“This…
where the hell am I?” “Mr.
Thorne, you’re finally awake.” Thorne’s gaze sharpened.
On that furry head, rows of compound eyes gleamed coldly under the light.
He knew exactly what he was looking at.
“A moth?
I thought you lot were all wiped out.” The moth froze for a second, then a very human kind of confusion spread across her fuzzy face.
“This is pretty serious…” Miss Moth muttered under her breath while scribbling furiously in her little notebook.
“Hallucinations accompanied by speech impairment…” — “Hmm.
I think I have a clear picture now.” The red ant in the white coat closed his file and gave a small nod.
His segmented body and glossy shell made him look solid and dependable just standing there.
“So in your eyes, everyone is a bug.
Is that right?” Thorne took a deep breath and nodded.
The moth lingered nearby, wings twitching.
Thorne could have sworn she was smiling.
“Uh…
yeah.” He glanced at the doctor, voice hesitant.
“For example, you look like an ant to me.” “Oh?” The red ant let out a soft laugh, mandibles clicking.
“That’s unexpected.
I was hoping for something a little more impressive.
Like a stag beetle, maybe.” The moth beside him giggled.
The two exchanged a quick look, sharing some private joke.
“As for the rest of what you said—the bug kingdom, the palace full of chainsaws, —that all sounds like leftover dream fragments or straight-up delusion.” The red ant’s tone stayed even.
“Still, it’s not the worst-case scenario.” He paused.
“You see other people as bugs, but you don’t see yourself that way.
That means your sense of self is still holding together.” He slid a document across the table.
Thorne looked down.
[Diagnosis: Schizophrenia with Delusional Disorder] [Treatment recommendations follow…] The words didn’t shake him.
What made his stomach drop was the tiny line of text at the very bottom.
July 31, 1991.
“So…” Thorne’s voice came out hoarse.
“This isn’t my world.” The moth and the red ant shared another glance.
They clearly thought he was sinking into despair.
The red ant cleared his throat and softened his voice.
“Your condition isn’t from any physical brain damage.
We’ve run every test.
If you take your medication, keep your head clear, and try to engage with life, there’s a real chance you’ll improve.” He hesitated, then added, “We had another patient once who swore this world had magic and flying horses with bird heads.” Thorne lifted his head.
“What happened to him?” “He got better.
Went back to a normal life.” “Oh?” Thorne blinked.
“How?” The red ant rubbed his chin, thinking.
“Well…
one day at a London station he ran full speed into the pillar between platforms nine and ten.
Cracked his skull open and bled all over the place.” “Hasn’t had an episode since.” Thorne’s mouth twitched hard.
“…” “That part of the treatment plan too?” — Thorne stepped out of the hospital into the rush of traffic and exhaust.
The city felt like the 1990s he remembered—cars, concrete, streetlights—but something fundamental was wrong.
The drivers weren’t human.
Mosquitoes.
Grasshoppers.
Mantises.
Bugs of every shape and size sat behind steering wheels, compound eyes flashing in the headlights as they wove through traffic.
Thorne’s hands curled into fists.
He reached for the power that had once answered him in the bug kingdom, the strength that had carried him through war and nightmare.
Nothing answered.
Only silence.
Cold, empty silence.
Reality pressed in.
This was real.
His power was gone.
Following the address on his discharge papers, he took the subway toward the body’s old apartment.
The car was bright and modern.
Every passenger—standing, sitting, swaying with the motion—was a bug.
Yet their faces still showed painfully human expressions: tired, bored, anxious, hopeful.
The mismatch made his skin crawl.
He stared out the window instead, watching the tunnel walls blur past, and tried to sort through the memories that weren’t his.
Eric Thorne.
Orphan.
Long psychiatric history.
After this latest hospital stay, he was flat broke.
“…Hell of a starting position.” Thorne gave a bitter little laugh.
Better than waking up in the abyss, maybe, but this body had already burned every bridge.
He caught his reflection in the glass.
A young man with a pale, hollowed-out face.
Dark circles under restless eyes.
