Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World

Chapter 1: Chapter 1: The Transmigration

Fuck!

It hurts so much.

Why... why does it feel like I'm freezing?

A gaudy, dazzling dream world filled with faint murmurs instantly shattered. Moe's consciousness was wrenched back into reality, his thoughts sluggish and muddled. A deep, throbbing agony radiated from his chest. It wasn't just pain—it felt as if something cold and jagged had been driven ruthlessly into him, freezing his very core.

What the hell is happening...? Moe's barely coherent mumble escaped his lips.

He tried to focus, his heavy-lidded eyes dragging downward toward the source of his torment. As he lay on the bed, his gaze landed on his chest. A jagged shard of ice, sharp and crystalline, protruded grotesquely from his flesh.

What the fuck... why is there an ice shard stabbed into my chest? he muttered weakly, confusion and disbelief thick in his voice.

Am I still dreaming? And who... who the hell would stab a freshly graduated student—someone who hasn't even offended anyone—with an ice shard of all things?

Moe tried to lift his hand, to touch the shard embedded in him, but his body wouldn't obey. His limbs felt like lead, cold and unyielding.

This has to be a dream... right? That's why I can't move? But dreams don't hurt like this. Can they? Can a dream make me feel this... cold?

In desperation, he bit down on his tongue, hard.

"Ahhh!" he yelped, his own voice startling him. The sharp sting shot through his mouth, real and unmistakable to prove that it wasn't a dream.

So, this isn't a dream.

Moe tried to move his hand again, but it didn't budge at all. All he could do at that moment was tilt his head slightly, his muscles trembling with the effort. He took a deep, shuddering breath and landed his gaze upward.

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—nothing like the dull plaster he was used to seeing back in his apartment. Instead, it was a grand, intricate masterpiece. The surface was adorned with swirling patterns, etched in what appeared to be shimmering gold and silver, the lines weaving together like an elaborate tapestry. At the center of this ceiling hung a magnificent chandelier, unlike anything Moe had ever seen before.

The chandelier wasn't lit by bulbs or candles but by what appeared to be gemstones, each radiating a soft, otherworldly glow. The colors shifted gently, like the hues of a sunset melting into twilight. Each gem pulsed faintly, as though alive, casting dancing shadows across the ceiling and filling the room with an ethereal luminescence.

It was breathtaking—majestic, even. And yet, it only deepened the sinking pit of dread in Moe's chest. He had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten here. The grandeur above him felt surreal, almost mocking, as if the very room itself was indifferent to the icy shard still lodged in his chest.

What kind of place is this...? And why the hell am I here? This isn't my room at all.

His room was nothing like this—nothing even close. Back in his small apartment room, the ceiling was a flat, off-white expanse of cheap plaster, speckled with faint water stains that refused to scrub out no matter how hard he tried. The single, bare bulb that hung from the ceiling provided harsh, unflattering light, casting jagged shadows across the cramped space. His desk, pushed up against the far wall, was cluttered with crumpled notes, half-empty coffee cups, and a laptop that seemed to be his only item that felt luxurious.

A single size bed was shoved into the corner, its plain gray sheets wrinkled and slightly musty from too many nights spent studying instead of doing laundry. Next to it sat a rickety nightstand, its surface scarred by years of hastily placed mugs and forgotten snack wrappers. A single window let in faint slivers of daylight during the day, though the view it offered was nothing more than the brick wall of the adjacent building.

That room had been utilitarian at best—a space for sleeping, studying, and occasionally zoning out to the hum of late-night TV. It was nothing special, but it was familiar, grounding. And yet, here he was now, lying in what seemed to be a king size bed and a ceiling that looked like it had been plucked straight from a royal palace.

The contrast made Moe's stomach churn. The unfamiliar surroundings, the piercing cold in his chest, the icy shard—it all felt like some sick joke. But there was no punchline here, only a growing sense of dread as he stared up at the radiant chandelier above him.

What the hell is going on...? Am I going to die like that in my sleep?

The question echoed in Moe's mind like a relentless drumbeat, but amidst the panic, he noticed something—an odd warmth coursing through his body, like a wave of energy slowly surging to life within him. His chest still throbbed with cold, but now it was accompanied by a strange, tingling sensation radiating outward.

He focused on his right hand, willing it to move. At first, it resisted, trembling faintly, but then, with a sudden burst of effort, his fingers twitched, then curled into a weak fist. Relief flooded him—he could move. Moe slowly lifted his hand, still shaking, toward the jagged shard of ice protruding grotesquely from his chest.

I shouldn't pull this thing out, right?

But his curiosity let his fingers brushed the icy shard. He then remembered a lesson from a first-aid course in school. If a sharp object pierces your body, don't remove it. Leave it in place and call for help instead. Removing it could make things worse.

Moe stopped the urged to pull the ice shard for inspection. Gritting his teeth, he summoned every ounce of strength he had, pushing past the freezing ache in his chest. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and opened his mouth to shout for help. But before the words could leave his throat, something inexplicable happened.

