Block

"Would it have hurt to let me have a sound sleep?… What did I do to deserve this—writer's block and a fever? I can't even move!"

Dexter adjusted his body on the bed, jolts of pain shooting through his head, again and again.

"I mustn't fall asleep… if I don't finish the story, I'm doomed. And yet, this stupid body decided to catch a fever… aaah.

The words are Zalithor and Nerathis, right?—without them, the protagonist's transmigration wouldn't work. And I mustn't forget… since I threw the book away out of sheer exhaustion.

"Who am I even mumbling to? I need to sleep… Yeah, I'll get up early and finish it. If I don't, I'm as good as dead."

Dexter shut his eyes, trying to ease his mind, but the relentless headache refused to grant him peace. His head pounded in sync with his racing heart, and with each passing second, his temperature surged higher.

After what felt like an eternity of agony, Dexter finally succumbed to sleep. His body shuddered intermittently as he sank into a fever dream.

Dexter felt as if the fever dream was trying to consume him whole, an endless loop of strange visuals pressing down on him. Instinctively, he forced himself upright.

In an instant, his body dropped to the floor.

"Wait… where am I?"

Dexter found himself in a strange, empty room, the only furnishing a ragged bed. His eyes darted around in confusion, but no matter how hard he tried, his body refused to move.

"What… Where am I? Where's my desk? My laptop?"

He glanced at his body, dressed in a black long-sleeve shirt, a black waistcoat, and a toiled black trouser. His body began jerking around in confusion.

As Dexter paced back and forth, his mind spun with possibilities. Had he been kidnapped for missing his deadline? Was he still dreaming?… somewhere else? The eerie silence of the room only deepened his unease.

He ran his fingers through his hair again, trying to steady his thoughts. The lack of pain, the strange setting, the strange feeling in his body—something was definitely off. He needed to figure out where he was and how he got there.

There was a sudden knock on the door and Dexter turned to it instinctively. Without a moment's hesitation, hurrying to the door, yanking it open.

Before he could react, small arms wrapped around him in a tight hug. He looked down—a little girl, sobbing.

"I'm glad you didn't kill yourself, brother." Her voice was cracking and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Brother?!—Dexter thought, his face etched with confusion.

Suddenly, a woman burst into the room, locking eyes with Dexter. Before he could react, her hand lashed out, striking him across the face.

"What were you thinking, Daylan?"

Dexter staggered back, his cheek stinging from the unexpected slap. His eyes widened in shock as he stared at the woman. She was dressed in what looked like medieval attire—a dark green tunic with complex needlework, a leather belt fastened at her waist.

"What the hell?!" Dexter blurted, holding his face.

Who the f**k is Daylan?—He thought.

The dark, sorrowful expression on their faces, the sting of the slap, and the strange sensation in his body—it all felt too real, too bewildering. Obviously, he wasn't dreaming.

Then, in a flash, realization struck Dexter. His head whipped around, searching for the rusty mirror he had noticed earlier on the wall.

He rushed to the mirror, taking an observant look at his face.

"No, no. How can this be real?"

Before his eyes was a boy his age. His eyes gazed at his messy silver-gray hair and his sharp, confident looks despite his confusion.

At that instant, Dexter was able to get a grip on his situation. He was transmigrated, but how?

The woman and the child—clearly his family—began approaching him, but without hesitation, he ordered them to leave.

They stood watch, baffled by the sudden change in 'Daylan', but the expression he wore was enough to make them leave him alone.

Dexter sat on the bed, running his hands through his hair in exhaustion. How had he transmigrated despite not performing the ritual from The Pry Ascendant, the book he had read?

Though a part of him felt relieved that his boss could no longer boss him around, he couldn't simply abandon his career. After all, being a well-known author at just nineteen was not something he could easily walk away from.

I must leave this world!

He began pondering how the transmigration spell had affected him in the first place.

The spell was supposed to activate only if the caster was supposed to have a full understanding of the keywords: Zalithor—a word that invokes a force of reality, and Nerathis—a word that invokes a force of manipulation.

Not only that, the caster's body and mind must be at ease… but it was a comic book, wasn't it?

