[Reading Warnings]
1. “Mad dog” younger male lead, a clingy type whose eyes never leave the heroine.
2. The age gap is six years, referring to the heroine and hero before transmigration. After transmigration, the two are the same age. [Contains death-feigning plotlines, and scenes where the male lead digs up the heroine’s grave and goes mad embracing her corpse; those who mind, read with caution.]
3. The Phantom of the Opera has many versions. This story is written as a horror-style version (not any specific film, but as a general style). The male lead has a heavy non-human quality; his personality and actions may be more obsessive and extreme than in the original.
4. The heroine will at first fear the male lead somewhat, but very soon she will find joy in it. After all, if the male lead’s every action does not strike at the heroine’s hidden desires, what would be the point?
5. This work is a derivative fiction, but the characterizations, plot, and background contain heavy personal interpretation and secondary creation. The author’s personal style is extremely distinct; please do not treat the settings and characterizations in this story as official canon. Thank you.
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︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Bo Li opened her eyes with her head splitting in pain, only to discover that she was wearing a different set of clothes—a shirt, vest, and long stockings.
The workmanship and fabric were coarse, some places even coming apart at the seams, the stitching crooked and messy, carrying with it a strange, sweaty odor.
Where was she?
Who had changed her clothes?
Instinctively, Bo Li propped herself up, lifting her clothes to look at her abdomen—there was no wound.
Rolling up her sleeve, she found no needle marks on her arm either.
Before she could heave the slightest sigh of relief, a thunderous crash suddenly rang out outside—bang!
Immediately after came a wave of malicious laughter.
“This kid’s bones are really hard. Dragged behind a horse for so long, and he didn’t let out a single sound…”
“Shoot him between the legs, let’s see if his bones are still that hard!”
Another burst of raucous laughter.
“That won’t do,” someone said, “if we cripple him, the manager will kill us… He’s the circus’s money tree.”
“Money tree? Him? A brat who hasn’t even grown all his hair yet?”
“He’s got great skill,” the man laughed, then turned his head, making a sharp noise like one would to call a dog, “Tch—Erik, give everyone a show of your ventriloquism, your singing, those tricks of yours that fool people…”
Whatever that “Erik” said, the laughter outside abruptly ceased.
Everyone fell silent. For a time, only the sound of horse hooves stamping in place could be heard.
Someone gave a cold laugh, shouted a sharp “Hyah!”, and quickened his riding pace.
No one spoke again.
But a chill spread through Bo Li’s heart—for if she remembered correctly, that “Erik” was still bound and being dragged behind the horse.
What made her blood run cold was that the people outside were speaking English.
Though she lived in Los Angeles, their accent was clearly not West Coast—it sounded more like… French?
Had she been kidnapped by Frenchmen?
Or could it be that…
Bo Li shut her eyes tightly and lowered her head.
The instant she clearly saw her own palm, her mind went utterly blank. The back of her head tightened with a prickling sensation, and her heart pounded violently in her chest.
—This was not her hand.
She had a touch of mysophobia; her nails had always been clean and neat, smooth and rosy.
But this hand was rough and red, its joints swollen as though frostbitten, black grime embedded in the creases between fingers, and several calloused patches of brownish yellow in the palm.
What is it that a person looks at the most each day?
Not the face, but one’s own hands.
Bo Li had never imagined that one day, upon waking, she would see another person’s hand on her own body.
…It was simply a scene that could only appear in a horror film.
What on earth was happening?
“…Hey, Bo Li, Bo Li, look at me!”
A voice exploded beside her ear like thunder.
Bo Li’s scalp tightened as she jerked her head up.
At some unknown moment, a little boy had squeezed his way in front of her, staring at her with wide eyes.
He seemed somewhat malnourished, his face sallow and thin. On his head he wore a crumpled flat cap, his face covered with red pockmarks.
“What are you dazing off for here!” the boy said. “Something big has happened, do you know? Erik stole Mike’s gold pocket watch!”
Bo Li croaked hoarsely, “Erik?”
