Pain. An all-consuming, blinding agony tore through Zean Gosli''s body, rousing him from the abyss of unconsciousness. It wasn’t the kind of pain he could contextualize—no sharp stab or dull ache. Instead, it was as if every fiber of his being screamed in protest, his nerves aflame, his very existence unraveling. The searing torment drowned out coherent thought, reducing him to a writhing mass of sensation.


    Am I dying?


    The thought surfaced briefly, only to be swallowed by another wave of excruciating pain. His mind reeled, searching for clarity, an anchor, but all he could grasp was a storm of fragmented memories—familiar faces, the humdrum of a life he couldn’t fully recall, and then… nothing.


    Time became meaningless. Seconds stretched into eternities, each one a cruel reminder that he still existed in this torment. Then, like the tide receding, the pain began to ebb. Slowly, gradually, the world became tolerable again, though his limbs remained leaden, and his breath came in ragged gasps.


    When the pain finally subsided, a new sensation emerged—a biting cold that wrapped around him like a vice. Zean opened his eyes, blinking against the dim light that filtered through heavy clouds. Snowflakes drifted gently from the sky, settling on his skin and melting almost instantly. His breath misted in the air, a stark reminder of the chill that seemed to seep into his bones.


    What... happened?


    He forced his head to turn, taking in his surroundings. Above him loomed the underside of a bridge, its stone arches slick with moss and damp from the mist that hung heavy in the air. Water trickled somewhere nearby, its sound faint but persistent. His body trembled violently, not just from the cold but from a gnawing sense of displacement. Something was wrong. Terribly, irrevocably wrong.


    Zean lifted a hand to his face, fingers trembling as they brushed against his skin. His features felt... different. His hair, which should have been coarse and dark, fell in silky strands of a lighter hue over his eyes. He grabbed a lock of it and stared in disbelief. It was yellow—no, golden—like strands of sunlight. His hands shook as he traced his jawline, sharper than it had been, and his cheekbones, more defined.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Scrambling to his knees, he crawled toward the edge of a shallow pool nearby, drawn by the faint reflection he could see within its surface. He hesitated before leaning over, but when he did, his breath caught in his throat.


    The face staring back at him wasn’t his. The Zean Gosli he knew—black hair, dull yellow eyes, unremarkable and forgettable—was gone. This new face was striking, almost ethereal, with red eyes that gleamed like embers against the pallor of his skin. It wasn’t just his appearance that had changed. It was his entire being.


    Is this... me?


    The realization hit him like a blow. He wasn’t just in pain because of some accident or illness. This wasn’t even his body—or his world. The sky above, the air, the very texture of reality felt alien. This wasn’t the world he knew.


    For a moment, panic threatened to consume him, but he forced it back, taking deep breaths to steady himself. His thoughts spiraled, but a single question rose above the chaos: Why am I here?


    Fragments of memory clawed their way to the surface—his family, their laughter, the warmth of shared meals, and the ache of goodbyes when he left to pursue his ambitions. In his old world, he had been an ordinary man, toiling through mundane days, dreaming of escape. He remembered a moment—walking across a busy street, the screech of tires, the blinding light. Had I… died?


    This felt like something out of a novel or game, but the reality of it was undeniable. He shivered, hugging himself against the cold. The world around him seemed both primitive and strange. The bridge bore the marks of early machinery—gears and iron plates that hinted at a society on the brink of industrialization. The snow muffled the sounds, but in the distance, faint whistles and clanks suggested factories or workshops hard at work.


    The wind howled, and he rose shakily to his feet, clutching his sides. His mind turned to survival. He needed warmth, shelter, and food if he was going to make it through the night. The bridge offered some protection from the elements, but it wasn’t enough.


    In the distance, faint glimmers of light broke through the gloom—perhaps a settlement or travelers. He hesitated but knew he had no choice. Whatever dangers lay ahead couldn’t be worse than freezing to death.


    With every step, he felt the weight of this new world pressing down on him. The air itself seemed charged, humming with an energy he couldn’t explain but felt in his very soul. If this world brought me here, then it must have a reason.


    Zean Gosli might have been stripped of everything he knew, but he was alive. And as long as he was alive, he would carve out a place for himself in this strange, dangerous world.