Aoshi staggered forward, his legs dragging across the floor like they belonged to someone else. His skull throbbed with every heartbeat, the pounding at the door shaking his thoughts apart. The sound was merciless—BANG. BANG. BANG.—each strike hammering through his chest, rattling his broken breath.
He didn't think of who it was. He didn't think of what waited for him beyond the door. His body moved on instinct, too weak and clouded to resist. All he wanted was for the noise to stop.
His trembling fingers found the latch. The crude lock scraped and groaned, stiff from damp. He pushed. The door creaked wide.
Then suddenly the pain in his head worsened. The pain felt like nails—long, sharp, merciless—drove into his skull. His knees buckled. His vision doubled. And then came a blow.
A fist the size of his face slammed into his stomach. Bone cracked. The world exploded. Air rushed from his lungs in a violent gasp. Blood surged up his throat, hot and metallic, spilling across the cold cement floor.
Aoshi crumpled. His body curled on itself, wracked by spasms. He tried to breathe, but each inhale was a jagged knife in his ribs. His mouth opened soundlessly, gasping like a fish dragged from the sea. Tears blurred his eyes. He was nothing but a broken heap on the floor.
Then the headache came back.
Worse than before.
A roaring fire burned inside his skull, searing every nerve, tearing him apart from within. And with it came the flood.
Memories. Not his.
The blacksmith's life poured into him. Days of labor with nothing to show. The weight of debts that grew heavier with every passing season. The hunger that gnawed through his belly. The humiliation of failed work, mocked by those who once trusted him. Nights drowned in cheap drink. Mornings filled with nothing but shame. Until finally, the rope. The poison. The end.
Aoshi screamed.
It was raw and ragged, torn straight from his throat, filled with despair that wasn't only his. Two lives, both wasted, both ruined, crying out together. But the scream was cut short.
A heavy hand clamped over his mouth, suffocating the sound. Calloused fingers dug into his jaw, silencing him with cruel ease. His feet lifted from the floor, his body dangling in the grip of a brute whose strength mocked his broken frame.
Through the haze, his vision sharpened just enough to see.
Men stood outside.
Broad-shouldered, scarred, sneering. Some smaller, but no less vicious. Knives glinted in their hands. Clubs rested on their shoulders. Their eyes burned with cruelty, their laughter thick with malice.
And at their center stood a man.
Not large, not strong, but swollen with arrogance. His body was soft, slightly chubby, his shirt stretched beneath a black waistcoat. A plain white collar peeked from beneath, but his fingers glittered with gaudy rings, a golden chain heavy on his throat. His black hair was short, neatly combed, but his cold blue eyes carried no warmth.
The fat man's smile cut deep. It was not loud cruelty, but quiet disdain—mockery wrapped in certainty. He looked at Aoshi like a butcher looks at rotten meat.
"So," the man said softly, his tone dripping with contempt, "the blacksmith finally showed his face."
The men behind him chuckled darkly. Aoshi spat blood onto the floor, his body trembling. His mind burned with bitter clarity. He knew this man. Not from his own past, but from the memories forced into his head.
The creditor.
The man who had chained the blacksmith's life. The man who had pressed him into despair, coin by coin, until his soul broke. The ruin that ended him.
And now that ruin stared down at Aoshi.
The fat man stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking against the wet cement. The sound was steady, almost refined, an odd contrast to his bloated frame and greedy, ice-cold eyes.
"Jonas," he said, voice calm, smooth, almost elegant. It was the voice of a man who fancied himself above all filth, even as he rolled in it. "I have waited. Waited long enough for you to repay what you owe me. Yet here we are. No coin. No scrap of effort. Nothing."
His lips curved into something that might have been a smile, though it was sharper than any knife. "And I, in my boundless generosity, gave you extra days. More than you deserved. But still—" he lifted a jeweled finger, thick and heavy with gold, and wagged it once in the air. "Empty-handed."
At that gesture, the bald brute holding Aoshi loosened his grip around his mouth, though his massive arm still locked him in place like a steel band. Aoshi gasped for air, blood bubbling in his throat, sweat pouring down his temples. His lungs burned, his ribs screamed, his head still reeled from pain and the avalanche of memories not his own.
But even through the haze, Aoshi forced his mind to focus. To think. To act.
He swallowed the iron taste in his mouth and croaked, his voice rough but steady, "I promise you, Voss Agnes… I'll pay it back. All of it. With interest. Within a week's time."
Agnes tilted his head, studying him as though he were nothing more than an insect squirming under glass. His cold blue eyes didn't flicker with belief or curiosity. Only amusement.
