtle pull of fingers slipping into their coats and pockets. A few quick moves, well-timed distractions, and within minutes, I had successfully lifted several pieces of currency—a small but useful sum.

By the time I reached Countun Bar, I had enough to buy myself a drink.

The establishment was old, the kind of place where the walls carried stories whispered in low voices, where the floorboards groaned beneath the weight of secrets best left unsaid. The wooden bar counter stretched along the far side of the room, polished but well-worn, with bottles of amber and crimson liquor lining the shelves behind it.

The scent of alcohol, tobacco, and sweat hung thick in the air. A handful of patrons sat at various tables, nursing their drinks, their hushed conversations weaving through the dimly lit space.

As I took a seat at the bar, I allowed myself to listen.

Eavesdropping was a skill I had honed during my years as a detective—letting the world speak while I remained unseen. And just as I had expected, the drunken murmurs of the bar's patrons held more than idle gossip.

"Have you heard about the prophecy?"

I ignored it. I had no interest in cryptic predictions or superstitious nonsense.

"Did you know about the cockfighting near Olive Street?"

Unimportant.

"Did you hear that people in Kushan are seeing doppelgängers?"

That caught my attention.

I focused in, sharpening my senses as the men continued speaking. From what I could gather, Kushan was a small town, unremarkable except for one strange phenomenon—people had begun seeing doppelgängers of themselves.

A cold chill ran down my spine at the thought.

Doppelgängers.

The logical part of my mind tried to rationalize it—mistaken identities, paranoia, hysteria. But deep down, I knew that in a world where gods were real, where I had been pulled from my own body and thrown into another—such things could not be so easily dismissed.

Still, there was a problem.

I couldn't go by Alaric Thorn. I couldn't introduce myself as Detective Gray either—that would raise too many questions. In a place like Leopold, where everyone knew everyone, an unfamiliar face using a familiar name could spell disaster.

I needed a disguise.

But before I could dwell on it further, I placed seven pieces on the counter and gestured for a drink. "A light whiskey," I ordered.

And that was when I heard the shout.

"Hey, you!"

I tensed, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I turned my head slightly, catching sight of the man who had called out to me. He was broad-shouldered, his face twisted in rage, his hands clenched into fists.

At first, I assumed he had seen me pickpocketing earlier. That would have been problematic but manageable.

But then he spoke again.

"You'll regret ever burying my little brother without my consent!"

My mind stalled.

What?

I barely had time to process his words before the man lunged, his hand flashing as he drew a knife.

My body reacted before my mind did. Years of training, of instincts honed on the streets of Sydney, took over as I sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the blade as it sliced through the air where my throat had been seconds before.

I twisted, bringing my arm up to catch his wrist, using his own momentum against him as I forced the knife from his grip. The blade clattered to the floor, but he wasn't done—his fists swung wildly, driven by fury rather than technique.

A mistake.

I struck first.

A swift, calculated punch to the jaw—the force sent him reeling backward, crashing against the bar counter. The moment he stumbled, I closed the distance, grabbing the collar of his coat and slamming him down against the wooden surface with enough force to rattle the bottles behind the bartender.

His head lolled to the side. Unconscious.

But I had bigger problems.

The bartender—a young woman, no older than twenty—let out a terrified scream and bolted.

Not just to escape.

To call the police.

Damn it.

I glanced down at the unconscious man, gold gleaming from his fingers and neck.

Rings. Chains. Jewelry.

A rich man.

I felt my stomach drop. This wasn't just an ordinary bar fight.

If he was wealthy, if he was connected, then getting arrested wouldn't just mean sitting in a cell for a few days—it could mean something far worse.

No time to think. No time to hesitate.

I reached down, ripping the chain from his neck, yanking the rings from his fingers, and stuffing them into my pocket.

Then I ran.

My feet pounded against the cobblestone as I tore out of the bar and into the streets of Leopold, heart hammering in my chest. I didn't know where I was going, I didn't know what my next move was—but I knew one thing.

I needed to disappear.

And I needed to do it fast.