There was only darkness. Wet, claustrophobic, cramped darkness beyond reason.
And there a million twitching things were packed around him like worms in boiling soup, each one desperate, clawing forward, pulsing toward some unknowable light.
And as for him, well he wasn't even sure what the fuck was going on right now. Although he figured that he had started again, for the third time. For whatever reason he, Vault had been sent to try his luck again at life.
Still it was all so weird to him, he didn't even know what he was exactly right now, but something inside him screamed: MOVE.
And he did.
Forward. Shoving. Crushing. Thrashing with a tail that whipped like a war cry.
He didn't know why he was winning. Why the others around him were slower, weaker, dumber. But it didn't matter. He was winning. Vault—though nameless—was already annihilating his competition.
One smashed against a wall of flesh. Another spiraled into dead space. A third got too close—he tore past it like a torpedo of hate and momentum.
The world shook. Thunder rolled above. Something massive was rising around him. Pressure. Speed. Warmth.
Then—release.
He was launched like a spear through a tunnel of fire. The world flipped inside out. Heat, fluid, madness. Then—impact.
A wall. A shape.
An egg.
A goddamn egg.
He didn't hesitate.
He slammed into it with all his fury. The other sperm swarmed behind him like insects starving for light.
He twisted. Pushed. Forced his head into the wall.
It resisted.
He screamed in whatever language sperm scream in—and pushed harder.
Then—CRACK.
He broke through.
The rest died around him, vanishing like smoke in floodwater.
He pulsed once. Twice.
And then suddenly—silence.
Time slowed. The air inside this strange new shell thickened. And then something deeper, older, began to awaken.
It was a memory, the name he gained in his first life. He remembered a scream under rubble in his second life.
He remembered the thunder of the HIMARS missiles overhead coming towards him.
Be remembered the sound of his own bones breaking as the hospital tower collapsed around him.
And then, nothing.
And now, he floated again, In a fucking womb, for the third time.
And somewhere, beyond the pulse and muffled breath of a woman he didn't yet know, a man lay catching his breath, thinking and hoping that his cum had just scored and made a normal baby.
But Vault was not normal.
He never had been.
And now, he was back.
Again.
His eyes—nonexistent yet—would have narrowed if they could.
How the fuck did I get here?
No answer came.
Only the slow forming of flesh. The knitting of muscle and skin. The warm, rhythmic thump of someone else's heart as the curse of life began again.
Vault didn't weep.
He didn't laugh.
He just waited.
Because in time, he'd grow teeth again.
And the world would bleed for it, but for now he just floated in silence in the warm womb. Listening to the soft heartbeats.
But quickly his mind drifted back. Pulled by something deeper than memory.
It started, as the memory of his first life always did, beneath a corpse, in a brutal medieval world of death and misery.
They said his mother was dead before he hit the ground. A hanging tree outside some burned-down village, where mercenaries had gotten bored after the killing and hung every woman just for fun. She'd been heavy with child. Rope snapped her spine—and Vault slid out between her legs like a scream made flesh.
No cradle. No warmth.
Just mud, blood, and the sound of men pissing on the dirt.
They said he bit the first bastard who tried to toss him in the fire.
They laughed.
Kept him.
Named him Dog.
He remembered learning to walk on stone floors slick with blood. Remembered holding a rusted knife with hands too small to grip it. Remembered the day they tossed him into a trench filled with moaning soldiers—told him to "earn his meat."
So he did.
He slit throats. Crushed windpipes. Learned how to stab between ribs before he learned how to read.
He didn't cry.
Not once.
That wasn't what beasts did.
They beat the softness out of him. Left nothing but bone, scar, and instinct.
By ten, he was stronger than half the men in the camp.
By twelve, he was faster than all of them.
And the first time he truly killed, it was his "father"? He didn't feel joy. Or vengeance. Just peace.
One night. One swing of a spiked mace. Skull crushed like a melon. Vault took his coin purse, his blade, and walked into the woods without saying a word.
And the legend began.
