Chapter 1: The Wrong Side of Everything
The first thing Aaric noticed wasn't the stench of horse shit and rotting vegetables that hung in the London air like a curse. It wasn't even the strangness of his limbs, or the way his voice seems different.
It was , he was alive.
The truck that had crushed him should have been the end. He'd been cursing God for years of failure, walking out of his office after yet another bankruptcy, when a truck came out of nowhere. His last coherent thought had been "Damnit it's truck-kun , hope I don't get reincarnated into those fantasy worlds or novels " then everything went black.
Instead, he was lying in what appeared to be a Victorian dream, in a body that belonged in a Dickens novel.
Well, someone up there has a very twisted sense of humor. God I didn't mean it when I said I didn't want to get transmigrated into a fantasy world , are there second chances , please 🥺 Also, why am I so bloody short?
Aaric pushed himself up on arms that were stick-thin and pale, studying hands that were definitely not his own. Thirteen, maybe fourteen years old, if the size was any indication. Filthy fingernails, unwashed tattered clothes and the hollow-cheeked look of someone who'd been acquainted with hunger for quite some time.
Fantastic. Reincarnated as Oliver Twist. What's next, a kindly workhouse master?
"Well," he muttered, his voice an octave higher than he remembered, "this explains why everything smells like shit."
A rat the size of a small cat walked past his foot, pausing to regard him After a moment, of God knows what it was thinking continued on its way.
He stood, swaying slightly as his new body's proportions registered. the center of gravity, the reach of his arms, the way his legs felt like they belonged to someone else entirely. Note to self: being tall was underrated. Also, why does everything hurt? I'm thirteen , not eightyp
The alley opened onto a street that looked like every british period drama he'd ever fallen asleep watching, except for the smell. Christ, the smell. London and it was definitely 1919, judging by the horse-drawn carts sharing space with the occasional motor car and but honestly I just asked an old dude who appeared to be chilling in back alley .
Right. No deodorant invented yet. No antibiotics. No central heating. No McDonald's. This is going to be... challenging.
Aaric's stomach cramped violently, reminding him that whatever cosmic joke had landed him here, his new body hadn't eaten in what felt like days. He reached instinctively for his wallet, then laughed bitterly.
The street was crowded with people in worn coats and tired faces. Women hurried past with baskets, men in caps walked with the heavy step of those carrying too much weight, children darted between legs like ghosts.
And they all looked at him—when they bothered to look at all—like he was just another piece of trash that the city had failed to sweep away.
Perfect. I've gone from corporate failure to literal street trash. That's definitely moving in the right direction.
For a moment, the sheer impossibility of his situation threatened to overwhelm him. He was a failed businessman from the twenty-first century, trapped in the body of a homeless child in post-war London, with nothing but future knowledge that was utterly useless for solving the immediate problem of not dying in the next twenty-four hours.
Then he did what every transmigrator would have tried atleast once and called out " SYSTEM"
Nothing dammit
"Status"
After few minutes of trying everything he could think of from novels and books of transmigrated protagonist 101 , even going as far as checking whether their are any strange rings or pendents on him. slumped down on the floor , he wanted to again curse who ever that transmigrated him but decide against it .
Well at least I have future knowledge, I know that IBM will be huge in the 1950s, but that doesn't help me figure out where to sleep tonight. I know the stock market will crash in 1929, but I can't even afford a newspaper to check if there IS a stock market yet.
Then his stomach cramped again, and the familiar sensation of desperate hunger cut through the existential crisis like a knife.
Right, hierarchy of needs. Food first, world domination later.
"Right," he said quietly, watching a well-dressed gentleman outside a bakery.The gentleman had the soft look of someone who'd never missed a meal, never slept in an alley, never had to choose between pride and survival. His coat was wool, his shoes were leather, and his watch chain caught the weak afternoon sun like a promise of everything Aaric didn't have.
Look at him. Probably worries about whether his tea is the right temperature.
The gentleman finished his transaction and walked away, leaving behind the warm smell of fresh bread and the bitter taste of Aaric's new reality.
But as he watched the man disappear into the crowd, with a cold and calculating look. Wait. I know what's coming. The twenties boom, the crash, two world wars, the rise and fall of empires. I know which horses to back, which ships to avoid, which men will rise and which will fall.
Of course, that knowledge means nothing at all if I'm dead in an alley. One step at a time, Aaric. Survive today, become ridiculously wealthy tomorrow.
"One step at a time," he murmured
The bakery was busy enough that the proprietor's attention was divided between customers and conversation. Aaric watched the flow of people, timing his approach with the casual observation of someone who'd spent decades analyzing systems for weaknesses.
Right. Just walk in, grab bread, walk out. Simple acquisition strategy. Try not to look suspicious. Also try not to look like a thirteen-year-old who's never stolen anything in his life, because that's exactly what you are.
He slipped inside during a moment when the baker was arguing with a customer about change. His fingers closed around a small loaf—still warm, dense with the promise of actual sustenance. For a heartbeat, he felt the familiar thrill of a successful acquisition.
Got it. Now just walk casually toward the door and— oh, s*ht.
"Oi! You little bastard!"
So much for casual.
Aaric ran.
His new legs were shorter than expected, his lungs smaller, his coordination all wrong. Why is everything so far away? Why am I so slow? I used to be able to run! Well, not really, but I could walk briskly without dying.
Behind him, the baker's curses grew louder, joined by the heavier footfalls of what sounded like half the street giving chase. Fantastic. My first day as a reincarnated mastermind and I'm being chased by an angry baker. This is definitely going in the memoirs.
He ducked into a narrow alley, pressed himself against the grimy brick wall, and waited. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape his chest entirely.
Is this how thirteen-year-old hearts always feel, or am I having a heart attack? Can thirteen-year-olds have heart attacks? Focus, Aaric.
The pursuing voices faded as the crowd lost interest and moved on to other diversions.
When silence returned, Aaric slumped against the wall and examined his prize.
First successful acquisition in the new life. Profit margin: one hundred percent. Method: questionably legal. Sustainability: absolutely terrible. But it's a start.
He tore off a piece and chewed slowly, savoring the simple fact of not starving. The taste was coarse, heavy, nothing like the artisanal nonsense he'd wasted money on in his previous life. But it's actual food, and I didn't die getting it. That's got to count as a victory.
The bread disappeared quickly. When it was gone, Aaric leaned back against the brick and allowed himself a moment to truly absorb his situation.
Thirteen years old, alone in post-war London, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a head full of future knowledge that I can't use because I don't know how to not be homeless.
He should feel hopeless. Instead, for the first time in either life, he felt something , he felt alive.