The heavy oak door closed behind Effa with a soft thud that seemed far too loud in the cavernous bedroom. Alear, Dave, whoever he was now, sat frozen on the edge of the massive four-poster bed, heart hammering against his ribcage hard enough to make the wound in his chest throb in protest.
Six months. He'd been unconscious for six months.
The information sat in his mind like a lead weight, refusing to be processed. Six months of lying in this bed while the world moved on without him. Six months closer to the moment when Damon Alastair would stumble into that dungeon and find the fruit that would change everything.
"Get up," he muttered to himself, voice still rough and unfamiliar. "Come on, Dave. Get up and figure this out."
His legs protested when he tried to stand, muscles weak from months of disuse. The floor felt unsteady beneath his feet, or maybe that was just him. Either way, he had to see. Had to confirm what his gut was already screaming at him.
Each step toward the tall mirror in the corner of the room felt like wading through molasses. His body was a stranger's instrument, responding sluggishly to commands that should have been automatic. The silk nightshirt clung to his sweat-dampened skin, and the bandages wrapped around his torso felt like iron bands constricting his breathing.
When he finally reached the mirror and looked up, the face staring back at him stole what little breath he had left.
Not Dave Morrison. Not even close.
The young man in the reflection was maybe eighteen, with a face that would've been striking if it wasn't so gaunt from months of unconsciousness. Sharp features that hadn't quite lost their adolescent softness, high cheekbones, a jaw that spoke of the aristocratic bloodline he'd apparently inherited. Long hair, blue-black like a raven's wing, fell past his shoulders in tangled waves that desperately needed a wash.
But it was the eyes that transfixed him. Crimson. Deep, blood-red crimson that seemed to catch the candlelight and hold it. The original Alear's eyes. A King's eyes, even if the King wanted nothing to do with him.
Alear's hands, long-fingered and trembling slightly, reached up to touch his face. The reflection mimicked the movement perfectly. This was him now. This was real.
He was tall, maybe six-one, though it was hard to tell with the way he was hunched over from the pain. Ten years younger than Dave had been when he died. A teenager's body inhabited by the mind of a burnt-out twenty-eight-year-old corporate slave.
"This is insane," he breathed, watching his, no, Alear's lips form the words. "This is absolutely insane."
His fingers moved to the bandages, carefully pulling aside the silk nightshirt. The wrappings were clean, changed recently, and when he peeled back the edge to look underneath, his stomach lurched.
The scar was vicious. A puckered line of angry red tissue just left of center on his chest, directly over where his heart should be. The flesh around it was still swollen, still healing. He could see where the blade had entered and, when he craned his neck to look in the mirror's reflection, the matching scar on his back where it had exited.
Straight through. The Hound's blade had gone straight through his heart.
By every law of nature, biology, and the world's brutal logic, he should be dead.
So why wasn't he?
A knock at the door made him jump, which sent a fresh lance of pain through his chest. He barely managed to pull the nightshirt back into place before the door opened.
"Young Master, the physician is here to examine you." Effa entered first, followed by an older man in dark robes that rustled as he walked.
The physician was perhaps sixty, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a short tail and a beard that would've looked dignified if not for the permanent scowl etched into his features. His eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over Alear with the clinical detachment of someone who'd seen too much death to be impressed by life.
"So," the man said without preamble, setting his leather bag on a nearby table. "The corpse wakes. Sit down, boy, before you fall down."
Alear bristled at the casual rudeness but forced himself to move back to the bed. His legs were grateful for the reprieve, even if his pride wasn't.
The physician's hands were surprisingly gentle as he began unwrapping the bandages, peeling away layer after layer of linen. Effa stood to the side, hands clasped in front of her, eyes downcast. The silence in the room was oppressive, broken only by the whisper of fabric and Alear's carefully controlled breathing.
When the wound was finally exposed to the candlelight, the physician made a sound in his throat. Not quite surprise, not quite skepticism. Something in between.
"Remarkable," he muttered, leaning closer. His fingers probed the scar tissue with practiced efficiency, ignoring Alear's sharp intake of breath. "The blade pierced clean through. Punctured the left ventricle, nicked the aorta. No evolved human survives this, let alone an unevolved one."
"I'm tougher than I look," Alear managed, trying for levity and achieving something closer to a wheeze.
The physician's eyes flicked up to meet his, and there was something calculating in that gaze. "Indeed. The question many are asking is 'how'."
The weight of that statement hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
"I don't understand," Alear said carefully, letting confusion color his voice. "I survived because... because I was lucky?"
"Lucky." The physician straightened, beginning to apply fresh bandages with efficient movements. "Yes. That's certainly one explanation. Though luck rarely accounts for a heart reforming itself after being split in two."
Alear's blood ran cold. "Reforming itself?"
