Cold metal pressed against the back of my head.
It felt like a tightening halo, slowly constricting, locking me in place.
I couldn't hear it—but I could feel it.
A high-frequency vibration drilled straight into my consciousness, bypassing my ears entirely.Like a power tool, boring into the fortress I had built in the deepest part of my mind.
So this was it.
They had begun the upload.
In the next instant, memories that did not belong to me came crashing in like a data storm.
A luxurious penthouse suite.Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city drowned in neon lights.
A private jet in midair.A blonde woman with blue eyes handing me a glass of champagne.
A boardroom filled with men in tailored suits, all standing when I entered.Lowering their heads. Obeying.
The roar of a supercar's engine.The thick scent of cigars.
Countless unfamiliar faces—eyes filled with awe, flattery, fear.
Images, sounds, sensations—everything pressed inward, trying to crush my sense of self.
They whispered the same lie over and over again:
You are not Jack.You are Alex Wieland.A hundred and four years old.The ruler of this world.
I guarded my core—the fortress of my consciousness—and let the flood rage around it.
I was a reef in the middle of a storm.
Then something sharp and furious broke through.
Where am I?
This body… it's too young. Too weak.
My empire—where is my empire?!
Wieland.
Alex Wieland.
His consciousness had awakened.
But instead of finding an empty vessel—an obedient shell waiting to be worn—he realized he had trespassed into occupied territory.
This domain already had an owner.
And that owner was me.
His consciousness was full of panic and disarray.
Ripped from a decaying body that had died of old age and disease,then forcefully shoved into a stranger's flesh—
The tearing sensation left him disoriented. Vulnerable.
A king, naked, stumbling into another king's land.
My instructor once said:
On the battlefield of the mind, the deadliest weapon is will.
My will had been forged in blood and corpses.
His had been softened by money and power.
This was my chance.
The moment he flailed—desperately trying to seize control of the body and failing at every turn—
I stopped defending.
I opened the gates of my fortress.
Not to surrender.
But to hunt.
My consciousness expanded, invisible and vast, forming a net that slammed down on his chaotic core.
What are you?! Get out!
Wieland roared, his consciousness vibrating with the indignation of a ruler who had never been challenged.
But here—
He was nothing.
I ignored his rage.
My will transformed into countless sharp tendrils, stabbing into his core.
Dragging.Tearing.Devouring.
No—stop! I am Alex Wieland!
His memories—his knowledge—over a century of life spilled into me like a breached dam.
Business negotiations.The art of manipulating human desire.
Hidden fortunes scattered across the globe.A network of power and crime woven from the world's elite.
And—
The truth behind the "Rebirth Project."
The general who framed me and sent me to the execution table.The chief scientist standing over my body right now—Paul.And the organization lurking in the shadows, treating human lives as disposable resources.
The Immortality Club.
The information was overwhelming.
My brain felt like an overloaded server, on the verge of burning itself out.
Pain exploded behind my eyes.
But I clung to a single thought.
Swallow it.
All of it.
This is mine.
Wieland's consciousness deteriorated—from furious resistance,to agonized screams,to weak, broken pleas.
Then, finally—
It dissolved.
Reduced to pure data, absorbed into the deepest layers of my mind.
In the mental world, it felt like an eternity had passed.
In reality, it was probably no more than a second.
I felt it.
Control was returning.
First—my fingers twitched.
Then my eyelids grew heavy.
I could hear the steady, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
A calm voice spoke nearby.
"Consciousness stabilized. Fusion successful."
"Welcome back, Mr. Wieland."
Paul.
I focused everything I had on a single command.
Open.
Light flooded my vision.
The surgical lamps burned white against my retinas, forcing me to squint as I adjusted to the world again.
A face hovered above me.
Gold-rimmed glasses.Sharp eyes.
Paul Ellerin.
There was no joy in his expression—only fascination.The look of an artist admiring a perfect creation.
He believed he had succeeded.
That he had transplanted the mind of an emperorinto the body of a soldier.
I looked at him.
Then I forced my lips to move.
Just a fraction.
Forming a cold curve—
The smile of a victor.