The burning sensation on the back of Davin’s right hand gradually subsided, replaced by a rhythmic pulse that synchronized with his heartbeat.

Davin took a deep breath. The first thing to fill his lungs was not the sharp scent of antiseptic or the sterile ozone of the laboratory isolation room, but the fresh aroma of pine sap, damp earth, and the fragrance of wildflowers carried by a gentle breeze.

He blinked his eyes, trying to adjust to the blinding glare of morning sunlight filtering through the lush leaves overhead. Davin found himself lying on a bed of soft green grass, like a carefully tended natural carpet.

He sat up slowly, brushing against the back of his hand. The hourglass-shaped geometric symbol stamped by The Ledger had faded into a thin, golden-silver line, blending beneath his skin like a natural tattoo. There was no more pain. There was only a calming silence—an extreme contrast to the final, bloody moments of his death filled with screams and computing machinery.

So, I really was thrown into another dimension, Davin thought, standing up and dusting the remaining grass off his clothes.

He cast his gaze around, and the scenery instantly left him frozen. He stood at the edge of a valley surrounded by giant trees tens of meters high. Their trunks were so massive that they were carved into multi-tiered wooden houses, connected by hanging rope bridges and elegant spiral staircases. Between the branches, clear water flowed down to form small waterfalls cascading into pristine pools below.

The place looked like a fairy tale pulled from an ancient storybook—beautiful, peaceful, and profoundly serene.

"Oh, look! A stranger has just arrived at the village border!" a cheerful woman’s voice broke Davin’s awe.

Davin turned quickly. Several villagers—dressed in simple, earth-toned linen garments embroidered with leaves along the hems—walked toward him. They carried wicker baskets brimming with fresh fruits and herbs.

A sturdy middle-aged man with a neat gray beard led the small group. He stepped forward with a wide smile, revealing crinkles at the corners of his eyes that marked him as a friendly soul. Behind him, several village women and young men smiled warmly to welcome Davin.

"Welcome to Oakhaven, son," the middle-aged man greeted in a warm baritone voice, bowing slightly in the local custom. "We have been awaiting your arrival since dawn."

Davin narrowed his eyes for a second, instinctively cautious. In his old world, friendliness that came too quickly usually hid a hidden motive or an experimental trap. However, seeing the genuine smile on the man's face, Davin chose to ease his tension while offering a polite, faint smile.

"Awaiting my arrival?" Davin asked, his voice slightly raspy from the lingering trauma in his throat as he pointed to himself. "I just... arrived here. You knew I was coming?"

The man chuckled softly, his laughter crisp and reassuring. "Of course! The valley of Oakhaven is isolated from the outside world, but nature always lets us know when a weary traveler will stop by our home. My name is Barnaby, the village chief here. And you... young man, what is your name?"

"Davin," he answered briefly. "Davin Ronan."

"Davin Ronan," Barnaby repeated, tasting the name on his tongue as if it were a melody. He patted Davin’s shoulder lightly. "A good name. You look exhausted, Davin. The journey from outside the valley must have been very tiring, yes? Don't worry, in Oakhaven, all your burdens can be put down for a moment. Our homes are open to anyone seeking peace."

"Thank you, Mr. Barnaby. I really... need a place to rest," Davin replied, scanning his surroundings.

The other villagers began to approach. They greeted Davin with warm gazes, offered fresh fruit in wooden bowls, and welcomed him with friendly words. The atmosphere felt deeply alive and familial. The air tasted sweet, birds chirped melodiously in the tall branches, and the breeze gently stroked Davin's face.

Yet, beneath that extraordinary beauty and hospitality, something gnawed at Davin's mind.

As a Memory Architect, Davin possessed an extremely high sensitivity to human behavioral patterns and body language. As he looked into the eyes of the villagers who smiled widely to welcome him, he found a subtle anomaly that was hard to ignore.

Their eyes... smiled, but the corneas reflected no emotion whatsoever. Their gazes were too straight, too symmetrical, and hollow behind the friendly facade. It was as if those smiles were not driven by spontaneous joy, but programmed to pull at a specific angle at the exact right time.

Something is wrong with these people, Davin thought, goosebumps suddenly breaking out across his skin.

Before Davin could analyze the anomaly any further, a glowing blue butterfly fluttered past his face, alighted momentarily on his shoulder, and then flew toward the center of the village.

Barnaby, who had been standing beside him with a friendly smile, suddenly stepped half a pace forward. The village chief took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and stared straight into Davin’s eyes with an expression that abruptly turned rigid.

Without any wind or conversational transition, Barnaby opened his mouth and delivered a sentence with the exact same tone, intonation, and tempo as what he had uttered just minutes earlier when first greeting Davin in the grass:

"Welcome to Oakhaven, son," Barnaby said in a baritone voice that was warm yet flat. "We have been awaiting your arrival since dawn."

Davin froze in his tracks. His heart raced not out of fear, but from a wave of mental shock that struck him.

He had just met the man. They had just exchanged names, chatted about the journey, and laughed together. Not even five minutes had passed since their first conversation ended. Yet, right before him now, Barnaby was replaying the entire scene like a broken cassette tape rewound from the start, completely unaware that they had just gone through it.

The villagers around them also stopped moving. The smiles on the faces of the women and young men froze in the exact same position as when Davin first saw them.

Davin swallowed hard. He looked down at his right hand, which was still pulsing faintly, then stared sharply at the village chief.

Oakhaven was not a peaceful sanctuary. This place was a stuck vinyl record, spinning over and over in the same groove, hiding a rotten secret behind a mask of artificial beauty.