He made his name in blood.
Vault.
Not a name. A sentence.
The world cracked open around him. Bandits. Soldiers. Nobles. Elves. Mages. It didn't matter.
He killed them all. Built his own warband—The Black Wolves—a pack of killers that followed only power. And Vault? He had plenty.
He didn't just fight.
He broke people.
Tore men in half with bare hands. Learned how to strike nerves in a way that made men spasm, piss themselves, and die screaming from one finger jab to the gut.
He called it The Howl of the Inner Fang—a technique meant to destroy a man from the inside out.
It worked.
He exploded a paladin's heart once with just his thumb.
And when the killing slowed?
The women came.
Broken. Grateful. Tamed.
Vault didn't fall in love.
He took.
And then… he saw her.
A sketch on a stolen scroll. A throne room of black stone. A crown of silver and eyes of fire.
Olga Discordia. Queen of the Dark Elves.
She was tall. Cold. Pure arrogance wrapped in obsidian skin and magic fire.
Vault wanted her. Not just to fuck. Not just to kill.
To own. To breed.
She was the only woman he'd ever looked at and thought: first wife.
And so, he marched.
Seven cities burned on his way to her.
The fortress of Eostia stood like a wound in the earth—towers of black and spires of bone.
He breached it in a day.
Cut through her elites.
Crushed her champions.
And then he stood before her.
She fought him like a demon.
Magic, necromancy, with blades and chains of fire.
She was fierce, but it didn't matter for he broke it all, and then he broke her.
He bent her over her own throne and fucked her in front of her court as they wept and died.
She screamed. Scratched. Bled.
But by the end?
She came.
And when he finished inside her, biting her shoulder like a wolf, he whispered:
"You're mine now. Forever."
She didn't argue.
Neither did Chloe, the knight-commander who fought harder than any of them. He made her cum while she cursed his name. Made her crawl on her knees beside Olga, licking his cock like it was sacrament.
Vault became king.
The 7-Shield Alliance fell.
The world knelt.
And his throne room was a temple of naked bodies and gold-drenched wine. Queens at his feet. Priestesses on his lap. Every enemy woman chained in velvet and smiling.
Until that one fucking day when the knives came. He never saw them coming. It was supposed to be just another day, they were smiling as they happily without command sucked him off like always.
In the back, some of them as they waited their turns were giggling and whispering his name like prayers.
And then?
It all suddenly in an instant changed. From between their legs, from behind their eyes, from every fold and hole—
Knives.
Wet and quick.
Olga. Chloe. Celestine. Even the little virgin elf.
They stabbed him together.
Without a word.
Their eyes weren't even their own.
He remembered choking on his own blood, his dick still hard, the throne cold beneath him.
His voice cracked.
"Not you too, Olga?"
She just kissed his cheek.
Then pushed the blade deeper, and darkness followed.
And now?
Here he was again, floating again. Soft meat forming. Nerves stitching. Organs waking.
And inside that growing coil of flesh, Vault remembered.
Not the throne.
Not the kingdom.
Not the blood-slick moans of Olga as he took her atop a pile of broken crowns.
No.
This time, he remembered his second hell.
His second life.
The modern one.
The pathetic one.
He was born in Finland, somewhere gray, cold, and silent, into a cracked apartment with piss-stained walls and two parents who should've been chemically sterilized before puberty.
His mother—a rail-thin junkie with rotten teeth and collapsed veins.
His father—a broken-faced drunk who smelled like piss and turpentine, who beat her for fun and beat Vault for breathing.
They didn't even name him at first.
Called him "That thing."
The state took him at two.
And that was the last kindness the world showed him.
He grew up in care homes filled with screaming, shitting children and dead-eyed staff who spent more time watching TV than parenting. Nobody taught him anything. Nobody hugged him. He learned fast—if you weren't useful, you were forgotten.
Then one day, when he was around eight, some scrawny, wide-eyed little nerd tried to talk to him. Elias. That was the worm's name. He smelled like milk and sweat and fear.