“Yeah! Mike was furious, tied his foot to the saddle, and dragged him for several hundred meters… By the time the manager found out, that leg of his was already swollen like a steamed bun, his back nearly torn to shreds, the ground littered with bits of flesh dragged off him… Serves him right.” The boy spat contemptuously, “Always stealing our limelight!”
The ground littered with bits of flesh… The mere thought made Bo Li’s own back ache with phantom pain. Yet the boy was utterly nonchalant, as if he were speaking not of a living person, but of a rat caught in a trap.
“If you ask me, it was far too easy on him… A gold pocket watch is that expensive. Mike should have gone to the police, had him sent straight to the gallows1Gallows: refers to a wooden structure built specifically for public executions by hanging.…”
Bo Li thought to herself, this wretched place has police?
Wait—gallows?
Just then, the little boy suddenly squeezed closer, motioning for her to lower the tent flap, leaving only a thin slit to peer outside.
“Hush, hush…” His face flushed crimson with excitement, and he whispered, “The manager and the others are here!”
Bo Li lifted her gaze and immediately saw Erik.
He was very thin, gravely injured, lying motionless on a stretcher.
The shirt on his body had been soaked black with filthy blood, like a greedy shadow ready to devour him whole.
A thick metallic stench spread outward, drilling straight into the nostrils.
At first Bo Li thought her own nose was bleeding—instinctively she tilted her head back—only after a few seconds did she realize it was the heavy reek of blood.
Sparks flickered as a man struck a match, lighting the cigar at his lips before strolling to Erik’s side.
At dusk the light was dim, and Bo Li could not make out the man’s features. She only saw that he wore a suit, a watch chain hanging from his vest, and on his thumb a glittering gemstone ring. He must be the “manager” the boy had spoken of.
“My dear Mike,” the man spoke unhurriedly, “may I ask why you had to treat him like this?”
Only then did Bo Li notice the blond boy standing beside him—fat, sturdy, with a ruddy face.
The blond boy immediately shouted, “He stole my watch!”
“No, no, Mike,” the man shook his head. “You misunderstand me. What I mean is—why do you think you have the right to beat him like this?”
At these words, Mike was instantly stunned.
He seemed not to have expected the man to speak in Erik’s defense, and grew somewhat anxious: “Uncle, what he stole was the gold pocket watch Mother gave me…”
The man drew on his cigar, raised a hand in a gesture for silence. “You are my beloved nephew, so when you and the others scuffle about on ordinary days, I turn a blind eye. But this time, you truly went too far.”
“Erik knows magic, ventriloquism, he can sing.” The man cast a glance at the stretcher, his eyes filled with regret, as though he were looking at a dog too feeble to guard the door. “At a single word from me, he can even leap through a ring of fire. And you? You do nothing but waste my food, unable to earn back even half of Erik’s performance fee.”
Mike’s face flushed red, then purple. “B-but he stole my gold pocket watch… Uncle! He stole my watch! It’s gold!”
The man asked calmly, “Did you see him steal it?”
Mike stammered, “No, but—”
“Did you find any proof that he stole it?”
“No, but aside from him, who else would—”
The man’s tone suddenly turned icy cold. “Since he wasn’t caught, then that means he did well.”
Mike cried out in disbelief, “Uncle, how could you…”
“How could I?” The man gave a cold laugh. “My sister was an excellent pickpocket. She could empty a mistress’s chamber without anyone the wiser. And you? You didn’t even know your own watch had been taken, and nearly crippled my money tree in the process.”
The man lowered his head and gave Erik a sidelong glance. “And with such poor aim,” he said coldly. “Now look—Erik’s leg is broken, his back is injured. Who will perform the magic tricks in the meantime? You?”
Mike’s face turned scarlet, as though he had been slapped across the face several times, yet for a long while he could not utter a word.
After all, they were uncle and nephew. The man scolded him for a few sentences, then waved his hand to dismiss Mike.
Bo Li carefully recalled the exchange between the two, and only felt her skin crawl.
—Was there no law in this place?
Mike appeared no more than sixteen or seventeen, and yet the man had casually revealed that his mother was a pickpocket.
He had committed such a grave offense—brawling, dragging another child behind a horse, nearly beating him to death—yet the man had only reproved him lightly, without true severity.