"The wound is healing from the inside out. Muscle tissue regenerating in a pattern I've only seen in evolved humans with advanced regeneration abilities. Which you," the physician emphasized the word with a pointed look, "do not possess. You can't even absorb a standard Evolution Fruit, let alone manifest abilities."
The accusation beneath the words was clear. Suspicion. They thought he'd done something. Used something. Somehow cheated death through means he shouldn't have access to.
"I don't know what to tell you," Alear said, and for once, it was the absolute truth. "I remember the attack. I remember the blade. Then nothing until I woke up today."
The physician's expression suggested he didn't believe that for a second, but he continued wrapping the fresh bandages without comment. When he was finished, he stepped back, regarding Alear with that same clinical assessment.
"The attack was six months ago," the physician said, collecting his instruments and returning them to his bag. "During a courtesy visit from King Malachar's envoy. His Hound took offense to something you said, though accounts vary on what, exactly. The blade went through your heart, and you collapsed. By the time my predecessor reached you, you should have been minutes dead."
"Your predecessor?"
"He quit three months into your recovery. Said there was something unnatural about the whole affair. Wanted nothing to do with it." The physician's lips quirked in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I have fewer scruples about the unnatural."
Effa shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.
"The Hound who attacked me," Alear pressed, ignoring the ominous implications. "Was he punished?"
The physician actually laughed at that, a short, bitter bark. "Punished? Boy, you're a bastard with no evolution and less political value. King Malachar sent a written apology for his Hound's 'overzealousness' and the matter was considered closed. Your father accepted it without protest."
Of course he did. Alear's jaw clenched. Because a dead bastard son was easier to explain than a living diplomatic incident.
"The fact that you survived complicated things considerably," the physician continued, snapping his bag closed. "King Avalon hasn't visited once during your recovery, if you're wondering. Neither have your siblings. The youngest sent a card three months ago. The other two... nothing."
Each word was a surgical cut, precise and merciless. The physician wasn't being cruel, just stating facts. But facts, Alear was learning, could be more brutal than any blade.
"How long until I'm healed?" Alear asked, desperate to change the subject.
"Physically? Your body will be functional in another few weeks, though you'll never have full range of motion in that shoulder again. The scar tissue is too extensive." The physician moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. "But understand this, boy. You're alive, but you're not healed. And you're certainly not strong. Whatever miracle kept your heart beating, it didn't make you evolved. You're still prey in a predator's world."
He left without waiting for a response. Effa closed the door behind him, her face troubled.
"He's always like that," she said softly, moving to adjust the pillows on the bed. "Sharp-tongued. But he's the best physician in the Western Continent, Young Master. If anyone can help you recover, it's him."
"Right." Alear leaned back against the headboard, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. "Lucky me."
Effa hesitated, then moved toward a side table where a tray of food sat covered with a cloth. "You should eat something. Broth and bread. Nothing heavy yet, but you need your strength."
She set the tray on his lap with careful movements, as if afraid he might shatter. Maybe he would. He certainly felt fragile enough.
The broth was thin, barely flavored, but it was warm and it was food. Alear hadn't realized how hungry he was until the first spoonful hit his tongue. He ate mechanically, mind elsewhere, as Effa tidied the room with quiet efficiency.
"Effa," he said after a moment. She paused, turning to face him. "How long have you been tending to me?"
"Since the attack, Young Master. Six months."
"Why?"
She blinked, clearly not expecting the question. "It's my duty. I was assigned to your quarters when you were brought back."
"That's not what I'm asking." Alear set down the spoon, studying her face. She was young, maybe twenty, with plain features and tired eyes. The kind of person who'd learned to be invisible in a place like this. "You don't mock me. The physician said others do. Why don't you?"
Effa's hands twisted in her apron, a nervous gesture. "It's not my place to mock anyone, Young Master. Evolved or not, you're still Lord Alear. You still deserve respect."
"But you don't believe I'll survive, do you?" The question came out harsher than he intended. "You think I'm living on borrowed time."
Her silence was answer enough.
Alear nodded slowly, picking up the spoon again. "Smart girl. In this world, that's probably the safest bet."
They lapsed into silence after that, Effa continuing her work while Alear forced down what food he could. His mind, though, was racing with fragments of memory that weren't his own.
They came in flashes, disjointed and incomplete, like watching a movie with half the scenes cut out.
A younger Alear, maybe fourteen, standing in a grand hall while servants force-fed him something that glowed with pale blue light. An Evolution Fruit. Thirty years old, according to the memories. He could feel the phantom sensation of it dissolving on his tongue, taste the sweetness that turned to ash as his body rejected it utterly. The humiliation of vomiting it back up in front of the entire court.
Another flash. Older now, sixteen perhaps. Another ceremony. A fifty-year fruit this time. Desperation in King Avalon's eyes, though whether it was for his son or his reputation was unclear. The same result. Rejection. Failure.
