Jason never imagined his life would end like that.
Not in a blaze of glory. Not in some epic last stand.
Nope.
A truck.
A damn truck.
He remembered the screech of tires, the headlights splitting the world in two, and the thought that flashed through his mind in that last, useless moment:
"So this is how Truck-kun gets his next victim, huh. Figures."
Then pain. Then nothing.
When he woke, he wasn't Jason anymore.
He was now Arin.
And this world didn't care who he had been.
___________________________
Three years had passed since Anne died.
The woman who had found him. The only person who had ever cared.
Her voice, her hands, her words, they were still inside him.
Don't beg. Don't bow. Live.
He had lived, barely.
The slums didn't care, not for him, not for anyone.
Power ruled here. Teeth, fists, fear, those who had it lived. Those who didn't were swallowed. He had learned that lesson fast.
So he worked.
Crates are heavier than his body. Floors coated in filth. Errands for gangs who spat when he stumbled, laughed when he bled.
He ate only when they allowed it. Slept only when exhaustion pulled him down. Weakness was death. That's simple.
He clawed for coins. Each one is a small victory wrested from the garbage and the gutters. A heartbeat, a scrap of breathing, a chance.
Not to live better. Not to feel safe.
To survive. To learn.
Arin knew only knowledge could save him, take him out of the slum. The only thing he could carry into this brutal world. The only weapon he could sharpen.
Every scar, every blister, every failure fed him. He stored it inside, folding it into his body like steel into a blade.
Survival didn't ask for hope. Survival demanded everything.
And he would give it.
___________________________
The market square stank of sweat, smoke, and rotting fruit. Merchants shouted over one another. Guards leaned against posts, bored, hands on hilts, watching nothing in particular. Children darted between legs like rats, snatching bread or coins, squealing when caught.
Arin moved through it all without a glance. Every step measured. Every breath deliberate. Chaos washed over him like water, but he did not falter.
At the far end, wedged between a tumbledown spice shop and a bakery with broken windows, he stopped. A narrow building leaned against its neighbors, sagging with age. Its sign was faded, letters worn away by sun and rain.
The library.
He pushed the door open. Dust rose in lazy clouds. The air was thick with old paper, ink, and something sour he couldn't place. Shelves leaned against cracked walls, books stacked in chaotic towers. Some threatened collapse. Others were stacked on the floor, forming uneven paths between shelves.
Behind a battered desk sat a man. Thin, bent, eyes sharp as broken glass. A wiry beard bristled from his chin.
He looked up. "What?"
"I want to learn," Arin said. His voice was low, but steady.
The man snorted. "Learn what? You can't even read, brat."
"Then teach me," Arin said.
The old man's lips twitched. "Figures. Another street rat who thinks ink will save him."
"Coins first," he said finally.
Arin set a small pouch on the desk. Half his savings, five copper coins, clawed from the slums through sweat, bruises, and the smell of filth. The man counted slowly, muttered under his breath, then shoved it back.
"Fine, sit."
Arin lowered himself onto the creaking chair. His eyes swept the room. Every book, every scrap of parchment, smelled like a weapon waiting to be learned.
Learning wasn't easy.
The letters looked like someone had spilled ink and decided to call it a language.
"Fuck this shit," Arin muttered, snapping the book shut.
The old man's hand shot out and smacked the back of his head. "Focus."
"I am focusing," Arin gritted through his teeth. "Just… aggressively."
"'Aggressively' doesn't teach you shit. Concentrate, or I'll teach you the hard way."
Arin glared at him. "Try me, old man. I've survived worse than paper and ink."
The man's eyes twitched, a corner of his mouth lifting. "You've survived because you were lucky. Luck dies faster than the weak."
Weeks passed like that. Hours spent tracing letters, stumbling, cursing, and memorizing. The old man hovered, correcting him sharply, scoffing every time he failed.
"Stop staring at the page as it owes you something!" the man barked one morning.
"I'm trying!" Arin snapped, finger trembling as he followed a crooked line of ink. "It's… It's fucking impossible!"
"You think the world gives a damn?" the man said. "No one here cares if it's impossible. Learn it or die trying."
Arin gritted his teeth. Then I'll die trying.
The first sentence he read correctly, he grinned stupidly, unashamed.
"Don't act like you invented reading now, brat," the old man said, rolling his eyes.
"I feel like I did," Arin said, smirking. "Pretty sure this is a historic moment, hehe."
The man's lips twitched. "Historic, huh? Don't go thinking you're some genius now."
"Geniuses got nothing on me, hehe," Arin muttered.
The old man chuckled. "Reading's fine, but don't think it'll keep you alive."
Arin leaned over the page again, tracing letters with raw fingers, back aching, eyes burning. The words became sharper each day. Every sentence memorized was another chance, another step out of the slums.
By sunset, the old man leaned back, arms crossed, watching him with those sharp, unreadable eyes.
"You haven't killed yourself yet," he muttered.
Arin didn't smile. He was too tired for that. He had fought through frustration, headaches, and the old man's scolding. Every letter he finally recognized felt like a small victory.
Reading wasn't a game. It was a necessity.
And he would keep at it.
Then came the books.
He read until his eyes burned and his head felt stuffed with words.
___________________________
Core Talents.
Every child in Solkara awakened at fifteen. No exceptions. Talents shaped everything: work, strength, survival.
Growth came only by honing one's talent. A farmer farmed. A swordsman fought. A healer healed. The more you used your Core Talent, the stronger you became.
There were ten ranks in total. Each rank was incomparably stronger than the one before.
Soldier > Captain > Commander > General > Master > Grandmaster > King > Emperor > Sage > Demigod.
Most never passed the Master. Kings ruled kingdoms. Demigods were myths. There has not been a single demigod in thousands of years.
He turned the page.
___________________________
Monsters.
They filled most of their world, Solkara. Sixty percent of the land was theirs. Creatures born from chaos, shapes that defied reason, instincts that killed without thought.
Cities survived behind walls. Villages clung to trade routes. People died every day to quell their hunger.
Another page.
___________________________
Races.
Not elves. Not dwarves. Forget all those gentle fantasy races from Earth's stories; this world didn't do gentle.
Drakari—scaled warriors of the southern swamps. Armour-like skin, red eyes, and hair.
Glassborn—nomads of the eastern deserts. Bodies clear as crystal, the most beautiful race of Solkara.
Ashkin—survivors from the northern wastelands. Gray skin, hollow eyes, strength that could bend steel.
Veylori—forest dwellers with dark skin, moving like shadows that learned how to breathe.
Myrren—mountain folk with horned skulls and bones dense enough to shatter stone.
Thal'ren—creatures of the deep seas, marked with bioluminescent patterns and greenish skin.
And then humans. Their numbers were the highest, but never the strongest.
Arin stared at the list and muttered under his breath,"... Sure, why not? Swamp people, crystal beauties, and underwater creeps. This place really hates normal."
He flipped the page and added quietly,"If the next section says 'flying unicorns,' I'm leaving."
Arin closed the book slowly.
He walked out of the library when the sun was low. The market was quieter now. Shadows stretched long across the square.
His thoughts were louder than the silence.
This world is batshit crazy.
He smirked faintly.
"Guess I need to become crazy too if I wanna survive."
Fifteen was close.
The awakening ceremony.
His only chance.
Whatever talent he would get, whatever it demanded,
He would use it.