Crimson Verse
Prologue: The One Who Played the Wrong Song
They never remembered the musician.
Not his face, not his name.
Only the final note he played before the massacre began.
His name was Jungkook, and in the original story of Thorns of the Blood Moon, he appeared once—in Chapter 11—as a background soul.
A fragile court minstrel, with hollow eyes and a trembling voice.
He wasn’t born to be brave.
He was born to be forgotten.
On the night of Kael’s rebellion, when fire climbed the palace walls and the Hollowed screamed through broken halls, Elian was in the throneroom, cradling his harp. He had been told to play something soft, something that would calm the nobles while the King prepared to spill blood.
He played a song of hope.
A song not written by the King’s will—but by his own trembling fingers.
And that was his mistake.
The Moon King turned, slowly, crimson eyes gleaming beneath the weight of betrayal.
He asked, voice sharp as obsidian.
Because he knew the next line in the story. The line the readers hardly noticed, buried between the blood and the rising smoke:
“A nameless musician was the first to die. His harp snapped in two, strings slicing through his throat like silk.”
That was his end.
No name. No mourning. No change to the plot.
Just another corpse on the marble floor, as Serenya entered with fire on her breath and Kael drew the blade destined to wound the King’s heart.
But stories are fragile things.
They bleed when read too many times.
And somewhere, far from Arskiel, a lonely boy named Elias closed the book, tears in his eyes, heart aching not for the hero or the queen—
—but for the nameless musician who had dared to play a different song.
When I opened my eyes, I was somewhere else.
Somewhere wrong. Trees loomed overhead, twisted and weeping. The moon was red—the Blood Moon.
The air was thick with magic, the taste of it heavy on my tongue.
I looked down. My hoodie was gone. I wore a tunic stitched with sigils.
And around my neck hung a silver chain I’d never seen before.
I wandered for hours. Or maybe minutes. Time felt fluid here, like it breathed.
I kept whispering to myself,
？？？
"This isn’t real, this isn’t real,"
But the thorned branches that cut my arms felt very real.
His voice. Low. Familiar. Echoing like a forgotten melody:
？？？?
“You are not from this world.”
I turned—and everything I had read, everything I had imagined, shattered.
The Moon King stood before me.
He wasn’t just beautiful—he was terrifying. A god carved from sorrow.
Hair like shadows. Eyes like galaxies at war. His presence made the world quieter. Still.
And he was looking at me.
？？？?
“But I have waited for you.”
My mouth was dry. My thoughts, scrambled.
I wanted to say something—anything—but my voice was gone.
He stepped closer. No weapon drawn. No spell on his lips.
？？？?
“You do not belong to her,”
He whispered, almost to himself.
？？？?
“You are not written in her thorns. You are something else. Something... unwritten.”
And I knew—whatever fate this world had planned for me, it had changed the moment he looked into my eyes.
The story I read was over.
A new one had just begun.
And this time… I was not a side character.
Chapter 1
kook
*They say stories are escapes—safe worlds you can fold yourself into, like a blanket against the storm. For me, they were the only place I could breathe.*
kook
I wasn’t anyone special. Not the kind of boy people wrote stories about.
kook
I worked at a bookstore by day, sorted used paperbacks by night, and filled every empty hour with stories that made my heart hurt in beautiful ways.
kook
I liked broken characters. I liked tragic endings. I liked villains who loved too much.
kook
So when I found that book—untitled, crimson-leathered, humming with something I couldn’t name—I knew I was in trouble.
kook
It came in a cardboard box full of forgotten things: old fantasy, water-damaged romances, a half-burned horror paperback.
kook
And at the bottom, this book—pristine, though it had no publisher, no author, no barcode.
kook
I took it home. I opened it.
kook
The first line was enough to steal my breath:
"In the land of Elarion, night never truly ends..."
kook
I devoured it in a single night. Then again.
kook
Then again. The world it described was cruel, and dark, and rich with sorrow.
kook
But it was alive—its pain pulsed with a strange beauty. I wanted to stay there, even if it killed me.
kook
The Moon King was the villain of the tale—but to me, he was more. A lonely god.
kook
A man forged from heartbreak and obsession.
kook
He didn’t love gently. He loved like ruin. And I pitied him, even as he cursed the world.
kook
And then there was Serenya.
kook
I admired her but never connected. Kael was a tragic hero—but he didn’t move me the way the King did.