Flash. Eighteen years old. The last attempt. A ninety-year Evolution Fruit, glowing so brightly it hurt to look at directly. "This must work," someone said. Avalon? One of the physicians? It didn't matter. The fruit went down. Alear's body convulsed. Blood from his nose, his eyes. The agony of his cells trying to evolve and failing, tearing themselves apart in the process.
He survived that, somehow. But something broke that day. Not just his body, but his spirit.
Flash. King Avalon, tall and imposing with hair like spun gold and eyes like ice. "You bear my name and bring me only shame." The words delivered without heat, without anger. Just cold, clinical disappointment. Like Alear was a failed experiment that had simply outlived its usefulness.
Flash. His siblings. Vera, the eldest, with their father's golden hair and a cruel smile. "Poor little bastard. Can't even evolve with the finest fruits in the kingdom. What's the point of you?" Cassius, middle child, barely acknowledging his existence. And little Thea, youngest, who'd sent that card. She'd always been... not kind, exactly, but less cruel than the others.
Flash. The Hound. Massive, scarred, with eyes like a rabid dog. They'd been in the greeting hall, Alear trying to be diplomatic with King Malachar's envoy. He'd said something, he couldn't remember what, and the Hound had moved. Fast. Brutally fast. The blade appearing in his hand like magic.
"Even killing you feels like a waste of effort."
Then the blade. The shock of impact. The cold spreading through his chest. Falling. Darkness.
And then... nothing. Until today.
Alear gasped, the memories releasing him all at once. His hands were shaking, the tray on his lap rattling.
"Young Master?" Effa was beside him instantly, steadying the tray. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," he lied. "Just... tired."
"You should rest. I'll come back later to check on you."
She took the tray, still half-full, and moved toward the door. But she paused with her hand on the handle, looking back at him with something that might have been concern.
"There are rumors, Young Master," she said quietly. "About why you survived. Some say... unnatural means. Dark bargains. I don't believe such things, but others do. Be careful."
Then she was gone, leaving Alear alone with his thoughts and the weight of memories that belonged to a dead boy.
He sat there for a long time, processing. Categorizing. Trying to separate what he knew from the novel from what he now knew from Alear's memories. The two sources of information didn't always align, and the gaps in both were troubling.
From the novel, he knew the broad strokes. Seven Kings ruling seven continents in a world ravaged by the Great Catastrophe. The mana that had seeped into everything, mutating animals into monsters and giving birth to Evolution Fruits. The dungeons that had spawned in the aftermath, pocket dimensions filled with horrors and treasures alike.
He knew about Damon Alastair, the protagonist. A common man, unevolved, who'd spent the early chapters of the story just surviving. Running, hiding, scraping by in a world that wanted him dead. Until he'd stumbled into that dungeon and found the fruit. The thousand-year Evolution Fruit. The power that had catapulted him from prey to predator in a single moment of consumption.
After that, Damon's rise had been meteoric. Battles with Hounds, then evolved humans, then the Kings themselves. Romance with powerful women. Political intrigue. The slow, bloody unification of the Dreadlands under a single banner.
It had taken 1,847 chapters to get there, but Dave had read every single one.
The problem was, he'd been a casual reader. He'd skimmed some chapters. Forgotten details. He knew the major plot points, the big revelations, the important character arcs. But the specifics? The exact timeline? The minor characters and subplots?
Fuzzy. Dangerously fuzzy.
And Alear? Alear Von Weisz had been mentioned maybe three times in the entire novel. A footnote. "The bastard son who couldn't evolve, killed by King Malachar's Hound during a diplomatic visit." That was it. No character development. No screen time. Just a name attached to a statistic demonstrating how brutal this world could be.
He was supposed to be dead right now.
So why wasn't he?
Alear forced himself to stand again, ignoring his body's protests. He needed to move, to think, to plan. The corporate analyst part of his brain, the part that had survived Morrison & Fletcher LLC through sheer stubborn competence, kicked into gear.
Assess the situation. Take stock of resources. Identify threats and opportunities.
Situation: He was a powerless bastard in a world where power was everything. Barely survived an assassination attempt that should have killed him. Stuck in a body that was still recovering, still weak, still utterly vulnerable.
Resources: Dave's knowledge of the story. Alear's memories, fragmented as they were. A maid who didn't openly despise him. And... that was about it. No allies. No money that he knew of. No political backing. Nothing.
Threats: Everyone. King Avalon who saw him as a disappointment. His siblings who viewed him as an embarrassment. The court that mocked him. King Malachar who'd already sent one Hound after him. The world itself, which treated the unevolved as barely better than animals.
Opportunities: That was the question, wasn't it? In this world, in this position, what opportunities could possibly exist for someone like him?
And then, like a thunderbolt, the answer hit him.
