Who Am I? Where Is This?
I'd made this grand resolution to become a true composer who creates real music, but honestly, that was something I could figure out later. Right now, the fire burning at my feet was figuring out this unfamiliar ceiling and who the hell I even was.
"No, usually when you transmigrate, shouldn't you at least get the host's memories or something?"
"Okay, first things first—calm down. Assess the situation."
I grabbed hold of my foggy mind and got out of bed, shuffling over to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.
"Who the hell is that?"
A stranger stared back at me from the glass—a petite girl with waist-length ash-gray hair that shimmered like it had soaked up moonlight, skin pale as if it had never seen the sun. My voice had already tipped me off that something was wrong, but even so, I couldn't believe it. I pinched my cheek again. No dream—the sharp pain was real, and the girl's cheek in the mirror flushed red just like mine, slamming home the fact that this was reality.
What threw me the most, though, were her eyes. Peeking out from that desaturated gray hair were vivid crimson irises.
"Albinism...? Nah, the sunlight earlier was fine, and my vision's perfect."
Of course, the girl in the mirror was pretty damn cute—straight-up beautiful, even—but that didn't offer much comfort.
"Face is... better than my old life's, I guess. Still, way too eye-catching."
I turned away from the mirror, took a deep breath, and scanned the room. It was way bigger and nicer than my old studio apartment from my previous life... or was it just that I was smaller now? Anyway, by the sunlit window sat a fancy desk with a worn leather pouch and neatly stacked papers.
[Resident Permit - Cecilia]
[Status: 6th Grade Commoner Mage]
Small mercies—the papers kindly told me my name and status. Flipping through the rest, I found the lease for this nice two-story house in my name. Owning property smack in the capital? In my old life, I'd been scraping by on rent every month—this was practically a miracle.
I skimmed and sorted the essentials from the pile. Then I opened the pouch. Heavy metal clinked out—dozens of yellowish copper coins, interspersed with sleek silver ones gleaming softly.
"These silver ones gotta be worth a bit, right?"
By old-world logic, silver meant at least tens of thousands of won, maybe over a hundred thousand if they were pure. No gold coins in sight, but this much silver eased my worries. The pouch felt more reassuring than my old studio's deposit.
"Money's good, but no clue on prices yet."
Judging by the weight, I wouldn't starve anytime soon. I rummaged for more hidden cash, but what I really needed was the coins' exact value.
I pocketed a few silvers and a handful of coppers, threw on a robe from nearby, and headed out. Seeing is believing—nothing beat hands-on testing to gauge this world's currency.
The front door swung open to the capital's bustling air. Shops hummed, people traded goods casually. Brick-paved streets rumbled with carriages; folks hurried to their destinations. Add in the occasional flying broomstick riders, and it was straight out of a textbook medieval fantasy city. Of course, the ear-splitting screams I'd heard on waking made "normal" a stretch.
I walked until I hit a fruit stall in the market.
"How much for one of these?"
I picked up a ripe apple. The vendor glanced over, annoyed, and jerked his chin at it.
"Three coppers."
An apple for 3,000 won? One copper per thousand. Fair enough for capital prices. I dug out a silver instead. The vendor's brow furrowed instantly.
"Ugh, seriously? Bad luck from the morning."
"Pardon?"
"Buying one apple and handing over silver? You trying to wipe me out on change? Got no coppers?"
His glare was sharp. He'd seen the coppers in my pouch but figured I was messing with him. My goal was testing the silver's value, though, so I played dumb and held firm.
"Fine, whatever! Mages like you are such a pain. Here!"
Irritated, he yanked a big pouch from under the stall and slammed it down. He roughly counted out coppers—clink, clink, clink—piling up ninety-seven in front of me.
"Take it and scram. Can't you see the line?"
One silver equaled about a hundred coppers—roughly 100,000 won. I felt that bone-deep from his pissed-off face and the hefty coin stack.
...Should've just asked?
Guilt hit, but asking for change back now would be weird. I bolted from the stall, hefting the heavier pouch, and thought, Was I ever this dumb?
I bit into the sweet apple—tastier than any from my old world, weirdly boosting my mood—as I kept walking.
But the satisfaction faded fast. Nearing the restaurant district, I spotted a plaza packed with crowds like storm clouds. Something big was drawing them in.
"Here we go! Today's art! Soul-shaking, emotional music!"
A guy on the central platform bellowed, then hammered a massive steel plate mercilessly.
Clang! Boom! Crash-crash-crash! Sparks flew; shrill metal pierced my eardrums.
A woman beside him screamed sharper than nails on chalkboard, veins bulging in her neck.
"Gaaahhh—! Screeeee!"
I couldn't take it—hands clamped over my ears as I backed away. I prayed my eardrums were busted, but the horrific noise kept assaulting my brain. The crowd's reaction blew my mind.
"Gods, that irregular racket! True innovation breaking free from rigid molds!"
"The tone of that scream is pure art. Raw emotion, no pretense—real freedom!"
They looked genuinely moved; some even wiped tears. A world without music might've been bearable. But...
"This is insane. Music exists as a concept."
They had the word, called it art. But the content? Hellish noise. To them, music lacked harmony, chords, rhythm, rules—just a tool to jolt the brain. Probably their brains mistaking constant noise for threat, pumping adrenaline for the thrill. Had to be. Otherwise... no explanation. If they actually loved that crap, I'd bite my tongue and die right there.
Anyway, in a world devoid of real music, people hailed garbage noise as masterpieces and devoured it rabidly.
I rubbed my goosebumped arms and muttered,
"Thank god for transmigration..."
If I'd been born here, lullabied by that horror? Shudder. My musical sense would've died before forming, eardrums numb, and I'd be clapping along like them. I couldn't stand another second—fled the plaza.
On the way home, I saw kids playing in a shop alley corner. Not singing—just shrieking wildly as they ran. "Wait, kids play like that here, right?" The shock lingered; their yells threw me off, but I shook it and kept going. Soon, my sturdy two-story house came into view. I stared at it, steeling my resolve.
With this solid cash and comfy home as my base, for my ears' sake—and these poor bastards' eardrums—I'd end this mad "music" era.
...First things first, though—no moving yet. Priority was blocking that window noise for focus.