I woke up buried in garbage.
Not metaphorically. Real, rancid, rotting trash. The kind that clings to your skin like guilt.
A sharp pain stabbed through my wrist as I tried to push myself out. I hissed, instinctively clutching it, then shifted to kicking my way free. Scraps of plastic and something that smelled like old meat slid off me as I emerged from my makeshift grave.
Above, crows screamed like sentinels of a world that had long stopped caring. I hurled a rock at them—not to scare them, but to feel like I still had a choice in something. They scattered. I stayed.
Another day. Another scavenge.
I found a piece of bread—stale, with a crown of mold growing along one edge. Still edible. I bit into it, chewed, and swallowed the lump of bitterness.
"Winter's gonna suck," I muttered. "Last shelter's gone. Factory's coming in. Another coffin for the city."
I rubbed my arms, skin dry and cold. Every step now took effort, like I was wading through mud only I could see. "Maybe the bakery's dump'll have something better. But those bastards might be there again."
Even with the cold biting into my bones, I started walking.
A single kilometer felt like a marathon now. There was a time I could've made that run in under three minutes. That was before. Before my body betrayed me. Before everything was stripped away.
Before the pain in my muscles became permanent. Before I stopped being the athlete and started being the ghost.
I crouched behind a crumbling wall and watched the street. Empty. No sign of them. Good.
Quickly, I slipped into the alley and climbed into the bakery's dumpster, hiding beneath a flap of plastic tarp. I waited. The workers usually checked the area before dumping leftovers.
It didn't take long. The familiar sound of a bin creaking open, the heavy thud of discarded pastries. I waited for the footsteps to fade, then reached out.
A couple of croissants. Half a sandwich. Some expired bottles of juice. Jackpot.
This should've been just another day. Another small victory in a life of losses.
But fate had one last cruel joke.
As I crossed the street, juggling my prize, I sensed it—too late.
A shove.
My body launched forward. Tires screeched. Something metallic flashed in my vision.
I didn't even have time to scream. Just one thought crossed my mind:
"So this is it. Not a peaceful death... but close enough."
And then—impact.
Pain. Light. Darkness.
When I woke up, the stench of the city was gone. No smoke. No rot. No mold in the air.
Just... blood.
The sky above wasn't my sky. It shimmered with a copper hue, twin suns casting long shadows in the wrong direction.
The ground beneath me vibrated. Not from traffic—but from power. Two figures, inhuman and radiant, stood locked in battle just meters away. Every movement tore the earth, split the air, collapsed the trees. It wasn't fighting—it was unmaking.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
Then came the light.
A white-hot flash, pure and absolute. I blinked—and the world where they stood was gone. A crater, silent and still. The two bodies stood, upright but lifeless, eyes hollowed, blood pooling around their feet.
I don't know why I moved closer. I should have run. But I didn't. I needed to understand.
That's when I saw them—two rings. One like void itself, the other pulsing a deep, blood-red glow.
They called to me. Not with words, but with a pull behind the eyes, a hook in the soul.
I picked them up. One in each hand.
Pain exploded in my skull. I collapsed, wordless. It wasn't just a headache—it was like something was rearranging me from the inside.
When it ended, I was gasping, drenched in sweat. The rings were on my fingers.
I didn't put them there.
Then I saw it—red particles drifting from the dead bodies toward the crimson ring, like smoke being inhaled. It drank them in, pulsing brighter.
Cultivation novels flashed in my mind. Qi. Essence. Rings of power.
"Am I dead?" I asked aloud.
The wind answered with silence. But I knew. I had died. That car hit me. That world was gone. But I was still in my own body—just… different.
Stronger.
I tested it. Pulled on a branch—ripped it from a tree with ease. Punched the bark—splinters flew. I wasn't dreaming.
"This is real."
But if those two corpses were anything to go by, I was the weakest thing in this world.
I looked to the horizon. Forests stretched into mist. Mountains cut the sky like blades. Somewhere, far off, a pillar of light rose like a beacon. Or a warning.
I turned away. I wasn't ready for cities. Not yet. I needed answers. But first things first I had to find, food, shelter, and time to process what just happened.
And above it all, high in the heavens, something ancient stirred.
It had watched the moment I crossed into this world—and it would not forget.