Damon.
Damon Alastair and that thousand-year Evolution Fruit.
In the novel, Damon had been running from King Malachar's Hounds when he'd stumbled into that dungeon. Pure chance. Blind luck. He'd been desperate, cornered, and had taken refuge in the only place the Hounds wouldn't immediately follow.
The dungeon had been hell. Monsters that should have killed him a dozen times over. Traps that claimed even evolved humans. But Damon had survived through wit, desperation, and protagonistic plot armor. And at the heart of that dungeon, in a chamber that hadn't been opened in a thousand years, he'd found it.
The fruit.
Alear's hands clenched into fists. He knew about that dungeon. Knew roughly where it was. Knew what it contained.
And he knew, with the cold certainty of someone who'd read the story from the outside looking in, that Damon wouldn't find it for another two years.
Two years.
That was the window. That was the opportunity.
If he could get to that fruit first. If he could take what was meant for the protagonist and claim it for himself...
"I'd have a chance," he breathed. "I'd actually have a chance."
It was insane. Suicidal, even. The dungeon was deadly. He was weak, unevolved, barely recovered from a wound that should have killed him. Getting to the dungeon would require resources he didn't have, planning he hadn't done, and luck he couldn't count on.
But what was the alternative?
Stay here? Play the role of the family disappointment until someone decided he was more trouble alive than dead? Wait for the story to progress as written, with him as a footnote to someone else's heroic journey?
No.
Dave had spent twenty-eight years as a corporate slave, letting life happen to him instead of fighting back. He'd died on those subway tracks as a hollow shell of a person, his only joy found in someone else's fictional triumph.
He wasn't going to make that mistake again.
Alear moved to the window, pulling aside heavy curtains that blocked out most of the light. The view beyond took his breath away.
The castle grounds stretched out below, vast and meticulously maintained despite the general decay of the world. Gardens with plants that glowed faintly with absorbed mana. Training yards where soldiers practiced with weapons and abilities. High walls bristling with defenses. And beyond that, the Dreadlands themselves.
The sky was a perpetual twilight, neither fully day nor fully night. The Great Catastrophe had done something to the world's rotation, or maybe to the sun itself. The result was an eternal gloom broken only by the bioluminescence of mutated plants and the occasional lightning storm on the horizon.
It was beautiful in a terrible, apocalyptic way.
This was his world now. Not the gray cubicles and fluorescent lights of Dave's old life, but this. A fantasy realm made horrifically real, where power was the only currency that mattered and weakness was a death sentence.
"I won't just survive," Alear said to the empty room, his reflection ghost-like in the window glass. "I can't. In this world, the weak are devoured."
He needed to get stronger. Needed that fruit. Needed to claim what was meant for Damon and forge his own path forward.
But first, he needed to understand his position better. Needed to know who he could trust, who he needed to avoid, and what resources, if any, he had access to.
And apparently, he wouldn't have to wait long for some answers.
The door opened without warning, and a different servant entered. Male this time, older, with the kind of stiff formality that spoke of years serving nobility.
"Lord Alear," the man said, bowing perfunctorily. "His Majesty, King Avalon, requests your presence in his private study tomorrow morning, one hour past dawn. Your attendance is expected."
The servant didn't wait for a response. He simply bowed again and left, closing the door with a decisive click.
Alear stared at the closed door, his earlier determination wavering under a sudden surge of something that felt uncomfortably like fear.
King Avalon. His father. The man whose memories were tinged with cold disappointment and colder dismissal. A King who hadn't visited his son once in six months of recovery.
Now, suddenly, he wanted to see him.
"The king wants to see his failure of a son," Alear muttered, moving away from the window. His chest ached, whether from the wound or from stress, he couldn't tell. "Fine. Let's see what a dead man can do."
He climbed back into bed, exhaustion finally overtaking adrenaline. As he lay there, staring at the embroidered canopy above, his mind churned with plans, fears, and the strange, surreal knowledge that he'd been given an impossible second chance.
He'd read this story. Knew how it was supposed to end.
But he'd also read enough novels to know what happened when characters went off-script.
The story changed.
And for better or worse, Alear Von Weisz was no longer following the plot.
Tomorrow, he'd face the King. Tomorrow, he'd start gathering the pieces he needed to survive.
But tonight, for the first time since dying on those subway tracks, Dave Morrison allowed himself to feel something other than resignation.
Hope.
Dangerous, fragile, probably foolish hope.
But hope nonetheless.
The candles guttered low as exhaustion finally claimed him, pulling him down into dreams of dungeons, fruits that glowed with impossible power, and a future that was no longer written.
In the shadows of the room, unnoticed and unremarked, a faint shimmer of energy pulsed once over his chest, right where the fatal wound had been.
Then it faded, leaving only questions and the steady rhythm of a heart that should have stopped beating six months ago.