Hero Frame

Click. Click. Click.

Silas held the revolver in his right hand, spinning the cylinder with the other. Each turn clicked with a satisfying snap as he slouched in the chair, head tilted back, watching the snow drift down from the dark clouds above.

He found himself buried in spiraling thoughts, reflecting on everything he had seen so far—wondering if there was any way to reverse this transmigration and return to his own body.

"Why does that table look exactly like my old one?"

Silas straightened up and took another glance at the table again. The clock, the inkpot, the books, even the placement of the photo — all of it didn't matched how he had arranged things back home. Only minor differences in design set them apart.

His gaze shifted to the pocket watch lying on the table. He picked it up slowly, brows furrowed as he studied its face. The hands had stopped ticking — stuck mid-swing — but the Roman numeral at the top was clear: XIII.

He let out a long sigh and dragged a hand through his hair.

"Maybe this world runs on thirteen hours or something..."

"Figures." He let the pocket watch rest back on the table and turned his attention to the photo frame. The vintage picture showed his brother yanking him up by the arm which was familiar enough—but everything else was off. The house behind them was no longer the one they grew up in. Instead, a crumbling old building stood in its place, and their clothes looked straight out of the 1700s. Next to Silas and his brother stood a man in a sleek black suit, unmistakably a butler, with an odd-looking mouse perched on his shoulder.

"Who the hell is that?"

Silas could understand his brother's altered appearance—Leon's memories had accounted for that. But the other man… he had no idea who he was.

Silas stepped away and walked toward the mirror, wanting a better look at his new face.

He stared into the dim mirror, lit only by the faint glow of the lamp. He shook his head and blinked, accepting his new appearance.

"So this is Leon Aelwyn."

Silas studied his body. Pulling his shirt up, he noticed it was a well-maintained body with a lean muscle build. It was clear Leon had trained. Taking slow breaths, he turned around to check his back, but the dim light made it difficult to get a clear view in the mirror.

Pulling the lamp closer, he took a few steps back and turned around. The mirror reflected a crimson bloodstain. Quickly, he took off his shirt.

Four grotesque wounds marked his back—two near his waist, and two on his left shoulder. Each one was ringed in blackened burn marks around them, and a purplish-black stain spread across the nape of his neck.

Silas felt inexplicably terrified and subconsciously reeled back at the sight in the mirror. Before he could make sense of what was happening, a sharp, throbbing pain shot through his head, causing him to lose his balance and fall back heavily onto the floor with a loud—

Thud!

He couldn't comprehend how someone with such wounds could still be alive. Silas abruptly stood up, with a rising heart beat, and began checking his back again.

Turning his head in disbelief, he checked his front—his left chest had the same kind of wound. Black matter was oozing from the grievous mark.

"How am I still breathing with such a wound?"

In his state of confusion, Silas began rummaging through his mind, trying to recall anything Leon might've known that could be useful right now. A memory stirred the moment Silas glanced down at the white shirt he was wearing—its sleeves patterned with delicate red-stitched flowers from collar to cuff.

With Leon's family's financial situation, even a proper meal or set of clothes was a luxury they could not afford. After their mother passed, her remaining savings were not enough to support the three of them. Leon and Rinar struggled, taking up part-time jobs just to afford books and survive.

It was their oldest sister, Alice, who stepped up and took on the family's responsibilities. She began working at a tailor's shop it was not for much pay, but just enough to keep them going.

Alice was educated and had studied for seven years, but she gave up her own studies to support her brothers. However, once the Aelwyn family's situation stabilized—after Rinar and Leon graduated—Rinar tried to convince her to resume her education. Leon was not the type to ignore what his sister had sacrificed, so he came up with a plan. He entered a journal competition, writing about Alice's devotion and everything she'd done for them. He ended up winning and used the prize money to help pay for her university.

Alice eventually agreed and returned to her studies, since she and Leon lived nearby, she visited him every day.

After the memory fragment passed through his mind, Silas stood still for a moment, then walked toward the sound of steam leaking from the pipes, coming from the right door. He trudged toward it, and after a moment's hesitation, pulled open the metal frame.

