Raiden's eyes opened to a blurry haze. His mind struggled to focus, reluctant to process his current situation.
He blinked and subconsciously focused mana into his eyes, sharpening his vision. A dull wooden ceiling came into focus above him, and he shot to his feet instinctively.
The windowless room contained only a small bed. A mirror hung on the left wall, and a wooden door stood ahead. Despite being utterly boring, the room was stifling hot, with deep red scratches carved across the floor and walls.
What perplexed Raiden most, however, was simply being alive. Looking down at himself, he found he was dressed in an ordinary white shirt and black trousers, nothing like the clothes he'd worn before losing consciousness.
He brushed his hand through his dark hair. Nothing seemed right. He remembered dying from his cracked skull, blood draining his life away. But there was no crack now, not even the faintest scar.
