I slowly opened my eyes, raising my head as I emerged from a deep sleep. A peculiar feeling tugged at me—a sensation that I wasn't in the right place, as if unseen eyes were watching my every move. My vision remained blurry as I strained to piece together my surroundings.
I rubbed my eyes, and gradually the haze lifted. That's when I noticed something impossible: these weren't my hands. They were smaller and more frail than I remembered, delicate in structure and unfamiliar in every way. Confusion mingled with a growing sense of wonder as I tried to fathom where I could possibly be.
I was sitting in a wooden leather chair at a wooden desk. On the desk rested an older gas lamp, its flame flickering softly against the encroaching shadows. Next to the lamp lay a vibrant red quill pen, adorned with gold and silver accents, nestling perfectly in a matching inkwell. An open book spanned across the desk, its pages worn by time, displaying an image of strange symbols, letters, and text in an unknown language. The room itself was spacious yet modest, reminiscent of a student's dorm room in a bygone era. Silver and brass pipes ran along the walls and ceiling, their exposed gears turning slowly as if echoing the rhythm of a forgotten clockwork. To one side, a single bed with an exquisitely carved wooden frame . Near the bed stood a wooden door, and along the right wall, a cabinet with two closed doors and five drawers . A standing oval mirror, crafted from redwood with subtle gold accents, reflected the room's dim light; a coat rack beside it held a few well-worn waistcoats that hinted at a life of academic pursuit.
Behind me, wooden shelves spanned the entire back wall, crammed with mysterious books and odd equipment—devices whose design clearly belonged to another era. It was as if the room itself was a relic from a forgotten time, transplanted into a place that defied my memories.
A cautious breath escaped me as I rose from the desk, my limbs trembling with a mix of fear and curiosity. Each step I took across the creaking wooden floor felt both deliberate and hesitant. I paused to survey the room once more, noticing that all the other books were in English—a small but significant detail that deepened the mystery and sparked my determination to find answers.
My gaze wandered to the corner of the room, where the oval mirror beckoned me. Recalling the earlier shock of seeing unfamiliar hands. Feeling drawn to it , I hesitated before I began stepping closer. My heart pounded in my ears as I looked into the reflection and realized the impossible truth: I was trapped in a body that wasn't my own. Staring back at me was the visage of a sixteen-year-old boy—short jet-black hair, striking blue eyes, a well-shaped face, and a smaller, delicate frame that suggested comfort and refinement rather than the scars of labor. My clothes were unmistakably of the era: a crisp black suit paired with a pristine white undershirt, tan-brown trousers, and polished black Oxford shoes that shone even in the low light.
A thousand questions swirled in my mind. What had happened to me? How was it possible that I'd awoken in this strange, anachronistic room, with a body that wasn't my own?
Determined to uncover the truth, I began to search for clues. I returned to the bookshelf, my eyes scanning every spine for a hint of my whereabouts. Among the rows of texts, one title in particular caught my eye—a vibrant blue volume titled Foundations of Arcana. Its cover was embossed with intricate patterns that hinted at secrets and hidden powers. My pulse quickened as I pulled the book from its resting place. Could it be that I was in another world entirely? Was there a magic in this world that explained my transformation?
I sat back at the desk and opened the book, its fresh pages rippling under my touch. From the text, I learned that in this world there existed a magic system known as Arcana—a mystical force discovered in the year 858 by an unknown pioneer. Arcana permeated every living thing, maintaining the delicate balance of the universe. It could neither be created nor destroyed, much like the law of conservation of energy. The system was divided into four primary affinities: Wind, Water, Fire, and Earth, each containing nearly infinite sub-affinities. Every living being possessed the latent ability to manipulate and harness this energy, though few ever truly mastered it.
Yet, the text offered no guidance on how one might channel such power. It merely provided the origins and the fundamental principles behind Arcana. I closed the book gently, my mind awash with more questions than answers. Before I could delve deeper into the mysteries of magic, I needed to understand where I was—and why I had been thrust into this bewildering reality.
I rose again and began to wander through the room, examining every corner for further clues. My hand brushed against the smooth wood of the cabinet, and I noted the faint scent of old paper and oil. I then moved to inspect the other books; titles ranged from academic treatises to compendiums of ancient lore. It was then that I noticed a dim green history book tucked away on a lower shelf. Its title, The History of Arcadia, glowed faintly in the lamplight. With growing urgency, I pulled it from its resting spot and opened it.
