Your classic run-down apartment.
Cramped. Dingy. A scent of mold and existential despair lingered in the corners. One window—half-covered by a curtain that looked like it hadn't seen soap since the last century—let in a sliver of gray morning light. Just enough illumination to remind the tenant that other people out there were living much better lives.
And to top it all off? A bed.
If you could call it that.
A single mattress slouched over uneven springs, stained with the ghosts of meals long past—instant noodles, cheap curry, maybe even tears. One pillow sat at the head, shredded as though mauled by a tiger with insomnia and a grudge.
How wonderful.
Death—now inhabiting this miserable flesh-sack of a human—sat up, unfazed. He reached for the blanket (a fabric that felt more like sandpaper than cotton) and calmly wiped cereal and lukewarm milk off his skull—er, face. He still wasn't used to having skin.
"While this person may be living a terrible life… it's a perfect vessel," he mused aloud, dabbing the milk from his cheek, "since nobody would even care if he changed personalities."
He reached for the blaring phone on the floor. Thankfully, the device recognized the dead man's fingerprint. No need to probe the mind for a password or deal with the tedious ritual known as "Forgot My Login."
"Let's see what kind of legacy this soul left behind…"
He wasn't emotionally invested, of course. Just curious if the vessel had left behind any useful assets—money, weapons, perhaps even a nice artifact he could leverage in his "retirement."
Death scrolled through the home screen.
Notification spam, scam calls, expired coupons, and a dozen missed messages from someone labeled 'Boss .'
"Huh…"
He tilted his head.
"Well, at least I'll start off as an underdog."
There was an odd sort of satisfaction in that. An omnipotent being who once harvested stars now had to worry about utility bills and alarm clocks.
He pressed a bony finger to his forehead—well, fleshy now—and lightly probed the vessel's lingering memory imprint.
"Aren Vale… what an odd name."
And then the rest came into view.
"E-rank hunter... for a no-name guild... jobless… broke…"
He sighed.
A slow, heavy sigh filled not with despair—but delight.
Because for the first time in an eternity, he felt something foreign. Something thrilling.
Weakness. Limitation. Struggle.
The thrill of mortality.
"This body aches. It hungers. It feels. This is... alive."
And for someone who had been Death itself—a disembodied force for countless millennia—that was something worth getting excited about.
Grinning like a kid on his first trip outside, Death—now Aren—leapt to his feet and rushed to the window. He flung it open with both hands, letting the polluted urban air rush into the room like a blessing.
Down below, the street grumbled with horns and the chaotic shuffle of early-morning traffic. Smoke. Noise. Life.
"What a good start!" he declared with unearned triumph.
His voice echoed down the street, and a muffled shout came from the apartment next door.
"Shut the hell up!"
A loud bang! followed as someone pounded the shared wall with fury.
Aren barely flinched. He turned back to the apartment with a newfound sense of purpose.
"First order of business…"
He grabbed the phone again and opened the banking app, humming to himself. Surely, with Law's blessing, there had to be something—some divine compensation for his vacation/retirement.
And then—
$0.00
A blank screen. Not even a cent. Not even a pity digit.
"..."
"Not even a single dollar?"
He slumped like a balloon losing air.
"I can kill eldritch beasts with a look… but I can't even buy coffee."
Ah, yes. Coffee. The sacred elixir he had seen mortals worship time and time again. All those lives he reaped in coffee shops, sipping bitter joy in overpriced paper cups—he had always wondered: Was it truly that good?
And now, here he was.
Finally mortal.
Finally able to taste it.
And broke.
"Well… I guess I can start with heading to this dude's… I mean my boss."
The words felt strange. Like trying on pants two sizes too small. But he'd get used to it.
He wandered to the bathroom—another vision of neglect, rust, and questionable stains—but powered through with cosmic determination. After several minutes, he emerged slightly cleaner, marginally less dead, and still tragically poor.
Throwing on clothes from the floor (he assumed they were "clean enough" by mortal standards), he struck a dramatic pose in the mirror, smirked, and declared:
"Time to earn a living!"
Meanwhile…
Far beyond the known universe—within the timeless expanse outside reality itself—Law stood silently before the multiversal sphere.
He stared.
Watched.
Judged.
And then sighed.
"From a god… to a broke human."
A pause.
"What an odd pick."
And the multiverse quietly trembled in agreement.