A harsh, stale air—thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying wood—stung the boy's nostrils, dragging him abruptly from the depths of unconsciousness. He blinked, the lids heavy, his vision slowly resolving the gloom into tangible shapes. Where am I? What is this place? The thought was immediate, a sharp question tearing through the haze of sleep.
He was lying on what passed for a bed: a rickety wooden frame with a moth-eaten mattress that sagged dangerously in the middle. Surrounding him was a scene of utter dereliction. Broken furniture lay scattered like the skeletal remains of a disaster. A table with three legs leaned against a wall smeared with grime. Shards of glass littered the floorboards near a gaping, uncurtained window. This wasn't a house; it was a ruin, an abandoned husk barely fit to shelter an animal.
A sudden, excruciating pressure exploded behind his eyes, a spike of pain so intense it stole his breath. He clutched his temples, a low groan escaping his lips as a tidal wave of foreign information crashed into his mind. It wasn't just information; it was a life—a life of endless, crushing work, of deadlines blurred into daybreaks, of a body pushed past its breaking point. He saw the fluorescent lights of an office, the stack of papers, the final, dizzying collapse onto a cold floor.
I died. The realization was cold, definitive. He had died from sheer exhaustion in his previous life, and now, he was here.
As the memories of his former existence settled, he looked down at his current vessel. The body of a seventeen-year-old boy, frightfully thin and frail. His wrists were like fragile bird bones, and his skin was pale, almost translucent—a clear sign of severe malnutrition. The environment matched his physical state; this derelict dwelling was truly unfit for any living being.
Driven by a desperate need to anchor himself to reality, he pushed off the broken bed. His legs were wobbly, protesting the sudden movement, but he forced himself forward, stepping gingerly over the debris-strewn floor toward a far wall. There, leaning against the damp plaster, was a large, fractured mirror, its surface cracked like a spiderweb.
He peered into the fragmented reflection.
He saw long, black hair that tumbled messily to his shoulders. He was dressed in a simple, heavy black robe that offered minimal warmth. But the most striking feature, the one that jolted him to his core, were his eyes. They weren't the familiar brown he remembered. They were a startling, vibrant crimson red. Looking into those eyes gave him a strange, unsettling feeling—a mix of primal awareness and deep, untapped power.
Just as he was processing this unsettling new feature, the sharp, splitting ache returned to his head, even more violent than before. This time, the memories were not his own.
A new flood began: images of a wholly different world. Towering cities built of stone and crystal that defied Earth's gravity. Vast, sprawling forests teeming with unknown creatures. People wielding energies he couldn't comprehend. He witnessed the crushing solitude and the profound sufferings and pain endured by the original owner of this body. A world of powerful, complicated rules, a harsh hierarchy, and absolute, brutal indifference.
Slowly, agonizingly, the new identity settled into place.
His name was Akira Hayato.
His mother and father had died years ago, leaving him utterly alone. He had no friends, no relatives, nothing but this crumbling shack—the only inheritance they could leave him. Akira was constantly a target, relentlessly bullied by others for his weakness and lack of backing.
This world, he understood now, was governed by a single, ruthless law: the powerful rule. The weak are merely stepping stones, or worse, dust beneath their feet. In this enormous, intricate world, the boy who now inhabited Akira's body was less than nothing. He was starting at the absolute bottom, a newly transmigrated soul burdened by a fragile, malnourished vessel and a legacy of suffering.
The need to survive, to secure his existence in this hostile new reality, was no longer a choice—it was an imperative. He had to become powerful. He had to shed this weakness or be consumed by the world around him.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, the new Akira Hayato straightened his spine. The crimson eyes, though still reflecting a fragile boy, now held the cold, determined resolve of a soul that had already faced death once and refused to face it again. He could not remain entombed in this ruin.
With a final glance at the shattered reflection of his new face, Akira walked away from the broken mirror, his steps now imbued with a faint, resolute purpose. He reached the doorway, its wood splintered and hanging crookedly on its hinges, and stepped across the threshold. He didn't know where he was going, or what dangers lay ahead, but standing still meant death.
He walked out of the dilapidated house and into the unknown world, ready to begin his desperate exploration.
CHAPTER 1 END