kook
I don’t like happy ending books.
kook
Serenya became the curse.
kook
But even then, I felt like the story wasn’t finished.
kook
Like there was something missing. Or someone.
kook
It sounds insane, I know. But the more I read it, the more I felt it—like the book knew me.
kook
Like it was waiting for something.
kook
It was a casual day. I came home tired, the kind of tired that soaks into your bones, but despite the exhaustion, something itched under my skin.
kook
I needed to read it again. The weather outside only deepened the mood—the sky was grey, wind rustling like whispers through the trees, the smell of rain already hanging in the air.
kook
It was the perfect night for that book. The one that matched the ache I couldn't name.
kook
And then came the night it bled.
Rain hammered the windows.
My room was lit only by my reading lamp.
I flipped open the book for the hundredth time, and that’s when I saw it—the ink was wet.
The words shifted beneath my fingers.
Crimson seeped from the parchment, curling around my hands like smoke. I tried to drop it, but it clung to me—alive, sentient, hungry.
kook
What the hells happening
I thought I was dreaming. Or going mad.
But then the sigil on the cover began to glow.
And the wind outside howled like something ancient and wrong. And I heard it—faint, as if from another world:
That wasn’t my name. But it echoed in my bones.
kook
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
I didn’t fall. I was taken.
And just before the darkness swallowed me whole, I heard a voice I had only read on paper, now warm in my ear:
？？？
“You were never just a reader.”
Chapter 2
"Wrong Story, Wrong Body"
Not from water, not from smoke—just the thick weight of air that didn’t belong in my lungs.
It was heavier here. Sharper.
The scent of damp soil, old stone, and roses so strong it bordered on rot flooded my nose.
I sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. My head spun.
My fingers scraped against cold stone, and my eyes—still adjusting—saw the red sky swirling above me.
Not sunset. Not dawn. Just endless twilight.
I whispered, scrambling to my feet. My legs were shaking, like they didn’t remember how to move.
The trees nearby weren’t normal—they bent like they were listening.
The shadows twitched like they had thoughts. And the moon—
It wasn’t the one I knew. It was red.
？？？
“Oh my god,” I breathed.
I touched my face—my cheekbones felt sharper.
My hands smaller. My hair longer.
Panic swelled in my chest.
？？？
“This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. It was just a book.”
But everything screamed otherwise. The sky. The air. The silence.
And then I remembered the last words I heard: You were never just a reader.
The book didn’t pull me in to watch. It pulled me in to live.
I looked down at my clothes—simple, threadbare.
A chain around my neck. Boots too big.
I definitely wasn’t Serenya.
Then a voice cut through the air:
？？？?
"Jungkook! Don’t just stand there—bring the wine to the east wing!"
I turned toward the voice, heart hammering.
A man stood by a stone archway, gesturing impatiently. I didn’t move.
？？？?
"Jungkook! Gods, are you deaf again?"
And then the name hit me like a slap to the face.
That name. That cursed, fleeting name from Chapter 11.
Flashes filled my mind—like memories that weren’t mine.
A harp beneath moonlight. Fingers trembling across strings. A cold floor. A pool of blood. The final note cut short.
I staggered back as images flickered: guards dragging me through black halls, my voice shaking as I sang, a pair of red eyes watching from a throne.
Chapter 11. A footnote in the grand tragedy. Forgotten before the climax.
I gasped, the world spinning again. My hands trembled. My knees buckled.
But somewhere beneath the fear, a fire sparked.
I might wear his skin. I might carry his name.
And I refused to let this story end the same way.
Jungkook
“I will change it,” I whispered. “I’ll rewrite it.”
Because if fate wanted me dead—
I would make fate bleed first.
I swallowed down the panic still rising in my throat.
My fingers tightened around the dusty bottle of wine the man had forced into my hands. I turned toward the long corridor, unsure where the east wing even was, but my feet began to move anyway.
Out of muscle memory that wasn’t mine.
The hall stretched out ahead of me, long and silent, with flickering torches casting shadows that danced like ghosts.
As I walked, something cold settled over me—not fear this time, but realization. The kind that burns low and slow.
I wasn’t just in the story.
I was in someone else’s skin.
I tried to recollect his memories
I was Elian. Also called Jungkook. In the palace he was or is Jungkook.
Download MangaToon APP on App Store and Google Play
