The classroom buzzed with the usual chaos of a self-study period—students slouched in their seats, half-heartedly chatting or pretending to study. The sun streamed through the windows, casting light that seemed too bright for anyone trying to focus, including Arzen.

Arzen's eyelids drooped, refusing to stay open despite his efforts to stay awake. His cheek pressed against something hard and cold—not exactly the soft pillow he remembered. As he blinked slowly, trying to clear his foggy mind, he realized he wasn’t in his room.

‘Great, probably drooled on my notebooks again.’ 

Arzen sighed, certain he’d simply dozed off in his room again. But why did everything feel... different? 

The light filtering through the window seemed more intense, the air a touch too crisp, as if the very atmosphere had shifted just enough to make the familiar strange.

With a monumental effort, he forced his eyes open, linking furiously against the blinding light that was definitely not coming from his bedside lamp. Squinting, he tried to make sense of the blurry shapes around him.

‘Hang on… since when did my room get a skylight?’

The room’s atmosphere felt familiar yet wrong. Two students sat in front of him, lost in their own worlds—one babbling away like they were auditioning for a reality TV show, and the other absorbed in a book. Neither seemed to notice Arzen’s increasing confusion.

The one-sided conversation started to drift into focus, bringing with it an odd sense of déjà vu. Something about it felt… off.

"I got another confession today."

"This is the third time this month."

"It’s flattering, but it’s also a problem. I wish they’d realize I’m not interested."

Arzen inhaled sharply and forced himself upright. His gaze fixed on the students, their words triggering a realization that made his blood run cold. 

‘This conversation…’

"Raizel? Are you even listening?"

‘Raizel? That Raizel?’ 

Arzen’s eyes darted to the speaker, a slender guy with a tiny, star-shaped mole under his left eye. It was so perfectly placed, like an artist had carefully painted it with meticulous precision. His slightly wavy black hair framed his face in that annoyingly perfect way that only fictional characters could pull off. The straight-cut bangs just above his eyebrows swayed slightly as he talked.

‘Wait a minute… No way. This isn’t happening… right? That star-shaped mole…’

Arzen's heart pounded as the realization began to take hold. He glanced at the other student, who was quietly absorbed in his book. This one had silky black hair, a muscular build, and a calm, detached demeanor—the kind that only characters in novels seem to have. His sharp eyes skimmed the pages, an action that could have seemed nonchalant to any observer, but there was something on his left wrist that caught Arzen’s focus.

‘That’s…? No… He… He’s really that Raizel August?! What the hell is going on?!’

Arzen’s mind whirled as he tried to make sense of the bizarre reality before him.

‘This has to be a joke…’

Clinging to that hope, Arzen shut his eyes tight, wishing he’d wake up in his own bed. But when he opened them again, the scene remained unchanged. The details were too sharp, too real to dismiss as just a weird dream.

Arzen could almost picture the extra chapter from the novel, the one where these characters were mentioned. 

Bits and pieces of the chapter resurfaced in his mind. 

[Someone emerged from the crowd… It was the quiet student who sat behind Raizel.] 

Arzen’s breaths quickened, and his hand clenched the edge of the desk as he tried to steady himself. 

‘Did I transmigrate? Am I seriously in a freaking novel?! This is insane!’

He looked up again at the two students sitting in front of him. 

‘Raizel. Raizel August.’ 

According to the novel’s story, Raizel’s parents had died in a car accident when he was five. Since then, he had been living with his uncle, Devon August, a central figure in the novel ‘I Became a Business Tycoon After I Regress’.

Arzen then turned his attention to Raizel's right side. 

‘Carsel. Carsel Lancel.’ 

Carsel was also attractive but had more delicate features. From where Arzen sat, he could see Carsel’s profile—green eyes, slightly wavy black hair falling just below his chin. His voice had a sweet, youthful tone, almost like he belonged in a different genre altogether.

