I felt… peace.
For the first time in what felt like forever, my body didn't ache. The silence wasn't heavy; it was gentle. Comforting, like that rare kind of deep sleep you only get on a Saturday night, knowing Sunday will let you breathe.
But it didn't last.
Even with my eyes still closed, I could feel it—sunlight brushing against my skin. Not harsh. Not blinding. Just warm. Soft. As if the sun, for once, wasn't rushing me awake, but inviting me to rise. It almost felt like it had been waiting. Like I had been asleep for a very long time.
I stirred slowly, my body sinking into a mattress so absurdly soft it didn't feel real. Definitely not mine. I lived in a cramped apartment with a bed that creaked in protest every time I blinked too hard. This? This felt like sleeping on a cloud woven by someone who genuinely cared if your spine stayed intact.
My eyes resisted the light, reluctant to leave the comfort. But the warmth persisted—kind, coaxing, patient.
I opened them.
Squinted.
And then—
This wasn't my room.
It wasn't my office. Not a hotel. Not a club. Not anywhere I'd ever been.
The room was vast and impossibly grand. Towering white pillars reached toward a ceiling bathed in golden light, as if sunlight had been woven into silk and draped overhead. The air shimmered with serenity, untouched and sacred, as though I'd stepped into the pages of some divine painting. There was only one bed in the entire space. Mine, apparently. It looked so out of place in all that splendor—like someone had dragged it in just for me, on a whim.
I sat up slowly, my gaze drifting across the room in quiet awe.
That's when I heard it.
"Did you get a good sleep, Evan?"
A voice—soft, melodic, feminine—like music spoken instead of played. It echoed gently, as if the very air wanted to carry it a little longer.
I turned my head.
And there she was.
Seated on an elevated throne beneath an arch of golden light, a woman—no, a goddess—gazed down at an open book resting in her lap.
She was breathtaking.
Not just beautiful—otherworldly.
Ethereal. Her golden curls cascaded like spun sunlight. Her skin had a glow that didn't belong to this world. And her eyes—deep, endless blue—held the weight of oceans. Calm. Knowing. Gentle. She wore a flowing yellow dress that shimmered as she breathed, as though made of starlight and silk. Everything about her radiated warmth, grace, and something else—something older than time.
But what struck me most wasn't her beauty; it was what she was doing. She wasn't even looking at me, she was reading.
A large, ancient book lay open in her lap, and her slender fingers turned its pages one after another—far too fast for any normal person to read. And yet, from the quiet furrow in her brow, the subtle twitch of her lips at certain lines—I knew she was absorbing everything. Every word. Every page. As if the entire story—my story—had already been written, and she was simply reminding herself how it ended.
And then, after the final page turned, she looked up.
Her gaze met mine.
And in it, I saw something I hadn't seen in a long, long time.
Sympathy.
Not the kind people toss at you out of politeness—the empty pity of someone trying to look like they care. This was real. Quiet. Heavy. Familiar. It was as if she had walked every step with me, felt every bruise, and cried every tear.
"Oh, Evan…" she whispered, her voice breaking with something I didn't recognize—grief? Compassion? Love?
And then—she vanished.
Gone from the throne in a blink.
My breath hitched.
Before I could process the space she'd left behind, she reappeared—right in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
I didn't move. Couldn't.
My body froze as she stepped forward and, without warning, wrapped me in a warm, gentle embrace.
She smelled like something out of a dream. Like honey and wildflowers and starlit summer air. Her arms wrapped around me with the softness of clouds and memory. Her presence wasn't just physical—it soothed. Like her very touch could erase pain.
"Oh, Evan… my poor child," she murmured, her voice low and tender. "You've suffered so much… carried so many burdens alone…"
And I wanted to hear it. I did. Every word. Every note of comfort.
But my brain? My brain had other plans.
Because all I could think was: So soft. So. Damn. Soft.
Her chest pressed lightly against me—two divine, heavenly blessings cushioning my very soul—and her fragrance danced around me like a spell I had no resistance to.
She continued speaking, her voice a balm to the wounds I didn't know were still bleeding. "You've done so much for the people you care about," she said, sadness woven into every syllable. "All those sacrifices… the way you gave up your own dreams just to help others, even when they never saw it. Even when they left you behind. Moved on, as if you were never there at all."
She patted my back gently as my body trembled.
But not from the weight of her words. No, those were beautiful. Heart-wrenching. I was trembling because I was fighting a different war. Because—gods help me—she was so soft and I was so mortal.
Focus, Evan. Think of taxes. Cold showers. Public speaking. Your boss's chewing face. Anything but this.
And then—something felt… off.
Wait. Hold on.
A moment of sheer, full-body panic surged through me. Casually—or at least, I hoped it looked casual—I reached down. Just a quick systems check.
And then…
Oh. Oh no.