Then, without a word, he snapped his fingers.
The gang erupted.
They surged forward with feral grins, eyes flashing with cruel delight. These weren't men—they were jackals bred in the gutters, born from mud and rot, eager for blood. The first punch smashed into Aoshi's ribs. The second split across his cheekbone. Another slammed into his gut, folding him in half.
Then the boots came.
Aoshi was thrown to the ground, his back slamming against cold stone. They descended on him like a pack of hyenas. Fists pounded into his shoulders, his chest, his arms. Boots crashed into his sides, into his spine. Someone stomped his hand, snapping pain through his fingers. He curled tighter, arms locking over his head, shielding what he could.
But they were merciless.
A knee drove into his kidney. A fist cracked across his jaw, nearly breaking it loose. Another stomp landed square between his legs, sharp agony tearing through his body. Laughter erupted at his gasp, a chorus of sick delight.
Every strike blurred together into one endless storm of pain. His body convulsed with each blow. His teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. His mind screamed at him to collapse, to give in, to die.
But he didn't.
He endured.
The storm raged for minutes that stretched into hours in his mind. Then, at last, a voice cut through it.
"Enough."
Agnes raised his hand. His men hesitated, pulling back reluctantly. A few spat at Aoshi as they stepped away, one of them driving in a final kick before retreating. Their laughter subsided, fading into cruel chuckles as silence fell over the alley.
Only Aoshi's ragged breathing remained, sharp and wet, each inhale clawing through his throat. His vision swam with blood and tears. His body screamed, bruised and broken, but somehow—still alive.
Agnes crouched low, his gaudy rings glinting under the pale morning fog. His grin widened, venom dancing in his eyes as he looked down at the man collapsed before him.
"One week," he said softly, his voice like velvet stretched over blades. "That is all you have left. Fail me again, Jonas, and I will sell you to the slave markets. Do you know what they do to men there? They break you. Grind you down until you are less than human. You'll beg for death, and even that will cost more than you're worth."
He let the words hang in the air, poisonous and final. Then he straightened, adjusting the gold chain at his throat. He turned sharply, striding away without looking back. His pack followed, trailing him like starving dogs, their laughter spilling through the alley until the fog swallowed it.
The silence they left behind was heavier than the beating.
Aoshi lay sprawled on the cold cement, his body drenched in sweat and blood. His face was swollen, his ribs screamed with every breath, his clothes torn to shreds. He looked like a corpse that had forgotten to stop breathing.
But inside, his mind was sharp. His heart was burning.
This was not his debt. These weren't his chains. But the body was his now. Its burdens, its failures, its ruin—they were his to bear. If he gave in now, if he let himself be swallowed by the same despair that had crushed the blacksmith, then his second chance was meaningless.
Jealousy flickered through him. Not of wealth, not of power—of life itself. The lives others lived freely, without chains or endless regret. The hunger followed. Hunger to claw his way up. To rise where his past self had never dared. To build, to take, to survive.
Beaten, broken, bleeding, he whispered through cracked lips.
"I'll survive."
The words were faint, almost lost in the fog. But they carried weight.
For in that moment, as his blood seeped into the stone, Aoshi Minamoto—the man who once died in obscurity, the man who cursed his first life as nothing but suffering—took his first step into the chaos of Zerathune.
___________
On the far side of another continent, where the night hung calm and velvet, a kingdom gleamed beneath the silver glow of the two moons.
It was unlike the sooty, mud-choked alleys Aoshi had awakened in. This land wore its pride openly. Rows of houses stood in neat order, their walls whitewashed, their roofs styled in the manner of old European towns. Smooth stone-paved streets stretched outward like the strands of a web, glimmering faintly under oil lamps. The kingdom itself sat shielded behind towering walls of pale stone—thick, fortified, unyielding. Monsters would break against it. Spies would curse it. Armies would grind their teeth at its strength.
At the very center rose the jewel of it all: a castle vast enough to be mistaken for a mountain. Its walls were painted in a white so polished it gleamed like ivory, trimmed in banners of gold and scarlet. Towers speared into the sky, their peaks stabbing at the clouds, their windows glowing faintly like eyes that never slept. The sheer size of the castle could house thousands, its elegance enough to inspire awe even in the proudest of nobles.
And within those pristine walls, behind countless guarded halls and polished corridors, lay a chamber built for royalty alone.
The room was carved from wealth. White walls with gilded trims, golden lines etched with delicate precision. A small crystal chandelier glittered overhead, its light scattering like starlight. The tiled floor shone like a mirror, so clean it reflected every step. At the center stood a grand bed draped in silken sheets and wrapped in heavy golden curtains. Here, one was not meant to simply sleep. Here, one was meant to dream of eternity.