Vault almost ignored him—until Elias started bringing things.
Stolen candy. A portable Gameboy. Eventually, full games burned onto discs.
And that's when it happened.
That's when Vault found his first real love:
Screens.
Games.
Worlds without rules.
He saw elves with glowing eyes, warriors with flaming blades, cities of gold, forests that sang.
And for the first time in either life, Vault didn't want to fuck anyone.
Didn't need women. Didn't want them.
He had elves to befriend.
Undead to command.
Castles to burn and kingdoms to build.
He played the ever-loving fuck out of Warcraft III. Every faction. Every custom map. Every campaign.
Then it was Total War. Age of Empires. The Sims, where he locked weaklings in pools and laughed as they drowned. Mount & Blade, where he rebuilt the Black Wolves in a digital frontier. And World of Warcraft—where he roleplayed a king, seducing blood elves and executing guild traitors like it was breathing.
He didn't care about real people.
They were soft.
Annoying.
Unreliable.
But then… puberty hit.
And with it came rage.
Because outside his screen-lit world, the real one was rotting.
Immigrants flooded the streets—not heroes, not workers, but gangs of parasites. Loud. Entitled. Violent. Pissing on bus seats. Groping girls in the schoolyard. Preaching that their god demanded women cover their beautiful, perfect bodies like they were fucking shameful.
Vault hated them.
Hated their language. Their eyes. Their lies. Their weakness.
He remembered standing in the rain, watching a girl in his class get dragged away by three Somali teens—laughing as she screamed.
No one stopped them.
No one cared.
Vault did, and he beat the fucking shit out of them.
And from that day forward, he trained.
Not for sport, but for war.
He lifted until his muscles tore.
Ran until his lungs bled.
Fought every day—against boys, men, animals. Until his body was a weapon again.
And with his strength—strength he'd carried from his first life, unnatural, godlike—he didn't just become strong.
He became unstoppable.
They never knew.
No one did.
Not until he joined the police.
They thought he was just another quiet Finn.
But behind the badge?
He was Vault.
And he made sure every immigrant gangbanger he met learned two things:
1. Finland wasn't theirs.
2. Vault would never kneel.
He beat them in alleys.
Broke arms in the back of police vans.
Shoved knives into dumpsters and threw batons down stairwells after cracking skulls.
He didn't stop.
But the law caught up.
Whispers. Investigations. A girl with a bruised jaw and a foreign name.
They were going to arrest him.
So he vanished, and then came Ukraine.
He signed up for the Foreign Legion with fake papers and a real hate.
He wasn't there to help.
He was there to bleed.
And bleed he did.
But not his own.
He turned on his squad during a recon mission.
Crushed one man's skull with a rock.
Choked another out with bootlaces.
Shot the last one while laughing.
Then pissed on the corpses.
And walked across the field into Russian lines carrying their dog tags like trophies.
They didn't ask questions.
They gave him a rifle.
He gave them results.
He became the Ash Wolf.
The killer behind enemy lines.
The ghost that ended the Road of Life into Bakhmut.
He cut off the last supply route, massacred the fleeing defenders, and painted walls with their blood.
They tried to call him a myth.
But Vault? Vault liked being real.
Too real.
He got cocky.
Too many kills. Too much blood. Too much fame.
So he hit the hospital fortress on his own. One man. One rifle. One fist.
And he almost won.
He slit throats in surgery rooms.
Tossed grenades into maternity wards repurposed as ammo storage.
Choked out a colonel with surgical tubing and laughed as the man twitched.
Then he saw the trails.
Missiles.
HIMARS.
Too fast.
Too late.
He laughed as the roof cracked and fire poured through.
And then—darkness again.
And now?
He was here.
Again.
A fucking baby, floating in someone else's filth, with the memories of gods and monsters screaming in his skull.
His body already stronger than anything this world would understand.
His thoughts already crueler than any priest could purify.
He wasn't just reborn.
He was reloaded.
And this time?
The world wouldn't survive him, or so he thought within his rage filled mind.