"But fear not, Evan. I will not let this happen to you again."
Her words came with warmth, like a promise wrapped in sunlight.
"As the Goddess of Fate, I shall take responsibility. Everything you've lost—the sacrifices you made, the dreams you abandoned just to help others, only to be ignored, left behind while everyone else moved on—I will return them to you. All of them."
She kept talking, her voice divine, righteous. Her embrace softened, and she turned slightly as if preparing for a grand speech about redemption, justice, or fate.
But I? I wasn't listening.
Because something was very wrong.
Why can't I feel my dick?
The panic hit me like a slap. My heart was pounding now. I mean—what the hell?! Where the fuck did it go?!
I slipped my hand down to check. Just smooth, flat nothing. My fingers patted again. Still nothing. No shaft. No balls.
No anything.
What the fuck.
My whole body stiffened—and not in the good way.
Maybe it shifted to the backside? I spun around just slightly, enough to check—awkwardly peeking into my pants from behind. Still nothing. Just skin. Smooth, terrifying skin.
Gone.
Completely.
Erased from existence.
And right then, as I stood there staring into the existential void that used to be my crotch, the Goddess of Fate kept talking like nothing happened. Like she didn't just Thanos snap my dick out of reality.
"So, Evan… I've made my decision."
Her voice rang with quiet resolve, her divine presence glowing ever so faintly around her.
"After seeing your past, and your present… after watching you suffer again and again for others, only to receive nothing in return… I've realized something."
She stepped forward, her gaze gentle—almost sad.
"You don't deserve a cruel fate. You don't deserve to die without ever knowing even a sliver of happiness."
I blinked. "Well, that's… kind of you. But—uh—could you maybe tell me what happened to my little brother down ther—?"
She raised a hand, cutting me off—or maybe just ignoring me entirely.
"That's why I've chosen to give you a second chance. A new life… but in a different world. One where fate isn't bound by the rules you've known. Where power is forged, not granted. Where people carve their own paths."
As she spoke, golden particles began to shimmer around us. First faint… then brighter… and brighter still, until we were both bathed in radiant light.
"As the Goddess of Fate, I grant you transmigration—and with it, the right to defy destiny itself."
She paused then, her voice softening. A motherly smile tugged at her lips.
"I wish I had more time to explain everything. But unfortunately, I used it all because someone wouldn't wake up on time."
She gave me a playful, pointed look.
I opened my mouth to respond—still a little stunned by everything—and muttered, "Okay, that's all well and good, lady, but seriously, what kind of woman just—just transmigrates someone without telling them where their dic—"
Before I could finish the sentence, something shoved me.
A gentle but unyielding force slammed into me—not painful, but definite. Like being pushed by a warm gust of wind, only it didn't stop.
The light swallowed me whole.
My words, my thoughts, my body—all faded.
Vanishing into golden mist.
Into the unknown.
Into my second life.
-----
[In the State of Marquis Ravenshade]
The early morning light was a gentle glow—the sun not yet at its peak, but painting the sky in soft hues of red and orange. Morning birds had just begun their songs, their melodies weaving through the crisp air.
Nestled within a majestic, prestigious estate, lay an elegant room. High windows welcomed the golden light, and within its refined silence, a young boy slept peacefully on a large, luxurious bed.
His breaths were slow, steady—the kind of sleep untouched by worry.
Until, suddenly, the comfort on his face vanished.
His expression twisted. Pain etched into his features as though a dark dream had taken hold. His pale skin began to glisten with sweat, his brow furrowed, and his breaths turned erratic.
Then, a sharp, piercing jolt of pain lanced through his skull, as quick as a strike of lightning. It was a single, agonizing shot of pure wrongness.
He jolted upright.
Eyes wide, chest heaving.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Each gasp was a desperate fight for air.
It took a full minute before he could calm himself. His shoulders fell. He exhaled shakily.
"Hahh… damn…"
But it wasn't over.
Another, stronger wave of agony slammed into his mind, and a muffled scream escaped him, stifled by some unseen force, quiet enough not to alert the estate.
He tumbled from the bed, hitting the floor as he clutched his head.
The pain was unbearable.
A flood of memories—foreign and familiar—clashed violently inside his mind. Two lifetimes. Two identities. Souls intertwined. The new reality of this other life, the one he had just been sent to, warred with the dying echoes of the life he had just lost.
His hands clawed at his scalp as if he could tear the chaos out. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth as his body convulsed with the strain.
Agony surged through every nerve, choking the screams in his throat.
Time stretched… and yet, in the real world, only a minute passed.
And then—silence.
He lay there, trembling, breath ragged.
Slowly, the pain receded, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache.
He wiped the saliva from his lips, sweat from his brow, and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
Only for it to hit him again.
A fresh, brutal wave of pain slammed into his skull, and with a cracked groan, he cursed under his breath—
"Motherfucke—"