The finality of the cold woke him. It was a crushing, damp cold seeping into the marrow of his exposed bones. The stone pressed against his back, rigid and unyielding.
He was slumped against a wall in a narrow, shadowed alley. The last thing he recalled was the desperate, visceral act of biting down on something small and wriggling, followed by a dizzying rush of confused darkness and frantic, stumbling movement. Though how he found the strength remained a terrifying blank.
He was outside. The sky above was a deep, velvet purple, beginning to lighten with the pre-dawn glow. Across the alley, a massive, foul-smelling wooden barrel overflowed with the day-old refuse of the city.
The rat meat had been a temporary solution. Now, the savage hunger was back, not just gnawing, but consuming. He had no choice. He had to eat, or he wouldn't even make it to sunrise.
The man he once was recoiled, gagging on dry air. No. That is filth. That is sickness. But the newly awakened survival instinct in him was cold, clinical, and utterly dominant. Grit was his only currency. He forced his mind to focus on his first problem: Food
He dragged himself across the uneven cobbles, moving like a broken puppet on strings. Every millimeter was a struggle won purely by sheer, bloody-minded will. He reached the refuse barrel and plunged his thin, trembling hands into the cool, greasy contents. He rummaged with terrible, focused desperation, ignoring the stench of stale fryer oil, sour beer, and rotting vegetables.
He found two prizes: a handful of hardened, crusty potato peelings and the remnants of a chicken wing—mostly bone, but with a smear of fat and muscle clinging fiercely to the joint.
This is nothing but humiliating. He thought.
He retreated into the deepest shadow, sat down, and went to work. He didn't chew; he worried the cold, tough meat from the bone with his front teeth, focusing entirely on the texture of the protein. He crammed the rigid potato peelings into his mouth, forcing the roughage down his parched throat, suppressing the violent urge to vomit.
Krrg.
The influx of contaminated food hit his system—stabilized by the rat, now charged with starch—and the dam broke. The fragile, newly occupied consciousness was annihilated by a blinding, overwhelming flood of the host body's memories.
Then the world slammed into his mind.
The owner of the body was named Virgil Varis. This impossible stone city was Orario. That colossal spiral was the Dungeon, a living, breathing labyrinth of monsters and death, the source of unimaginable wealth. The strange, powerful beings who ruled were Gods, who gave power to their children through a Falna.
And the crushing truth of his own fate: He belonged to the Soma Familia, a collection of desperate, useless zealots addicted to their God's powerful, intoxicating brew—a liquid that kept them dependent and ensured his perpetual starvation. They were slaves to pleasure, and he was collateral damage.
The knowledge was brutal, violent, and complete. He wasn't just starving; he was trapped in a unknown fantasy world.
He finished the last scrap, wiping the grease on his already filthy tunic. The nausea was there, but it was eclipsed by a cold, searing purpose. He was outside, he was alive, and he was informed. He was no longer just a body waiting to die.
This predicament will not kill me. I won't let it.
His eyes, now wide and alert with a newfound, savage determination, stared up at the massive, terrifying silhouette of the Dungeon in the distance. He needed clean water, and then he needed a weapon.
Varis acquired the grim truth of his situation. His survival is now a conscious, determined effort.