I never believed in transmigration. I mean—one moment, I’m binge-reading The Whisperer in Darkness at 2 AM, half-asleep with my dog Snoopy curled at my feet; the next, WHOOSH—a roaring engine, tires screeching, a blinding halo of headlights, and then … nothing.

  When I came to, I was lying on cold stone, my back protesting like I’d spent a decade lugging textbooks up Mount Everest. There wasn’t a dog in sight. Instead, a thick mist curled around me, clinging to my skin like a living thing. I sat up, heart pounding, and blinked into the dim, greenish gloom. Ancient trees loomed overhead, their gnarled branches twisting into impossible shapes. The air smelled of salt and decay, as if the ocean had died a thousand years ago and returned in a rotting tide.

  “…This isn’t Burlington,” I muttered, pushing myself to my feet. My right wrist stung—blood trickled down from a shallow cut—probably from falling onto those jagged stones. I touched my hair; it was still damp with rain (or something that felt like it). I looked down and realized my hands were trembling.

  My mind reeled. I’d been reading about degenerate cults, cosmic horrors beyond mortal comprehension, and the impossible geometry of non-Euclidean architecture. I’d devoured every page as if it were oxygen. And now … I was living it.

  “Okay, Ivan,” I told myself, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Think.”

  I scanned my pockets. Phone: gone. Wallet: gone. Nothing but the faint imprint of my student ID in my jeans. Even my watch and ring were missing. I was naked of modernity—no technology, no currency, no hope of a quick Uber ride home. Instead, this place offered only nightmare.

  I swallowed hard. “Fifteen percent.” I remembered the page I was on—just fifteen percent into the novel. It ended with the protagonist stumbling into the forest after hearing strange chanting and seeing… something truly wrong. Something alive but not living. I’d paused at that cliffhanger, thumb marking page 45.

  So this was what came next?

  A distant crack of thunder—or was it something deeper, like bones breaking under unholy weight? My hair stood on end. I took a cautious step forward. The mist parted around my ankles, revealing uneven stone pavers etched with curious symbols—triangles overlapping circles, tentacles sprouting from eldritch sigils. My pulse raced.

  Then, faint chanting, like dozens of voices murmuring in a language I half-remembered from those pages. My head spun, words unlocking in my brain: “Ia! Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn!”

  “Oh hell no,” I whispered, stumbling backward. But an unseen force—like a magnet forged in nightmare—pulled me forward. One foot, then the other, until I stood before a colossal stone archway. Beyond it, flickering torches revealed a courtyard. At its center, a pitiful bonfire crackled, casting gaunt shadows on five cloaked figures.

  They moved in unison, heads thrust upward, arms reaching skyward. Their chanting crescendoed into a guttural chant that vibrated in my chest. I recognized the faces—or at least the masks: elongated, beak-like, covered in dried seaweed and shells. They were the Deep One cultists, the ones who worshipped ancient sea gods older than Earth itself.

  My mind snapped into hyperdrive. In every light novel I’d read, the protagonist—usually a clueless transfer student—faced these horrors with a cheery grin and totally unrealistic luck. But I was smarter than that. I’d aced quantum mechanics and solved graduate-level puzzles for fun. I had one advantage: knowledge.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  I ducked behind a moss-covered column, kneeling. My heart pounded like a jackhammer, but my voice stayed calm, rehearsing my internal monologue. “Step one: gather intel. Step two: find gear. Step three: survive … and maybe, just maybe, find a way back.”

  I peeked around the pillar. The cultists’ chanting had slowed; they stood still, locked in some ritual trance. In their midst lay a leather-bound book, its cover stamped with a stylized silhouette of Cthulhu’s head. That had to be the cult’s grimoire. Dangerous, eldritch knowledge that likely summoned abominations beyond comprehension.

  I edged forward, every muscle taut. The stone floor was slick with algae; I slipped once, catching myself against the column. My heart lurched, but no one noticed. I used the moment to slip out of my jacket—thankfully, it still hung over the column. I wrapped it around my head to muffle any noise, then studied the courtyard. There—on a wooden bench beside a crumbling statue of a winged, tentacled deity—lay a battered satchel.

  If I could get that satchel, maybe it had something useful: a knife, rope, maybe even a flint. Anything to even the odds.

  I inched closer, each breath a silent prayer. Just a few more paces… reach…

  CRACK!

  My foot snapped a twig. The cultists whirled as one, their chanting breaking into a single, heart-shredding scream: “INTRUDER!”

  A wave of panic washed over me—fight or flight? I clenched my teeth and fled.

  I burst from the courtyard into a narrow alley of stacked stone buildings, the mist curling overhead like wraiths. My lungs burned as I sprinted, adrenaline surging. I could hear chanting behind me—like locusts on the wind. I didn’t dare look back. Branches scratched my arms; roots caught my feet.

  Then, out of nowhere, a figure leaped onto a low roof and vaulted down, blocking my path. Tall, slender, face concealed under a hood stitched with barnacles. In one hand, a crooked dagger that glinted in torchlight. Villain vibes, check. Calculating purple-glow eyes, check. A grin that promised bloodshed, check.

  “Well, well,” the figure drawled, voice smooth as oiled gears. “A visitor from beyond, are we?”

  My mind raced. I could talk my way out? Negotiate? Distract? Use some half-remembered Cthulhu lore? I stilled my trembling legs. “Look, I’m not here to—”

  He stepped forward, dagger tracing a lazy arc. “You’re here. That alone makes you enemy number one.”

  I forced a crooked smile. “Enemy number one? Jeez, that’s harsh. Can’t we just chill?”

  He laughed, a low rumble that felt like a quake. “Chill? In the City of Drowned Echoes? You’re lucky you haven’t been scooped up by the Mi-go—or worse.”

  Mi-go. Alien fungi that plucked brains like fruit. Fantastic. I had a choice: stand and fight or bolt. My satchel was still yards away. And my brain, intelligence notwithstanding, was the only weapon I had.

  “Tell you what,” I said, voice steady. “I’ll give you my satchel if you let me go.”

  He paused. “You have a satchel?”

  “Yeah. Probably full of useless student crap,” I fibbed. “But hey, it’s mine.”

  He considered, then nodded once. “Fine. But no tricks.”

  I nodded, heart thumping. “Promise.”

  The alley felt endless as I backed away, eyes never leaving his. Then, with a swift movement that would’ve been graceful if not for my adrenaline-fueled terror, he darted to snag the satchel.

  I seized the chance and spun, sprinting past him and plunging down a side street. He shouted behind me—but I didn’t stop. My mind whirled: satchel secured? Check. Live villain? Check. Next step: find shelter, find allies (if they existed), and figure out where the heck I was.

  As I ran, fragments of the novel’s text flashed through my mind: How did the original protagonist handle the Mi-go? Where was the safehouse? Could I rewrite my own fate?

  A thunderous roar split the night sky, and I skidded to a halt. Ahead, the buildings gave way to a cliff overlooking a black ocean, waves crashing against jagged rocks. The moon—or what passed for a moon here—was a green sickle, casting an eerie glow.

  And there, on the horizon, a shape rose from the water. Titan-size. Limbs like twisted kelp. A head crowned with writhing tentacles.

  My breath caught.

  Welcome to R’lyeh, kid. Let the real game begin.