The night was heavy, shrouded in thick clouds that concealed the silver-white moon. A cold wind howled through the valley, carrying with it the scent of blood, merging dark crimson liquid into the babbling stream that flowed into the distant unknown.
By a secluded brook hidden deep within the woods, a young woman lay motionless upon the ground. Her white robe was stained with blood; her face was pale as death, and a gaping wound across her chest still oozed dark rivulets of blood. She appeared to have been claimed by death—like a forgotten corpse abandoned in the night.
Yet, as the final mournful caw of a raven faded into the darkness, the girl suddenly drew in a sharp breath of the frigid air and opened her eyes. Those gray-blue eyes were wide with terror and confusion. Clutching her chest, she gasped out hoarsely:
"Who dares attempt to assassinate me—We... no... I?"
The silent forest offered no reply, save for the whisper of the wind and the gentle swaying of shadows cast by ancient trees.
Eleanor Lester, twenty years old, once an ordinary university student of the twenty-first century, now found herself lost and bewildered. Memories surged back like a tide—she recalled reading deep into the night, poring over a fantasy novel titled Chronicles of Orlando, envying the magic and glory within, whispering to herself:
"If only I could have magic too…"
And then, in the blink of an eye, the world spun—and she had fallen into the very story she read, becoming a character scarcely mentioned in the hero's memories: Elena Grand.
In the novel, Elena was merely the last surviving heir of a noble family slaughtered in a massacre—once a prodigious swordmaster of the Orlando Arcane Academy, forever enshrined as the purest light in the hero Raynor Selwyn's heart. Her death forged his merciless resolve, setting him upon his path to legend.
But now, this character—no, Eleanor herself—had opened her eyes at the moment destined for her end.
"This makes no sense… absolutely no sense!" she muttered, glancing down at her chest. The wound that should have claimed her life was slowly knitting itself closed beneath a strange silver glow. The blood was gone, leaving behind only a faint scar.
From the mists of the forest, a flicker of blue light appeared—serpentine, coiling toward her. The scent of blood had drawn forth something unknown. A streak of white light tore through the gloom, turning night to day for a single heartbeat.
Eleanor squinted, shielding her eyes, and felt the dried blood on her hand tremble. The blood droplets lifted into the air, gathering together and solidifying into an ancient jade token—or no, not jade, but a Stone of Destiny, etched with incomprehensible runes and glowing with a pale light.
"What the hell is that… stay back!" she tried to rise, but the stone pulled toward her, drawn to her like a starving beast. It embedded itself into her palm, cold and hungry, leeching her strength and drinking deep from her blood.
Only when she was on the brink of unconsciousness did the stone finally sink beneath her skin, leaving behind a glowing sigil, a brand that pulsed faintly in her palm.
She collapsed, ashen and breathless, raising her eyes just in time to see the figure emerging from the shadows of the night: Raynor Selwyn.
His long golden hair rippled in the wind, his expression grim yet filled with a tender anguish. A crimson sigil burned bright upon his brow. He strode to her side, gathering her into his arms, his voice trembling:
"Elena… who did this to you?"
She could barely whisper, her breath shallow: "Let… let go… you're crushing me…"
Raynor's concern deepened, and his arms involuntarily tightened.
Eleanor gasped, her voice weak as thread: "You're going to suffocate me…"
Then, with the last of her strength, she raised a trembling hand and gave him a middle finger.
Raynor froze, startled—and then caught her hand, his gaze softening. "Don't be afraid. I'm here."
The sigil on her palm glowed faintly red, as if answering some distant, fated call. And so, upon this night, the game of destiny began its silent play.