Baelgar lay still in the rank darkness of the slum hovel.
His new body was fragile. His bones soft. Muscles weak. Fingers like bent twigs.
But his mind—his mind remained unbroken. Sharp. Full of memories, regrets, and something colder.
Resolve.
He inhaled, slowly. The scent of mildew, iron, and stale piss filled his tiny lungs.
Then he opened his eyes.
Red. Deep, lucid crimson. Like dying embers caught in glass.
He blinked. Once.
A jagged wooden ceiling hovered above him, stained black in the corners with decades of rot. Mold crept down the wall in silent tendrils. A cockroach scuttled past the straw he lay on.
So this is the world of Fyr, he thought. A womb of filth and decay. A kingdom of ash.
There was a slow creak of movement. His "mother" stirred—though that word felt blasphemous on his tongue.
She scratched at a rash on her neck, murmuring to herself.
"Damn it... damn itch never leaves... where's the godsdamn pipe—?"
Her voice was raw, gravelly from years of abuse. Not just of drugs, but of life itself.
She found a small, carved pipe beneath her ragged skirt and lit it with a shaking hand. The scent of burnt resin filled the room. Her sunken eyes turned glassy within seconds.
"Shouldn't've had you," she muttered, exhaling. "Just another mouth... always crying…"
Baelgar didn't cry.
He watched her in total silence.
After a while, she noticed.
"You're a quiet one, huh?" she grumbled, pulling the crusted blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Creepy. Just like yer bastard of a father. Maybe I will drown you."
She said it like someone debating whether to crush a bug.
Baelgar turned his head, barely able to manage the motion. A subtle act of rejection. Cold. Quiet.
Then—he sat up.
Slowly. Carefully. With awkward control of tiny muscles.
He rested his miniature chin against his small palm, elbow on his curled leg.
He looked like a philosopher trapped in a porcelain doll.
The woman stared at him. Her drugged eyes widened.
"The fuck…?" she hissed. "You just... sat up?"
Baelgar said nothing.
His red eyes locked on hers. Still. Unblinking.
Her face twisted into something between fear and revulsion.
"Freak," she whispered. "Demonspawn."
She turned away, downing another gulp of something brown and bitter from a dented flask.
Baelgar exhaled slowly. Then looked down at his body.
Too small. Too frail.
He recalled the god's words—spoken through that celestial void.
"You may choose your body. Your face. Your voice."
The memory surged like a dream that hadn't finished.
[Flashback: The God of Worlds]
The white realm had paused for him.
Dozens of translucent panes surrounded Seong-jin's soul, each offering variations of the same question.
Choose your form.
He walked among them like a ghost. His footsteps made no sound.
A dozen faces floated in the blue-glass: blondes, dark hair, scars, smiles, angular jaws, soft boyish looks.
But one caught his eye.
Pale skin, like moonlight. Long white hair that fell past the shoulders. A sharp, angular face with predatory calm. Crimson eyes.
Beautiful.
Inhuman.
"This one," he said aloud, pointing.
"Why?" asked the god, amused.
Seong-jin's voice was quiet. Hollow.
"I want them to see me. And not forget."
The god's mask tilted.
"Vanity?"
"Strategy."
A pause.
Then the god smiled.
[Appearance Locked: Baelgar]Height: Above average (when grown)
Hair: Snow-white, long
Eyes: Red
Skin: Pale ash
Face: Sculpted, sharp, cold
Voice: Low, clear, commanding
The vision faded.
Baelgar returned to the stinking cradle of straw and waste.
The rats had returned. One crawled close, sniffing the edge of the cloth around his leg.
He didn't move. Only watched.
Then the System flared.
[Conquest System: Active]
New Quest Available: "Crawl Before You Rule"
Objective: Learn to move. Learn to speak. Survive.
Reward: +1 Stat Point | Passive Skill: "Silent Dominance" (Rank F)
You need not shout to be heard. Fear blooms in silence.
He raised his left arm experimentally.
It trembled, barely lifting.
Good, he thought.
I am aware. I am learning.
The man in the corner, presumably his "father," stirred. His voice was deeper than the woman's, but thinner, almost cracked.
"Oi, Mirka... kid's up again."
"So?" she barked. "You wanna deal with it? You got your hands, don't you?"
"Bitch."
He stood—barely.
A tall, lanky figure with hollow cheeks and bloodshot eyes. He walked toward the child.
Baelgar watched him, unblinking.
The man leaned down.
"You think you're better than us, eh? Look at that face. Looking down at me already, like I'm trash…"
His hand twitched.
Baelgar didn't flinch.
The man raised his hand.
Baelgar's body stayed still.
But his eyes—those glowing crimson coals—narrowed.
The man froze.
He felt it. For the briefest second.
Like something ancient staring out of a newborn's skin.
He stepped back, uneased.
"Demon baby," he muttered.
Baelgar stared up at the rotting ceiling again.
He lay back slowly, tiny hands folded over his chest.
His thoughts were clearer now.
I need to grow fast. Faster than normal.
I need to become an Adventurer. Join the Guild. Make a name.
Then vanish into the cracks. Form my cult. Start my military. Spread fear.
But first…
He opened his Status Screen again.
[Baelgar – Level 1]
Race: Human
Class: Conqueror
Age: 0 (Infant)
Titles: The Ashborn
System: Conquest
Cult Influence: 0
Notoriety: 0
Army Units: 0
Religion Founded: None
Languages Known: Korean (Memory only), Fyran (Passive Comprehension: Locked)
STATS
Strength: 3
Stamina: 4
Agility: 3
Magic: 3
Charisma: 2
Intelligence: 3
Luck: 1
Skill Gained:Silent Dominance (F)
New Passive Unlocked: Memory Retention — Allows complete recall of prior life and learned skills.
Baelgar closed his eyes again.
But not to sleep.
To plan.
Like a general on the eve of war.
To be continued…