Dear readers, I'm pretty sure I left you hanging on that last chapter. You might even have thoughts of clobbering me since that was, in fact, the very first chapter of this story. But I truly beg your pardon. I hadn't gathered my wits about me just yet.
I mean, in this absurd situation, who would?
I woke up in a nauseatingly pink room, even more lavish than the hotel suite I remembered falling asleep in. Out of force of habit, my training kicked in. I stayed still, my breath barely noticeable, and observed my surroundings. I checked myself for injuries and found none. I even checked the sheets and the side of the bed. Thankfully, there was no other person beside me, nor was there a single stain on the immaculately white bedding. Phew. That was a relief. At least this wasn't the worst-case scenario, where I ended up in a one-night stand with a man I'd knocked out. What wishful thinking. That would really be yikes.
I knew I was mostly safe. I couldn't feel any threat from where I was. Just a headache. The bedroom itself was huge. You could stuff my entire team's bunk in it and still have room to roam.
The bed was soft, so soft I almost wanted to drift back to sleep, if it had been any other circumstance. It smelled faintly of lavender, the kind of scent someone pays good money for. It was a four-poster bed with billowing white curtains. There was a huge, round vanity littered with what I presumed were makeup and skincare products. A small study with a reading table, a couple of settees right beside floor-to-ceiling French windows leading to a wide balcony. The whole room had that medieval, European feel to it, the kind you only ever see in period dramas or, apparently, if you wake up in one.
The situation was oddly similar to the transmigration novels I'd read in the past. It gave me an ominous feeling.
"C'mon, Bai Feng Jiu. That thought is absurd. Quit it." I murmured to myself in admonition.
'But just in case, it wouldn't hurt to check, right? You never know.' The little devil in my head whispered in a sing-song voice. Resigned to my own doubts, I slowly climbed down from the bed and approached the vanity, my footsteps light and soundless. But my heart was pounding nervously, ringing in my ears like resounding battle drums.
I have never been nervous during a mission, even when I had to take a life, or several, to accomplish it. I was doing my duty for my country, the very thing that kept me living. Though, in some corner of my heart, it was a little tiring.
My mind was drifting off again.
I reached the round vanity mirror and lifted my eyes to take a look. Then all hell broke loose.
It didn't.
I was exaggerating.
It was all in my mind. It snapped. What wouldn't? My poor brain. The damn mirror was defective.
I mean, who was this?
Who was this petite, smöl bishoujo in the mirror?
That can't be me. I'm a friggin' giant, alright. Where had my muscles gone? My beloved abs, where did you go? My well-developed biceps, come back! And what in the world, my pecs, or rather, my non-existent breasts, had suddenly grown overnight? Wait. My height. My height? Oh gods in the heavens above, give me back my height.
I slumped unceremoniously onto the floor in despair. Flabbergasted was understating it. The vivid figure still flashed in my mind, taunting. That isn't me. I don't look like that. I ain't cute, man. I look like a dude except without the thing down there. I don't have long, wavy, sakura pink hair so silky it was practically a sin. I don't have a small, oval face with soft edges so delicate it was questionable. I don't have a small, pert nose that reddens in the slightest cold. I don't have cheeks that look like they carry a permanent blush.
I don't have these enviable heart-shaped lips the color of red plum blossoms in winter. I don't have brows like willows, evoking gentleness at every curve. The only feature I recognized on this face was my signature phoenix eyes. Except even the eye color was wrong. I have inky black pupils, not jeweled peridot ones. They were pretty, though. Very pretty. But that's beside the point.
Right. It's the mirror, isn't it? It was defective. It was playing a prank on me. I'd look again. Maybe it would reflect my original face back this time.
Dear readers, I'll say this plainly. It did not reflect my original face back.
So there I sat, on the floor, my soul all but leaving my body. Angelic voices singing could be heard, echoing in the room.
Kidding.
That, ladies and gentlemen, was the sound of my sanity breaking.
To rub salt in the wound, the light headache I'd had suddenly intensified into an overbearingly painful one.
"F*ck!" was the last thing I managed before I passed out. My last coherent thought was that this must be the proverbial onslaught of the host's memories. Tsk. What a cliché.
Expectedly, the memories did come next. And as I sifted through them, I couldn't help but curse a little more. This was no longer a case of a defective mirror. This was, through and through, a case of a damned transmigration.