The basement was small and dim, smelling faintly of oil, dust, and old iron. Pipes ran across the walls like veins—thick brass tubes layered over thinner copper ones, hissing with steam that leaked through loose joints deeper within.

Two lamps dangled from the ceiling by a frayed wire, their glow flickering behind stained glass shades.

Turning to the right of the stairs he spotted a large metal valve jutting from the wall made of iron and rusted at the edges, with a brass handle crudely welded to its face. Silas gripped it with both hands and gave it a turn. It let out a sharp groaned, then released a sharp hiss as the steam valves overhead began to quiet.

Just beside it, fixed to the wall, was an old switch—thick copper wiring fed into its base and along the lever's length. He flipped it down. With a heavy clunk, the overhead lamps and his room lights sputtered to life, casting a faint yellow glow. It was not bright, but it was enough to see everything clearly.

He stepped up the stairs, this time to check his wounds more intently—the room was now bright enough to see clearly.

Silas began seriously inspecting them and noticed that the exposed wound was no longer bleeding. A dry bloodstain lingered near the edges, but what caught his attention was the strange black substance slowly shifting inside the hole. The skin around it was gradually knitting itself back together.

"Can I regenerate?" Silas muttered, narrowing his eyes as he stared closely at the wound.

After a few minutes, the wounds had completely closed, not leaving a single mark behind. Silas softly tapped his chest, then turned to check his back as well—it was completely healed.

"It's gone! Do I have healing magic?!" He let out a sluggish frown, unsure what to make of it or what to do next.

'Yeah... I'll do that for now.'

Having made up his mind, Silas opened the closet and grabbed a shirt, a pant, and a towel. He then walked toward the bathroom in the basement.

Since Leon's sister, Alice, visited him every day, Silas didn't want her to see the bloodstains—or the tattered shirt she had lovingly sewn for Leon.

Silas walked further into the basement. The floor was cluttered with rusted tools, spare gear parts, and scraps of parchment.

A small open door came into view after a moment. 'Should I go in?' Silas swallowed a lump of saliva at the thought, then crouched down and decided to enter.

The bathroom was damp, its walls slick with condensation. From a rusted pipe overhead, water dripped in slow, rhythmic taps, pooling across the cracked concrete floor. The air was warmer here, thick and stale from the lack of any openings. A single lamp flickered in the far right corner, its weak yellow glow barely holding on.

Silas stood in front of the washbasin and turned the tap knobs open. Cold water rushed through his fingers and ran over his arms. Picking up the soap beside him, he roughly scrubbed at the bloodstains on his skin.

While his thoughts drifted. 'Why me? Just when life was finally getting better. Five years of hard work… gone down the drain.'

As a well-known author, Silas had faced more than his share of hardship. He had written twelve novels—none of which received the recognition they deserved. Then, on what was supposed to be his final attempt, one story suddenly blew up overnight. After five years of relentless effort, he had finally achieved his dream.

At twenty-three, he'd even managed to get a girlfriend.

And now, just when everything was finally falling into place… it all meant nothing.

His latest book was called "Beginning of Life."

Ironic, considering he might be at the end of his.

Silas liked to think of himself as a positive person—at least inside his own mind. Maybe that's why he'd given it such an optimistic title.

"Get me out of here! I have no wish to die young!"

After finishing his bath, Silas tried to wash the bloodstain from his shirt. But the dried stain clung stubbornly to the fabric. Eventually, he gave up, folded the wet shirt, and changed into his clothes before returning to his room with it in hand.

The cold air hit him the moment he stepped inside, seeping into his skin like icy fingers.

Leaning slightly out the window, Silas took in the cityscape. The old stone building across from his was blanketed in snow, its outer walls laced with thick pipes that coiled like arteries. Flickering amber lights glowed behind stained glass panels, casting a warm haze onto the narrow alley below. Between the four tightly packed buildings, a narrow road carved through the snow. People walked in neat lines, coats and caps shielding them from the cold—each one moving with mechanical precision, like an ant colony.

Silas's gaze drifted lazily over the street then paused. Near the metal pole on the opposite corner, a figure stood completely still, as if it had been there for a while.

"Do I know him?"