The shard of ice shimmered faintly, glowing with an otherworldly light. Then, as if responding to an invisible command, it dissolved into thin air—vanishing like it had never existed.

Moe gasped, his chest suddenly feeling weightless. He looked down, expecting to see blood pouring from the wound, but instead, he was left in stunned silence as the jagged hole began to close itself. The torn flesh knitted together rapidly, as if time had been sped up around it. It was like watching a time-lapse video of a wound healing—impossibly fast, impossibly perfect.

He blinked, dumbfounded, as the pain faded entirely. Within seconds, his chest was unblemished, the only evidence of the shard's existence being the faint chill lingering in his skin.

What the hell is this? he thought, his voice trembling in his mind. Do I... do I somehow have superpowers?

He let out a shaky laugh, more from disbelief than amusement. Taking a deep breath, Moe forced himself to calm down. The warmth flowing through him now felt steady, grounding him in the moment.

The surreal nature of his situation threatened to overwhelm him, but he knew panicking wouldn't help. He braced himself and pushed his palms against the bed, mustering the strength to sit up. His muscles protested at first, but he pushed through, ignoring the trembling in his arms.

Finally, he sat upright, his legs dangling off the edge of the bed. The cold floor beneath his feet sent a chill up his spine, but it helped to ground him further.

He looked around the room, his gaze sweeping over the grand chamber. The bed he sat on was massive and the texture of the bed was like sitting on a cloud. Across from the bed, a tall, gilded mirror stood against the wall, its frame carved with intricate designs that shimmered faintly in the soft glow of the chandelier above.

Near the far corner of the room, a sturdy wooden study desk was positioned beside the window. The desk was neatly arranged with stacks of books, loose parchment, and a quill resting in an inkpot. The wooden table desk seems like it has never been used for writing or anything else.

The walls were adorned with simple tapestries in deep, muted colors, and an unlit fireplace sat along one side of the room, its mantle holding a few decorative items—a polished vase and some other decorative items. Beside it stood a pendulum clock, its hands telling that it was 3:15 in the morning..

Moe exhaled slowly, overwhelmed by the sheer opulence around him. Every detail of the room screamed wealth and power, like the private chamber of a king. He then summarized the situation in his head,

Alright, to sum it up—I woke up in a completely different place, got stabbed in the chest by an ice shard, and instead of dying, the ice just vanished and my body healed itself at an alarming speed.

Is this a joke or some kind of supernatural?

Moe then steadied himself, planting his feet firmly on the cold floor before pushing off the bed. His legs trembled, but he managed to stand upright. After a few shaky steps, he began to regain some balance, his breaths slow and deliberate as he took in the surreal surroundings.

Then his eyes landed on the tall, gilded mirror standing against the wall. Something about it drew him closer, almost as if it were calling to him. He hesitated for a moment but eventually shuffled toward it.

When he reached the mirror, what he saw made his heart stop. n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

What the fuck? he muttered, his voice shaking.

The reflection staring back at him wasn't his own.

Moe froze, his eyes wide as he stared at the figure in the mirror. The figure has dark hair and a round, bloated face. A prominent double chin sagged beneath the reflection's jaw, and the body was bulky, with flabby arms and a big belly fat.

His hands shot up to his face instinctively, trembling as his fingers touched his cheeks, jawline, and neck.

Is this my reflection? he muttered, his voice still shaking.

The soft, unfamiliar flesh he felt didn't belong to him—it couldn't belong to him. He pressed harder, desperate to find some proof that this wasn't real, but the reflection mimicked every movement, every panicked touch.

What... what the hell is this? Moe whispered.

He stumbled back from the mirror, his breathing ragged as his mind struggled to process what he was seeing. This body—this fat and unfamiliar body—wasn't his. It couldn't be. His mind raced.

This isn't me. This isn't my body at all. Who the hell does this fat body belong—

Before he could finish his thoughts, a searing pain shot through his brain, like a bolt of lightning striking his mind. His vision blurred, and his body betrayed him, sending him crashing to the floor. He rolled uncontrollably, his limbs flailing wildly as he struggled to regain control. The pain was excruciating, a throbbing ache that seemed to pulse through every fiber of his being. Time lost all meaning as he lay there, helpless and writhing in agony.

But eventually, the pain began to subside, and Moe's strength slowly returned. He lay still for a moment, catching his breath and waiting for the room to stop spinning. Then, with hard effort, he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled towards the nearest wooden chair, collapsing onto its seat with a soft groan. He sat there, motionless and silent, as he reflected on the memories that had flooded his mind during his ordeal. Fragments of a life not his own had flashed before his eyes, like a jumbled montage of images and emotions.

The memories were disjointed and unclear, but they were undeniably real, and they belonged to the body he now inhabited. Moe's mind reeled as he struggled to make sense of these new memories, and the life that had been thrust upon him. Moe then realized that he was transmigrated into a body of a stranger.

So the person I transmigrated into was named King Arthur Jr.