Jason never thought his life would end like that.
Not in a blaze of glory.
Not saving anyone.
Not even doing something worth remembering.
A truck.
Headlights splitting the night. Screeching tires. A flash of white, then—
So this is how Truck-kun gets his next victim, huh.
The thought had been stupid. Reflexive. The kind of joke you made when fear came too fast to process.
Then pain.
Then nothing.
___________________________
When he woke, Jason was gone.
His name was Arin now.
And this world didn't care who he had been.
___________________________
Three years had passed since Anne died.
Arin still measured time by hunger.
Some days it was dull, a quiet ache that followed him like a shadow. Other days it clawed, sharp and demanding, twisting his insides until even breathing felt expensive. Those were the days Anne's voice came back the clearest.
Don't beg. Don't bow. Live.
The slums made sure he understood what she meant.
They didn't care who you were or how you ended up there. Strength decided everything. Fists. Knives. Fear. Those who had it lived long enough to matter. Those who didn't disappeared between one night and the next.
So Arin worked.
He hauled crates heavier than his own body, the wood biting into his shoulders. He scrubbed floors slick with rot and old spills, the smell sinking into his skin no matter how hard he washed. He ran errands for men who laughed when he stumbled and kicked him when he slowed.
Food came when they allowed it. Sleep came when his legs finally gave out.
Weakness was death. That lesson was simple.
But strength alone wasn't enough.
Arin had learned that, too.
Anne had been strong. Stronger than anyone he'd known. And the world had still taken her.
He needed something else. Something that couldn't be kicked out of him or stolen while he slept.
He needed knowledge.
___________________________
The market square was loud even on slow days. Merchants shouted over one another, voices rough from dust and smoke. Guards leaned against posts with practiced boredom, hands resting close to their blades. Children darted between legs like ghosts, quick fingers snatching whatever wasn't guarded closely enough.
Arin moved through it all without drawing attention. Head down. Steps measured. He knew where not to look and when to vanish into the flow of bodies.
At the far end of the square, wedged between a collapsing spice shop and a bakery with broken windows, stood a narrow building leaning hard into its neighbors.
The sign above it was so faded it barely existed.
The library.
He hesitated only a moment before pushing the door open.
Dust rose immediately, stinging his nose. The air smelled of old paper, ink, and something sour — neglect, maybe. Shelves bowed under the weight of books stacked without order. Some leaned against cracked walls. Others were piled on the floor, forming narrow, uneven paths.
Behind a battered desk sat a man who looked like he'd grown out of the building itself. Thin. Crooked. Eyes sharp enough to cut.
"What," the man said flatly.
"I want to learn," Arin replied.
The man snorted. "You can barely stand straight. You don't look like you can read."
"Then teach me."
The old man studied him for a long moment, eyes flicking over his worn clothes, his callused hands, the way he didn't fidget.
"Coins," he said finally.
Arin placed a small pouch on the desk. Five copper coins. Half his savings. Each one earned with bruises and swallowed anger.
The man counted them slowly, clicked his tongue, then pushed the pouch aside.
"Sit."
The chair creaked under Arin's weight. He didn't care. His eyes were already on the shelves. Every book felt like a locked door.
Learning was hell.
The letters looked like someone had spilled ink and decided patterns meant something.
"Fuck this," Arin muttered, slamming the book shut.
A sharp smack cracked against the back of his head.
"Focus," the old man snapped.
"I am," Arin hissed, rubbing his skull. "Just… badly."
"That's not my problem," the man said. "The world won't slow down because you're frustrated."
Arin glared. "I've survived worse than ink."
The man's mouth twitched. "You've survived because you were lucky. Luck runs out."
Weeks passed like that.
Hours tracing letters. Failing. Starting again. Swearing under his breath. The old man hovered constantly, correcting him, mocking him, refusing to let mistakes slide.
"You stare at the page as if it owes you something," the man barked one morning.
"It does," Arin snapped. "I paid for it."
The man laughed once, dry and sharp. "Then learn to collect."
The first sentence Arin read without stumbling, he froze.
Then he smiled. Wide. Stupid. Unashamed.
"Don't look so proud," the old man said. "You read like a drunk child."
"Still read it," Arin shot back.
"Hmph."
But the man didn't hit him that time.
___________________________
The books came next.
And with them, the truth of the world.
Every child in Solkara awakened a Core Talent at fifteen. No exceptions. No mercy.
Talents shaped everything. Farmers grew stronger by farming. Swordsmen by fighting. Healers by healing. Growth came only through use.
There were ranks. Ten of them.
Soldier. Captain. Commander. General. Master.
Most people died there.
Above that were names spoken carefully — Grandmaster. King. Emperor. Sage.
And at the very top, written like a joke someone forgot to erase:
Demigod.
Arin closed the book and leaned back, heart pounding.
Power here wasn't optional. It was mandatory.
Another book spoke of monsters.
They owned most of Solkara. Not in legend — in territory. Cities survived behind walls. Villages clung to roads and trade routes, hoping hunger didn't drive something too large their way.
People died every day just to keep the balance.
Then came the races.
Not the gentle ones from stories he remembered. This world didn't do gentle.
The Drakari of the southern swamps had skin like armor and eyes that burned red in the dark. He'd seen one once near a caravan. No one stood close to it unless ordered.
The Glassborn unsettled him. Bodies clear as crystal, light bending through them. Beautiful in a way that felt wrong. Nomads of the eastern deserts. The old man spat every time he mentioned them.
The Ashkin came from the north. Gray skin. Hollow eyes. Strength born from surviving the cold that killed everything else.
The Veylori lived in forests thick enough to swallow light. Dark-skinned. Silent. Moving like shadows that decided when to exist.
The Myrren were mountain folk, horned skulls and bones dense enough to break stone.
The Thal'ren ruled the deep seas, their bodies traced with glowing patterns like living stars.
And humans.
Plentiful. Adaptable.
Never the strongest.
Arin shut the book slowly.
This world didn't care if you were kind.
It only cared if you were strong.
___________________________
When he left the library, the sun was low. The market had quieted, shadows stretching long across the stone.
His head throbbed. His stomach growled.
But something inside him felt sharper.
Fifteen was close.
The awakening ceremony.
His only chance.
Whatever Talent he received — whatever it demanded — he would use it.
Because hunger had taught him one thing above all else:
If the world wouldn't give him a place, he would carve one out himself.