Arzen looked down at himself. His uniform, his tie, the emblem on his blazer—everything was slightly different from what he was used to. Even his name tag, which still read “Arzen,” seemed to mock him for not catching on sooner.

Arzen glanced at his reflection in the window and froze. The face staring back at him was his, but something felt off. 

It was his face. Exactly his face. Yet it didn’t feel like him. 

His slightly curly brown hair looked the same as always, but it felt… different. The reflection made his stomach twist, like he was looking at someone else pretending to be him.

‘This has to be the creepiest dream ever. If it’s even a dream.’

Arzen remembered staying up late to work on his manuscript, feeling drained, and eventually falling asleep. Then… what? What happened then?

A sharp pain shot through his head, forcing him to wince. He clutched his head, trying to push the pain away, but it only got worse. It felt like his skull was being split open from the inside.

Then, out of nowhere, memories that weren’t his started flooding in. He saw scenes of attending classes, studying late into the night, and sharing a dorm with other students. He saw himself—no, someone else—living a life that wasn’t his.

Arzen gasped as his vision blurred, struggling to keep it together. His head pounded like someone was smashing his thoughts into a million pieces, leaving his mind a scrambled mess of ‘What the heck is going on?’ and ‘How do I get out of this insane situation?’

The faces in those memories were of strangers. In the mirror of those memories, he saw his own face, but it didn’t feel like him. 

‘What the heck was that just now?!’

The pain flared again, and Arzen let out a frustrated groan as he stumbled out of his seat. He barely managed to stay on his feet as he grabbed his bag and bolted from the classroom, not caring that everyone was now staring at him like he’d just sprouted a second head.

His sudden movement drew his classmates’ attention. Heads turned, and confused murmurs filled the room. Some students exchanged puzzled glances, while others whispered among themselves, trying to figure out what was going on.

"What’s with him?"

"Maybe he’s sick…"

But Arzen didn’t care what they thought. He had to get out of there. He had to escape this bizarre, nightmare version of reality.

Arzen sprinted down the hallway, his footsteps echoing as he ran like he was being chased by demons, his bag clutched tightly in one hand. Every door he opened just led him into another version of the same confusing mess—a weird blend of his old school and this new world he’d somehow stumbled into. 

It was like walking through a distorted reflection of his old world.

‘Seriously, what the heck is going on?!’ 

Arzen thought, feeling a mix of frustration and confusion.

He stumbled out into what should’ve been the school’s courtyard, but even that didn’t feel right. The benches, trees, and grass were all there, but everything felt different. 

‘Sh*t, what should I do?!’ 

Arzen wondered, feeling more lost than ever.

He flopped down onto a bench, trying to catch his breath and calm his racing thoughts. He sat there for what felt like forever, hoping that if he stayed still long enough, he might wake up from this bizarre dream.

‘Okay, anytime now. Wake up, Arzen. Wake up and find yourself drooling on your desk. Please.’

Arzen forced himself to stand, not really sure where he was going but knowing he couldn’t just sit there. He wandered through the hallways aimlessly until something clicked in his mind: his dorm room. Maybe seeing something familiar would help. Maybe it would make all of this make sense.

The thought sparked a small hope, and he began searching for his dorm room. The number echoed in his mind—Room 13. It was the one thing that still felt real to him.

He moved quickly, his eyes scanning the doors as he walked through the halls. Each door looked similar, but none of them felt right. His heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing grew quicker.

Finally, he reached the door with the number 13 on it. It looked familiar, but something was off—the color, the texture, even the way the numbers were arranged felt a little wrong. 

Arzen hesitated for a while, his hand hovering over the doorknob. 

‘What now? Aren’t transmigrators supposed to have some kind of system? Hello? System? Can you appear and help me? Give me a quest or something. Anything will do!’

Arzen stared at the door for a long moment, his mind still swirling with uncertainty.

He was just about to push the door open when it suddenly swung inward, almost knocking him off balance.