An old man with a cane in his hand was moving through a dark, isolate bridge. He was supposed to find a mechanic in the other side of the town, for that he has to reach there by foot as his vehicle broke down between the bridge. With no one at night at the bridge, he couldn't even get help.
So, wobbling with his weak knees and cane, he walked towards the other side.
Suddenly, he saw a lady, at the very edge of the bridge, it looked like she will be jumping down the bridge any second.
The old man froze mid-step, the tip of his cane scraping softly against the cold metal of the bridge. The woman stood perfectly still, her dress fluttering in the night breeze, her hair tangled like dark vines around her face.
"Miss?" he called out, his voice trembling more from unease than age.
No answer. Only the low groan of the wind between the bridge's cables.
He took a cautious step forward. "You shouldn't, it's not safe there."
Then she turned. Slowly.
Her eyes were pale, too pale, and for a moment he thought he saw the river's reflection in them.
The old man's grip tightened on his cane. His breath caught in his chest as the woman's gaze locked onto his, unblinking, hollow.
"Do you… need help?" he asked, though the words felt foolish, swallowed by the night.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Instead, the wind seemed to carry a whisper, faint and broken, as though the bridge itself spoke through her.
He stepped closer, the boards beneath his feet creaking. The river below roared louder, though he knew it hadn't changed.
"Miss, please," he said, his voice cracking. "It's dangerous."
She tilted her head, slowly, unnaturally, like a marionette tugged by invisible strings. And then, with a suddenness that made his heart jolt, she smiled.
It was not a smile of warmth. It was the kind of smile that belonged to something that had waited too long in the dark.
Her smile widened until it stretched unnaturally toward her ears, skin cracking as the corners of her lips tore open into a grotesque grin. The woman tilted her head, a low giggle bubbling up from her throat as if she relished the terror flickering in the old man's eyes.
He stumbled back, clutching his chest. The air grew cold, his breath turning to mist. The last thing he saw was her face twisting into something inhuman, eyes hollow, mouth still grinning, before darkness swallowed his vision and his body collapsed beside the bridge.
....
Clink, clink.
He opened his eyes. The world seemed larger than before.
"Where am I?" he whispered.
Before him stretched a corridor swallowed by darkness, broken only at uneven intervals by flickering torches. Their light painted trembling shadows across damp stone.
Then, with a sharp snap, a blue screen appeared before his eyes. He blinked in confusion and began to read.
Name: NoneClass: VerminTitle: Foulborn
A chill ran through him as realization struck. This—this was just like the game his nephew used to play. He had been reincarnated… as a rat.
Heart pounding, he shifted his focus back to the screen.
Skill:Blight Bite, Corpse Memory
He squinted at the skills. Another window popped up, this one a faint grey with a golden border surrounding Blight Bite and an added description. Corpse Memory, however, appeared darker in shade, duller, almost lifeless. Perhaps there was a difference in class skills.
He read the description of the golden skill first.
Blight Bite: Inflicts decay and poison damage.
Corpse Memory: Retrieve memories from devoured corpses.
At the bottom, a final line shimmered faintly.
Mission: Evolve into the Blight Emperor.