But the bed was not pure.
Blood soaked through the white sheets, staining the fabric deep crimson. The pale nightclothes of the man lying within were drenched. His skin was slick, his golden hair matted. Yet not a single wound could be seen.
The young man in the bed was a prince. And he had been assassinated.
But the world did not know.
Because another soul had already taken root inside the lifeless vessel.
The corpse twitched. Fingers jerked faintly. A chest rose with shallow breath. And then, slowly, heavy eyelids lifted.
Moonlight spilled through the balcony doors, brushing across the golden curtains and the pale face of the man in the bed. His eyes opened—red, not noble blue. They stared blankly at the cushioned ceiling of the canopy above.
Kaien Ota was awake.
At first, he only lay there, his body weak, the weight of exhaustion pinning him down. His gaze wandered slowly across the room: the chandelier, the mirror tiles, the blood-stained sheets. Surprise stirred faintly in his chest, but his body refused to move. He drifted back into darkness.
Before sleep took him, however, came the flood.
Memories. The prince's memories.
His childhood of scorn. His uselessness. The mocking sneers of siblings, the cruel laughter of nobles, the isolation of being "the failure." His magical descent at eleven years old, an event meant to measure potential—yet his results had branded him broken. Tier 0. Less than nothing. A stain on the bloodline.
And finally, the end. Poison in his veins. A knife in the dark. The laughter of shadows that whispered he was never meant to be anything but prey.
The pain of it all flooded Kaien's skull like fire. He clenched his jaw, biting hard into the silken pillow until his teeth ached. Not a whimper escaped him. He was a king. Kings did not whimper.
And then—silence.
He opened his eyes again. The ceiling above him was still unfamiliar, still foreign, still painted with wealth. Slowly, Kaien began to laugh.
At first, it was soft. Then louder. Louder still, until it echoed across the gilded chamber like the cry of a madman. His chest heaved with it, his lips splitting into a grin too wide for the handsome face he now wore.
"The anime… the truck-kun… they were right!" he screamed, laughter choking his words. "It's real! It's all real! I've been reincarnated!"
He laughed until his stomach hurt, until tears pricked his eyes. His golden hair stuck to his sweat-stained face, his grin feral.
And then he whispered, voice trembling with glee, "And I'm not just anyone… I'm a prince."
The thought struck him like lightning. He rolled onto his side, then onto his back again, kicking his legs in the air like a child. He buried his face into the golden sheets, then threw himself flat against the bed, rolling left, rolling right, laughing all the while.
Visions bloomed in his head—visions of nobles gasping at his sudden rise, of brothers and sisters falling to their knees before him, of arrogant courtiers choking on their own scorn as he trampled them beneath his heel.
"Me," he whispered. "The useless prince… no. Not useless. Never useless. I'll rise above them all. I'll crush them."
His laughter turned sharp, jagged, almost wild.
And when at last the manic joy burned itself out, Kaien lay panting on the luxurious sheets, grinning up at the canopy above. His thoughts turned elsewhere.
A system.
Every story he'd read, every anime he'd devoured—it was always the system. The cheat. The golden finger. His eyes gleamed as he whispered into the silence:
"System… open."
Nothing.
Only silence.
Kaien blinked, then sat upright in the bed, brushing his golden hair back from his eyes. He tried again, more forcefully this time.
"System, activate."
Nothing.
"System start. Menu. Status. Inventory. Cheat window. Quest log!"
Nothing. The silence mocked him, cold and empty.
His grin faltered, but only for a moment. He steadied himself, sitting straighter, his expression sharpening into false calm.
"No panic," he muttered. "Kings don't panic. There must be… conditions. A trigger. Maybe a sword. Maybe… maybe women. A lust system?" His grin twitched back into place, though unease flickered beneath it.
But the thought would not leave him: what if there was no system?
His hands clenched the silken sheets. His chest rose and fell. He glanced again at the flood of memories—the useless prince, the boy who had never risen past Tier 0, mocked by all, assassinated in silence. If there was no system… how could he become the MC? How could he slap faces, humiliate enemies, ascend to the throne he believed was his right?
For the first time, silence pressed too heavily on him.
Then, like a mask snapping into place, Kaien smoothed his expression. He ran his hand through his golden hair, adjusted his posture, and let a grave, noble look settle across his face.
"I suppose," he said softly, "if the system will not come… then I will simply have to be More Serious. More Merciless. And More Ruthless."
His red eyes gleamed under the pale moonlight, madness and resolve swirling together.