Outside the window, the sky was growing light, and the castle’s breakfast bells began to ring. Harlotte Kodanis did not move—he did not wish to face the false warmth of the dining hall. He rose, donned a dark jacket, and found his steps leading unbidden toward the small chapel on the west side.
The original heir had been a devout Catholic, praying here every morning and evening. Since transmigrating, Harlotte had come only for appearances. At first he had been pleased by the change—he even offered praise to the Emperor.
No offense meant: he simply needed to confirm whether this world was Terra; if it was Terra, then praising the Emperor was natural. If it was not Terra, then praising the Emperor was even more imperative. After all, it wasn’t Terra.
Transmigration is generally a blessing, yet within a single day he recognized that something was amiss. Perhaps a side effect of crossing worlds, the original memories were incomplete and many details blurred.
The original heir had genuinely adored these “family” members: his sister’s indulgence, his stepsister’s clinginess, the senior maid’s care, the stewardess’s arrangements, the knight protector’s training, and his tutor’s affection.
He had once believed he’d landed the perfect transmigration identity—until a horrifying realization struck. Many of his actions since arriving had been mere mimicry, and at times he’d slipped up, leaving flaws exposed. Yet no one noticed… Would true family overlook such discrepancies?
If even one’s own family could not detect a swap, were they truly family?
Quickly he filtered through the original memories until the dreadful truth emerged: the stepsister, the senior maid, the stewardess, the head guard—none were human!
The governess and older sister remained in doubt, but likely nonhuman as well. And the fable his mother had told him chilled him to the bone:
“There was once an ill-fated soul whose mother was a deceiver, tricking supernatural beings. She promised the firstborn child in exchange for whatever she desired. That poor child was raised under the watch of devils, demons, vampires, werewolves, and witches. The vampires thirsted for his blood, devils craved his soul, demons lusted after his body, werewolves feasted on his flesh, and witches harvested his bones. On his eighteenth birthday, he was devoured by every existence.”
That was no mere story—it described him! How had the original heir never noticed? Was he simply too foolish or too ignorant of the supernatural?
How had he survived until now? Perhaps the “rules” constrained not only Harlotte but all the nonhumans here—otherwise no mortal could endure in a castle full of them.
Usually he would not come so early, but today he needed a place to calm himself, a shelter even if false. Lilith’s actions last night had left him shaken, almost sleepless. And the sound of the die falling had perplexed him—he was certain it was no hallucination. That click had snapped his mind clear.
He pushed open the chapel door. Before him, the crucifix statue wore a faded crimson robe, solemn in the dim light. Harlotte’s gaze froze: the statue’s hands were wrong.
In his past life, he had visited many churches with his grandmother; Christ’s hands were always nailed, arms outstretched. Yet here, the arms were gently bent at the waist, framing a heavy leather-bound Bible. The fingers seemed to clasp its edges, as if guarding something.
A family peculiarity of the Kodanis line? Or… had someone tampered with it?
Suppressing his doubt, he took a pew in the front row and closed his eyes. This time he did not recite the rote prayers; instead, he quietly intoned the Apostles’ Creed in English as he remembered it:
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth. And in Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord; who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary; suffered under Pontius Pilate; was crucified, dead, and buried; He descended into hell; the third day He rose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven, and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit; the holy catholic Church; the communion of saints; the forgiveness of sins; the resurrection of the body; and the life everlasting. Amen.”
Each word weighed with his helplessness. He thought of his life before—the street food at school gates, the games on his computer, the novels on his phone… God only knew whether his browser’s incognito mode was on.
Compared to now—trapped in a castle, nurtured by a cadre of nonhumans, unsure if he would live to see tomorrow.
Midway through the creed, the die’s click echoed in his mind again. This time, the crystal twenty-sided die bore the word “Inspiration.” It rolled—and showed a 1!
A brilliant golden light bloomed around the die. Compelled, Harlotte’s gaze flicked to the statue’s hands. The leather cover of the Bible had taken on flesh-like tones. He heard the die’s sound for a second time since transmigrating.
Though he did not know how to trigger the die’s magic, he sensed a pattern—after all, as a legendary investigator, he was well acquainted with dice-muses.
His throat constricted, and from the corner of his eye he saw the statue’s hands.
“Please… if You truly are Jesus Christ, save me.”
Harlotte whispered so faintly the evening breeze might have carried his words away. He knew it might be in vain—the nonhumans here likely held no fear of God—but in this moment it was the only lifeline he had. Besides, God is not merciful; only Jesus is. And this chapel honored not Yahweh but Jesus Himself.
As his prayer ended, a shaft of sunlight pierced the stained-glass window, landing between the statue’s hands and illuminating the Bible’s cover.
The edges of the book were worn, unlike a mere decorative prop. It seemed well-thumbed. Harlotte rose and approached the altar, determined to verify whether the die’s prompting was genuine.
Dust lay on the stone steps; his footsteps rang in the silent chapel.
Before the crucifix, he noticed a slight gap at the spine: the statue’s fingers did not press fully flat. A thin sliver of paper protruded. He touched the leather cover—it felt cool and unnaturally damp, as if recently handled.
“What is this…” His heart pounded. He gripped the spine and tugged. The statue’s fingers creaked, as if a secret mechanism engaged. Harlotte braced himself and finally pulled the Bible free.
As the pages fanned, a neatly folded parchment slipped out and fluttered to the stone floor. He picked it up; a faint scent drifted from the parchment.
Violet perfume? In the original’s memories, his mother always carried that scent after visiting the chapel.
Was this left by his mother? Yet how could perfume linger for over a decade? She had departed when he was only five! What sort of scent could last so long?
He hastily unfolded the parchment. In the dim light, neat yet hurried script appeared; in places the ink had blurred, clearly written in haste:
“My dear little Harlotte, when you read this letter, I can no longer be by your side. Remember: trust no one in this castle, even those you call your ‘family.’
“Do you recall the fable I told you? I’m afraid it was true.”
“Beware that the more beautiful the woman, the greater the deceit. See how many powerful beings I tricked.”
“I did not lie out of malice—some lessons you must learn yourself. Remember: the lovelier the thing, the deadlier the danger.”
“Know that your older sister can be trusted, until you find faith in Him.”
“Your stepsister loves you—so long as you do not become her possession.”
“The head guard will protect you, but never be alone with him on a full moon.”
“Your tutor will teach you wisdom, but do not drink any potions she gives you.”
“The stewardess is loyal, but do not break any promise to her, even a spoken vow.”
“The senior maid will care for your needs, but never let her help you ‘come of age.’”
“These warnings must stay with you—until you turn eighteen. After that, my beloved child, if I have not returned, you are on your own.”
“If all else fails, a brave choice may yet grant you a sliver of hope.”
“Remember, my child: hesitation is defeat! Humanity’s anthem is the anthem of courage. Human courage and faith astonish even the gods!”
At the end of the parchment was no signature, only a crooked raven emblem—the Kodanis family crest and the mark his mother once drew in his schoolbooks.
Harlotte’s hand trembled, cold sweat dampening the paper. All he could think was, Mother, you’ve really done me a disservice!
What twisted rules were these? What fatherly kindness justified such a design? And what did “until eighteen” mean? He was less than two months away! So, dear Mother, when will you return?
If you don’t come back soon, I really will turn eighteen!