From its pages, I learned that I was on a continent called Arcadia—a land once united under a single nation ruled by the Arcadia family. The Arcadia family then spread their power into seven head noble families; Aurelium, Covetia, Volupta, Enviris, Banquara, Irecliff, and Dormontia each in charge and in control of their own part of the nation and kingdoms with the Arcadia still in control of the seven families. For hundreds of years, Arcadia thrived in peace until, in the year 1667, the seven noble families united to seize control. The war lasted seventy years, and when the king finally fell to old age, the Arcadia family then decided to surrender, not wanting any more losses. The seven noble houses then divided the land evenly among themselves, each establishing a kingdom recognized for its unique traditions and conditions.
According to the text, I now resided in the kingdom of Aurelium, known for its scholars and geniuses. Known for its scholars and geniuses—the most advanced due to its tradition of learning, and its capital city—Prive, within the district of Genid—which was home to the most prestigious university in Arcadia, Anclode. The revelation struck me like a thunderbolt: the room I had awoken in was not just any dormitory, but one belonging to the head city of this illustrious institution. Somehow, I had become a student—a prodigy among geniuses—yet I still did not know my new name or the reason for my arrival.
As I absorbed these staggering revelations, a gentle knock at the door startled me from my thoughts. I hurriedly closed The History of Arcadia and placed it back on the shelf, my heart racing with a mix of fear and anticipation. Who was calling? What would they say? The uncertainty gnawed at me as I slowly moved toward the door, each step echoing like a drumbeat in the silence.
With a trembling hand, I turned the knob and opened the door to reveal a vision of youthful urgency—a beautiful girl with long jet-black hair cascading over her shoulders, striking blue eyes, and a complexion as pale as porcelain. She was dressed in an elegant ensemble: a high-collared, ruffled blouse of fine cotton, over which was a tailored, form-fitting corset that accentuated her slender waist. A long, voluminous skirt with a subtle bustle trailed behind her, and a leather satchel hung at her side, hinting at she is also a student.
"Brother, we are going to be late. Hurry up and get finished—I've been waiting for you," she chided in an annoyed yet caring tone.
At that moment, a surge of memories flooded my mind. She was my younger sister, Anne Stirling—a brilliant and prodigious student, just a few months younger than me. The recollection of our shared childhood was both comforting and heartbreaking; our parents were absent, their faces blurred in my memory as though purposefully hidden. Despite this void, the bond between us remained unbreakable.
"Brother, what are you doing? Did you hear me?" she repeated, her tone a mixture of impatience and concern.
"Oh, yes—sorry, I've been dozing off," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. Panic and embarrassment mingled as I hurriedly gathered my belongings. I picked up a silver pocket watch, a leather-bound notebook for taking notes, a fine quill pen, and a small glass bottle of ink. As I scurried to the bookshelf to retrieve two mathematics books (as she had reminded me), I realized the gravity of my situation: I was not only in a new body and a strange room, but I was also expected to attend class as if nothing were amiss.
Once I stuffed everything into my leather satchel, I returned to the door. "I'm done! I'm coming, just give me a second!" I called out, my voice echoing in the narrow corridor.
"Well, hurry up—we don't have much time," she urged, standing outside with an impatient glint in her eyes.
I stepped out into the hallway, and my senses were immediately overwhelmed by the grandeur of the university dormitory. The corridor was long and opulent, its walls adorned with silver accents and illuminated by magnificent chandeliers that cast a soft, golden glow. Along the corridor, silver and brass pipes interlaced with exposed gears ran like the veins of some colossal machine, reminding me that this world is of a different era that I do not yet know.
We descended a sweeping staircase spanning two stories, the steps echoing with each determined stride. As we reached the front doors of the dorm and stepped out into the courtyard, the scene before us took my breath away. Neatly trimmed hedges and majestic trees framed the expansive green space, while the surrounding buildings—each a marvel of architecture enhanced with silver and brass pipe works with gear interlaced and exposed. The dormitories were arranged in distinct blocks, clearly separated by gender, and the main academic building to the side of the dorms loomed in the distance, its stone facade detailed with intricate carvings and accented by silver and brass pipework. At the heart of the building, a colossal clock with exposed gears ticked steadily, a silent testament to the passage of time.
Then, as if summoned by fate, my eyes were drawn upward. In the distance behind the grand clock, I discovered a breathtaking sight: numerous steampunk air balloons drifted gracefully across the sky, their enormous, billowing canvases and intricate rigging a vivid reminder of the boundless possibilities in this world.
I paused, transfixed by the spectacle. The air balloons, with their soaring silhouettes against the twilight sky, encapsulated the very spirit of Arcadia—a fusion of tradition and unbridled innovation. In that moment, all my questions and uncertainties coalesced into a single, resolute thought: this world, with its mysteries and marvels, was now my home. And though I still had much to learn about my new identity, my newfound body, and the secrets of Arcana, I knew one thing for certain—I had to unravel the truth behind it all.