Hair hanging limp across his forehead.
He looked exactly like someone who had already given up.
The original Eric Thorne had.
Stopped eating.
Stopped drinking.
Wandered until he collapsed in the street.
That was how Thorne had inherited this body in the first place.
The subway doors opened.
He stepped out into another crowd of bugs.
Something shifted in his head.
It wasn’t just what he saw anymore.
The voices around him had changed too—twisting into sharp, alien chirps and buzzes.
“Chirp!
Chirp!
Chirp!
Chirp!” “Buzz!
Buzz!
Buzz!” “Ah!
Ah!
Ah!
Ah!” The sounds stabbed at his ears from every direction.
His heart started hammering.
His mind insisted these were people.
But he couldn’t understand a single word.
Couldn’t see human faces.
Couldn’t even feel like they belonged to the same species.
Especially the mosquitoes.
Their high, whining voices scraped right across his nerves.
How was this any different from Hallownest?
He had clawed his way out of that place at terrible cost.
What had it all been for?
Or maybe the red ant was right.
Maybe the bug kingdom had only ever been a dream.
Maybe he had never been a transmigrator at all.
The more he thought, the angrier he got.
By the time he reached the shabby building he supposedly lived in, the chorus of insect sounds had become unbearable.
He needed to scream.
Under the startled stares of everyone nearby, Thorne threw his arms up, voice raw and cracking.
“Is there still a single human being left in this fucking world?!!!!” White light exploded out of him.
Pure, searing energy poured from his body in screaming, twisting shapes.
The world vanished into blinding white.
Then nothing.
— Thorne woke to a white ceiling.
He lay still for a long moment, then gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Back again already?” He hadn’t even been out a full day.
Maybe he owed the red ant doctor an apology.
And that white surge—what the hell had that been?
Could he still use soul magic?
He pushed himself upright against the pillows.
A voice spoke from beside the bed.
“You’re awake, Mr.
Thorne.” Two figures stood there.
Well.
Two bugs, to his eyes.
One was a snail, brown spiral shell gleaming, expression cold and impatient.
The other was a bee, older, smiling gently while unwrapping a piece of candy.
“Uh…” Thorne rubbed his face.
“Sorry.
I’m still pretty lost.
Can someone tell me what happened?” The snail snorted.
“Eric Thorne.
Memory still blank, is it?” He flipped open a notebook with a slick foot, voice flat and official.
“Use of large-scale destructive magic in a Muggle public area.
One Muggle seriously injured, three lightly injured, one building collapsed.
Violations of the Statute of Secrecy, the Misuse of Magic statutes, and the draft Muggle Protection Act.
Case has been referred to the Wizengamot.” The snail snapped the notebook shut.
“Lifetime in Azkaban, most likely.” He waited.
“Anything you’d like to say in your defense?” Thorne pressed his fingers to his temples.
“I don’t even know where to start.” Every word out of the snail’s mouth was new and strange.
Muggle.
Azkaban.
Wizengamot.
None of it meant anything.
After a beat he tried again, carefully.
“Before I say anything else…
can you tell me where I am?” The snail’s eyestalks twitched with irritation.
“Are you claiming you don’t know—” “This place,” the bee interrupted calmly, “is St.
Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
The largest magical medical facility in Britain.” He looked at Thorne with quiet interest.
“Given your background, you’re a Muggle with a documented history of mental illness.
There’s no need to treat you like a dark wizard.” The snail clearly disagreed, but he only muttered, “You’re wasting your time, Dumbledore.” Thorne’s head snapped up at the name.
Dumbledore.
He knew that name.
The bee—Dumbledore—ignored the complaint and kept his compound eyes on Thorne.
“Mr.
Thorne,” he said gently, “you are in St.
Mungo’s.
Whatever happened to you before, we can sort it out.” Thorne opened his mouth, but no words came.
Because right then, a crisp mechanical chime rang inside his skull.
[Ding!] [Special environment detected.
Exploration system activated!] [Current special environment: St.
Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries] [Exploration progress: 0.3%]