The bitter taste of moldy bread still lingered on Chen Mo's tongue, but the ache in his belly had subsided. For the first time since waking in this frail, broken body, he could breathe without his ribs straining against his skin.
As he slowly regained his senses, his crimson eyes swept over the crumbling space around him.
This… was his home.
Or rather, it had been the home of the boy named Chen Mo before death claimed him.
The room was more corpse than shelter—bare wooden planks warped from rot, the faded scent of dust and mildew clinging to every surface. Rainwater stains dripped like old scars down the cracked stone walls. The corners teemed with cobwebs, and the air tasted of abandonment.
It was an apartment in name only. No furniture. No warmth. No light. Just a cold, lifeless box… and memories that weren't his, but now belonged to him all the same.
"This place…" Chen Mo muttered, stepping slowly across the creaking floor. "So this is all that's left of them."
He didn't need to ask who "them" referred to. As his feet dragged across the worn wooden boards, fragmented memories stirred within him—dim and faded, but powerful enough to stir emotion.
His parents.
The original Chen Mo's parents had died two years ago. Bandits. Disease. Poverty. The details were too hazy to be certain, but the grief in those memories was still fresh—like a wound that never healed.
They had left him this shack. A place to sleep, barely. Nothing more.
No heirlooms. No money. No love left behind.
Just four walls and a roof that didn't even stop the wind.
"Two years… and no one ever came," he whispered, running his fingers across a dust-caked wall. "Not a relative. Not a neighbor. Not a soul."
There was nothing left for him here.
The silence in the room wasn't peaceful—it was hollow, like a grave.
His body trembled, not from cold, but from an emotion he couldn't yet name. He closed his eyes, diving deeper into the fragmented mind of the previous Chen Mo.
No family.
No friends.
No one.
Even at the age of twelve, when his parents died, no one offered him help. No orphanage. No kind stranger. Not even a warm meal. The world watched him starve from a distance—and did nothing.
And in those two years?
Bullying.
Spitting.
Beatings.
The memories flooded in like acid rain. Kids his age mocking his ragged clothes. Adults sneering as he begged for scraps. Merchants kicking him away like a dog. Warriors walking past him as though he didn't exist—or worse, using him as entertainment when drunk.
Chen Mo's hands clenched into fists.
"…This world is disgusting."
It wasn't just that it was different from Earth. No—this world was wrong.
The geography, the sky, the culture—everything was alien. He was no longer on the blue planet he once knew. Instead, he had been thrown into a chaotic, violent realm ruled by power.
This was the Human Empire, a name that sounded grand but was laughably small in context. The body's memories showed him snippets of maps, overheard conversations, broken books left behind by his parents.
The Human Empire was just a tiny corner of a much larger world.
And yet, among them all… humans were weak.
Small.
Insignificant.
Warfare was constant. Kingdoms fell like dominoes. Territories changed hands as fast as the wind shifted.
And the only law that held true in every corner of this world?
Power.
Strength dictated everything.
If you had it, you could live like a god.
If you didn't… you were just food.
"So this is the kind of world I ended up in…" Chen Mo murmured, his voice low, eyes narrowing.
The weight of it all settled in his chest.
Even among his own people—the humans—he had been seen as worthless. Without strength, status, or backing, he was nothing but a stain on the street. The previous Chen Mo… had been treated worse than a stray dog.
His entire life was filled with suffering and silence. And then, death by hunger. At fourteen.
"I can't even imagine the pain you went through," Chen Mo whispered, half to himself, half to the soul who had once lived in this body.
A rage began to bloom in his chest. Slow. Cold. Heavy.
He had never been one to hate easily. Back on Earth, even when overworked and mistreated, he had always tried to stay kind. He believed people were good. That the world was unfair, but not evil.
But here?
Here, there was no kindness. No justice. Only power.
And he had none.
Yet.
Chen Mo took a deep breath and stepped toward the door. It creaked under his touch. The hallway beyond was dimly lit by filtered sunlight. Cracks in the wooden frame showed the outside world—a slum of uneven stone roads, crumbling walls, and distant voices.
He stared out, unmoving.
"This world doesn't care about the weak," he whispered. "But I'm not the old Chen Mo anymore."
He turned and looked back at the shack. One final time.
"No one helped me. No one will. So I'll help myself."
His eyes burned crimson beneath the shadows of his hair.
"I'll carve out a place for myself in this damn world."
And with that, he stepped out into the light.
To explore the world that had abandoned him.
To survive.
To rise.