Adding to that the many bizarre details: a gold pocket watch, the gallows, cigars, matches, the utterly unfamiliar palm of her own hand…
…It was highly possible she was no longer in the modern age.
Bo Li drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm, and continued to listen.
She had to hear more useful details in order to make sense of her present situation.
The man finished his cigar, then lightly kicked the stretcher where Erik lay. “…Can you still speak?”
There was no reply.
The man was not bothered, and went on speaking of his own accord: “I know both you and Mike want me to hand down justice. But I am not a judge, nor a policeman. I do not care to know who truly stole the thing. I want only money.”
“Mike’s mother gave me five thousand francs to look after this child…” The man chuckled. “If you can earn me five thousand francs, then even if you kill Mike, I will say nothing. Do you understand?”
Still there was no reply.
Erik lay silent, motionless, as though he had already died upon the stretcher.
But Bo Li’s whole body went cold, her heart sinking violently— The man was clearly hinting to Erik that so long as he made enough money, he could kill Mike.
He was encouraging the two youths to kill each other.
What kind of place was this?
Or rather… what era was this?
Bo Li could hardly breathe, her body drenched in clammy sweat.
The next instant, a voice rasping to the extreme broke out—it was the voice of a youth: “…Understood.”
“Good boy,” the manager praised, “don’t worry. Old Mrs. Smith has copied quite a few prescriptions from the Gypsies2Gypsies: This refers to the Roma people, a traditionally nomadic ethnic group with origins traced back to northern India, who migrated into Europe centuries ago.—she won’t let you get gangrene3Gangrene: a severe medical condition where body tissue dies due to loss of blood supply, often caused by infection or extreme injury..”
Gypsies?
Gangrene?
Bo Li’s head swam slightly.
If earlier had been mere speculation, now she was one hundred percent certain she was no longer in the modern age.
…She had actually transmigrated.
After speaking, the manager thought for a moment, then pulled out a bottle and set it before Erik. “Whiskey. Drink, and you’ll feel better.”
Bo Li fell into silence. If her eyes did not deceive her, half of Erik’s body was soaked through with blood.
Injured like this, he could still drink whiskey?
But Erik suddenly shot up a hand, as if he had long been waiting for the chance, and seized the bottle in a grip so tight it startled the manager. His fingers strained to the point of cramp, and he all but tore the cork out with his teeth before throwing back his head and drinking in desperate gulps.
The little boy beside them saw this and found nothing amiss. Instead, he wore an expression of envy. “That’s Scotch whisky… He stole something, so why is the manager rewarding him?”
Bo Li said nothing.
She no longer wished to look at this grotesque scene, but instead began observing her surroundings: wagons, tents, grass, grimy blankets, an old gas lamp, and in the corner, a murky water bucket.
It seemed she truly had transmigrated.
And not even to her own country, but to a… completely unfamiliar land.
Bo Li found it difficult to breathe.
After a while, she realized the cause of her shortness of breath was not sheer terror, but that her chest was bound too tightly.
The little boy was still sighing in earnest, paying no attention to her unusual state.
Bo Li quietly turned her body aside, slipped a hand beneath her shirt, and felt a strip of cloth binding her chest.
A chest binder?
Why was she binding her chest?
Bo Li’s mind was in turmoil.
The situation was already precarious enough, and this chest binder made it even more bewildering.
She closed her eyes, trying her best to ignore the frantic pounding of her heart, and continued groping inside. Her fingers brushed against a round object.
When she drew it out and looked, it was a gold pocket watch.
Erik had not lied.
He truly had not stolen Mike’s gold pocket watch.
The one who had stolen it… was her.
~~~
Author’s note:
This piece is still created based on the original character settings, but it does not involve the original plot.
Compared to the previous fanfictions, this time I may place more emphasis on portraying his inhuman quality— the terrifying appearance, the beautiful voice, the ghost of the theater who appears suddenly and disappears just as suddenly. In itself, that already makes him a being beyond human.
Translator’s Note: I’m starting my own translation of this book! I’m already familiar with the author’s style, and since she writes such amazing yandere male leads, I’m super excited to dive into this one. Hope you enjoy it! 🥰~