He propped his elbows against his thighs, resting his chin on his fists.

How exactly did this activate if my mind wandered the whole time I was in bed?… if it worked earlier, it must work now!

Dexter shook his head and flickered his hands, trying to dispel the tension. He began breathing slowly, calming his nerves, and quieting his mind. 

Zalithor… Nerathis!

After several attempts of reciting the words, he closed his eyes and waited, hoping that when he opened his eyes, he would be back in his real room. But after what felt like an eternity of silence, he opened his eyes—only to find himself still in 'Daylan's' room.

In an instant, Dexter sprang to his feet, yanking the bed off the floor in frustration. He paced back and forth, massaging his forehead, his skin pale and slick with sweat.

"What the heck is going on?!" His soul sank and his heart raced.

As he paced, his foot accidentally struck a piece of paper on the floor, sending it fluttering into the air.

Despite his current conundrum, his addictive writer and reader side couldn't let the paper hover over unread. He instinctively caught it and began reading.

"Dear mother and Zari,

If you are reading this, then it means I'm dead—and for that, I'm sorry for leaving you in this situation.

I have no faith in myself right now, I mean, I have failed both the Luck Trial and the Worth Trial, leaving me with no choice but to face the final trial—the fate trial—if I want any chance of gaining ability.

We all know that only the best of the best can pass the Fate Trial—so what chance do I really have if I couldn't pass the Luck Trail, the easiest among them all?

My life was already in shambles for failing those two trials—no education, no job, and with each passing day, our debt only grows heavier.

Mother, I'm sorry for leaving everything on your shoulders, but I have to go be with Father. Most of all, I'm truly sorry for leaving you with all those debts… I really am.

Zari, I believe in you, sister. Don't follow in my footsteps. I know you can pass all three trials if you set your mind to it. Take the Luck Trial, get an ability, enroll at the Divine Academy, and find a job to give Mom a better life. I know you can do this.

This is Daylan, and I love you both!"

Dexter held the paper, his hands trembling, trying to mask his anger. Daylan's decision to end his life rather than face his challenges infuriated him, but nothing cut deeper than the fact that Daylan had left their debts in his little sister's shoulders.

Who does that?

Dexter rearranged the bed and hurled himself onto it, his mind was completely blank. He was living out the fantasies he had once written for others.

Tears began to stream down his cheeks, despite feeling no urge to cry. 

The only world Dexter had ever known was that of books, stories, and writing. He had become a writer five years ago, using it as a way to escape the harsh reality of losing his parents.

Now, he had left his writing career behind and found himself with a family—an actual family—but his mind couldn't accept this new reality. This was Daylan's family, not his, and he needed to return to the career he had left behind.

As he lay there, his mind wandering, a sudden knock on the door startled him.

Instantly, he hid the letter, not wanting Daylan's mother to see it.

Wiping his tears, he braced himself, preparing to apologize to Daylan's mother as soon as he opened the door.

Dexter pulled the door open, and before him stood a man with a potbelly, dressed in a white shirt, green waistcoat, tie, and a blue overcoat. His glasses sat comfortably on his nose, his beard darker than black, and a black hat perched slightly tilted on his head. He was flanked by two towering men in black suits, their swords resting casually on their shoulders.

Don't tell me these are the people he owes!

The man shoved Dexter aside, inviting himself in. He cleared his throat, then spat on the bed.

"I heard you were going to kill yourself, you little brat." He said, before slapping Dexter across the face.

"What?! That hurts!" He reached his face.

"Shut your filthy mouth… who asked you to speak?" The man sneered. "Because of your absurd behavior, I've increased your debt by 10%. Now you owe me 22 gold coins."

He leaned forward, his voice cold. "You are only allowed to die once you've paid me my money!"

He signaled to his guards, and they began walking out, but then he paused.

"You will be spared for today," he said, his tone menacing. "But the next time I return, I'll be leaving with either my money or your head."

Dexter stood still, watching them walking away with his hand brushing his face. He had less knowledge about the world, but he was certain twenty-two gold coins were a lot of money.