The stench in the alley was unbearable. Not just bad—suffocating. It stuck to the air like oil, thick and foul and inescapable. Wet garbage clung to cracked stone walls, mold crawling across them like dying stars. Rats darted over something that might've once been a person. Flies buzzed lazily above puddles you really didn't want to look too closely at. Somewhere nearby, someone groaned. Could've been sleep. Could've been death.
This wasn't just a slum—it was the world's festering wound. A dumping ground for everything society pretended didn't exist.
He lay there, curled up behind a pile of broken crates, rain dripping steadily onto his shoulder through a tear in his rags. His ribs jutted out like knives, skin stretched over bone, pale and sickly. Every breath came shallow, like even his lungs were tired of trying.
He didn't have a name.
No one had ever bothered to give him one.
The people around here didn't call him anything kind. Just "thief," "gutter trash," "ratboy." He'd stolen from merchants, drunkards, even the rare kind soul who tried to help. It didn't matter. You couldn't survive in a place like this if you cared too much.
He'd been seven when his mother kicked him out. He remembered her eyes—not angry, not even sad. Just… empty. Hollow. She was young. Too young. Probably still a kid herself when he was born—a child of violence, the kind of cruelty that passed through towns and left broken lives behind.
He was a reminder. A weight she couldn't carry anymore.
She hadn't said a word when she let go of his hand. Just turned and walked away into the shadows. He never saw her again. Didn't try. She didn't owe him anything. Not love. Not even a goodbye.
He learned fast. Ate what even rats turned their noses up at. Slept with one eye open, never in the same spot twice. He learned that hope was a luxury. A lie people told themselves so the hunger didn't feel quite so loud.
Now, after twenty years of surviving like that, it was over.
A knife to the gut—stupid mistake during a pickpocket. He hadn't even gotten anything out of it. Just the blade, and now his blood mixed with the rain and the mud beneath him. His limbs were numb, the cold creeping in deeper with every second.
There was no dramatic final thought. No epiphany. No tearful memory of better days.
Just thunder in the distance.
And then—
Nothing.
He woke up like someone coming back from drowning.
No slow fade-in. No foggy dream-state. Just air in his lungs—clean air—and silk brushing against his skin.
He blinked.
Above him was a ceiling so high and beautifully carved it didn't even seem real. Gold leaf shimmered along its edges, catching the soft morning light filtering through sheer curtains. A chandelier glittered overhead. He was lying in a bed so soft it felt like clouds, wrapped in sheets warmer than any blanket he'd ever known.
He moved his fingers.
His hands were clean. Smooth. Strong.
Not the cracked, scabbed hands of a street rat.
That's when he saw her.
A woman—lying beside him. Bare shoulder peeking out from under the covers. Breathing slow and even. Her hair spilled across the pillow like melted silver, and her face… it didn't seem real. Beautiful in a way he didn't think people actually were. Delicate lips. Long lashes. A faint scar on her wrist. Not fresh. Not ugly. Just… a reminder. She hadn't always lived in luxury.
He flinched, instinct taking over. But his body didn't move like it used to. The motion was smooth, powerful—foreign.
Then came the pain.
Not in his gut—this wasn't physical. It was in his head. A pressure like his skull might split open. His vision swam.
And then came the memories.
Not his.
A name: Klein Moonlight.
A title: Duke. Saint-ranked martial artist. Hero of the Northern Campaign. Wielder of something called the Ashen Veil.
Images poured in. Swords. Monsters. Blood. Royal academies. Emperors. A man named Arthur Pendragon—an emperor, a friend.
And the woman in the bed?
His wife.
They were married. Not for love—politics. She was Arthur's sister, a princess turned duchess. They'd spoken like strangers at official dinners, maybe exchanged a few cold words in bed. But never warmth. Never closeness.
And yet… she had stayed. She'd followed him here. Lived in his estate. Shared a bed with a man who barely saw her.
And never once complained.
He sat up slowly, hand dragging down his face. A mirror across the room showed him the truth.
He wasn't the gutter rat anymore.
He was Klein.
And Klein didn't have the luxury of falling apart.
The room was still. Peaceful. He could feel the pulse in this new body—steady, strong, overflowing with power. There was something coiled inside him, like a sleeping beast just waiting for a reason to wake up.
He looked at her again.
She stirred. Eyes fluttered. Then settled.
Still asleep.
That was good. He didn't know how to look her in the eye yet. Not when he had just died in the dirt and woken up in a palace.
He stood, the sheets slipping off him like water. There was a navy robe on a mannequin nearby, and without thinking, he shrugged it on. The fabric felt like it had always belonged to him.
The floor was warm under his feet. He walked to the tall windows, looked out over misty courtyards, quiet fountains, distant mountains.
People were waking up.
They'd know his name. His face.
He didn't know any of theirs.
His gaze dropped to his hands again.
These hands had never picked a pocket.
They could tear down cities now.
He touched his neck, where he could feel something ancient shifting under his skin.
This power… it wasn't his.
But it was now.
Behind him, she stirred again. A soft breath. A small shift.
She didn't wake.
And maybe that was for the best.
He didn't know how to speak to her.
Not yet.
Not when his last memory was dying in filth… and waking up in silk.