If you're reading this, congratulations: you've reached the autobiography of a man who absolutely did not deserve what happened to him.
Hi.
I'm Dylan Chase.
Yes, that Dylan Chase — heir to Chase Industries, professional flirt, full-time menace to women's sanity, and part-time performer of sexual acrobatics that should honestly qualify as Olympic sports.
And before you ask:
Yes, I've had sex in a penthouse elevator.
Yes, I've been handcuffed to a headboard.
No, I'm not ashamed.
No, I don't regret any of it.
Well… actually…
Okay, fine.
Maybe I regret one thing.
Because if there's one lesson I learned after twenty-seven years of being hot, rich, and horny, it's this: You never expect the night you die to start with freshly shaved balls and a bottle of expensive cologne.
Look, I was supposed to have a normal evening, and by "normal," I mean:
• a date
• some wine
• some flirting
• and possibly someone else's panties ending up in my pocket because I "accidentally forgot to return them."
I was dressed to kill—figuratively, obviously. Black shirt, top buttons undone just enough to show the abs I work extremely hard for. Hair perfect, jawline sharp enough to commit homicide.
I stepped into the night thinking I looked like sin on legs. Turns out, the universe looked at me and said:
"Bet."
Because five hours later, I was dead. Not metaphorically dead. Not "ugh, I want to die of embarrassment" dead. I mean: Heart stopped. No pulse. Lights out. Game over. Death.
And the worst part? People are going to assume I died having sex. I wish that were the case. At least then my obituary would be hilarious.
But no.
Instead, I woke up—or whatever the afterlife version of waking up is—in a blank white void with no clothes, no dignity, and no idea what the hell just happened.
There was a chair. A floating chair. And an entity sitting on it like some cosmic HR manager who'd been forced to work overtime.
It didn't have a face. Or maybe it did. I don't know. I was too busy panicking about my lack of pants.
And then it spoke.
"Dylan Chase. You have been judged."
Which, okay—rude but expected.
"And the verdict is… overwhelmingly guilty."
Yeah, alright.
Fair.
I mean, I wasn't exactly Mother Teresa. Still, I tried to defend myself.
"Hey, come on. Cut me some slack. I know I've slept with a lot of people, but I'm not a bad guy. I've donated to charities. I pay for everyone's drinks. I've never kicked a puppy."
Silence. Then—
"You are hereby sentenced to reincarnation."
"Oh. Okay, not so bad."
"…As a pig."
I choked.
"A PIG? Are you insane? Do I LOOK like livestock to you?!"
"You will be reborn according to your karma."
Before I could argue, a screen appeared in front of me. A loading screen. With a little chibi pig bouncing in the corner like this was some kind of sick game.
But then, a new sentence appeared:
[ALTERNATE SENTENCE AVAILABLE]
Complete the System's Tasks → Avoid Pig Reincarnation
Failure → Enjoy your new life as ham.
So that's how I ended up here.
Floating in cosmic purgatory, confused, judged, and about to sign a contract with something called:
THE REDEMPTION SYSTEM
I didn't know it yet… but my life was about to become hell.
Real hell. The kind with magic, monsters, dangerous women, ex-girlfriend lookalikes, and—as I would soon discover—a dick size that had been nerfed to 1.5 inches.
But we'll get there.
For now? Let me tell you how it all started. Because honestly?
Even I didn't see this bullshit coming.