Cheon Donghwan let out a low, quiet laugh. His throat was dry, and his lips were cracked, like someone dehydrated from a lack of water.
"Morning already, huh?" His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the hum of wind passing through the empty streets.
The sky began to brighten. Now the distant horizon glowed faintly with the first light of dawn, a pale orange creeping upward through the mist and smoke. The streets of the devastated district lay silent, cracked and blackened. Rubble is scattered across the ground, smoke lazily drifts from the houses destroyed by explosions, and pools of dark water reflect the dim light.
A voice breaks the morning silence. "Cheon Donghwan! Surrender now, or we'll shoot!" The voice is loud, unmistakably that of a military general. The tone of his voice was robotic, repeating the warning over and over.
Across the street, a line of black-clad soldiers stood alongside city police. Their rifles were raised, tension evident on their faces. They had been hunting him for days, perhaps weeks, and now they were certain they had cornered him.
Donghwan didn't respond. His face remained expressionless, his breathing calm and steady in such a situation. He stood still for a few seconds, staring at the line of weapons, then turned away. His shoes crunched on broken glass as he stepped into the remains of the building, its roof half-collapsed, its walls charred black.
Inside, the air reeked of soot and smoke that had already filled the place. Bricks and splintered wood were scattered across the floor. He crouched down and began gathering scraps—planks, torn cloth, bent metal. He moved carefully, stacking them in the center of the ruined structure.
Outside, the soldiers shifted uneasily.
"Is he insane?" a young soldier whispered, gripping his rifle tighter.
A lieutenant with a long scar across his cheek shook his head. "He won't surrender. Not after bombing the presidential palace. This has to be a trap!"
The general, his face furrowed by age, shouted, "Fall back! Find cover!"
Donghwan stood tall, taking one last look around the building. His expression hadn't changed once. Slowly, he raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.
Snap.
The sound was faint, almost lost to the wind, as it had been countless times before.
One second later, the ground trembled. A deep rumble spread beneath the streets, crawling through cracked walls and shattered windows.
Rumble.
The first explosion destroyed the building where he was standing. The walls exploded outward in a flash of heat and smoke. A few moments later, another explosion destroyed a row of empty houses nearby. Then another explosion. One after another, the explosions continued, each spaced a few seconds apart, for some reason all in perfect rhythm, like a slow drumbeat that wouldn't stop until the sequence of explosions was complete.
Flames spread quickly. Ash and sparks filled the air, heat rolling over Donghwan's body, but his face stayed calm, unchanged as before.
At least twenty of thirty-five plans have gone through, he thought. This death won't be wasted.
The flames engulfed his body. His robe caught fire first, turning into shimmering threads. The heat followed, burning his skin. His long black hair curled and crumbled into ash. His legs went limp, his flesh turned black and cracked, but his expression remained unchanged, still silent, like someone afflicted with leprosy. For the last time, he thought that everything would be all right if he were no longer here.
A faint smile stayed on his lips as he raised his hand again. His fingers trembled from pain, but he forced them to move.
Snap.
The final explosion erupted, a burst of heat and force swallowing everything in a blinding white flash.
The world went silent, and in that instant, Donghwan's body was gone, as if the entire district had been cut away, severed like a snapped cable.
...…
Not long after, voices drifted through the darkness.
"Should we use a potion? He's been out for three days. If we wait, he might never wake up." The voice was high, impatient, clearly belonging to a boy.
Another voice replied, rough, also a boy's. "Are you stupid? We don't even have the ingredients. If we steal, we'll get caught. Beaten, or worse."
Donghwan's eyelids twitched. Slowly, he forced his eyes open. His vision was extremely blurry. The air he breathed felt foul, damp, and acidic. A throbbing pain shook his head, as if a nail had been driven into it. His legs were stiff and weak, like those of a paralytic, and it felt as though he had no legs at all. His breathing was completely irregular, as if he were running a marathon.
The voices grew clearer.
"Grime? You awake?" A boy in a white sailor uniform leaned over him. His round face was smeared with dirt, his black hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.
Donghwan stared blankly at him. Grime? Who?
Another boy stepped closer. His sailor jacket was black with gold trim, worn but cleaner than the white one's. "Don't sit up yet. You've been out too long. Move too fast and you'll pass out again."
Donghwan stayed silent. He blinked several times, forcing his vision to focus, and noticed his hands were thin, his fingers small. His legs, though covered by dark trousers, felt frail, ready to snap at any moment. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his hands trembling as they supported his light frame.
"Grime?" the boy in white repeated, watching him closely.
Donghwan ignored the name. He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers. Pale, soft, nothing like the hands that once carried rifles and assembled explosives. His breathing slowed as he processed it carefully.
He murmured softly, almost to himself, "This isn't… the same body."
"What?" the boy in black asked, frowning.
Donghwan didn't answer. The pain in his head sharpened as he tried to focus. Every few seconds, a dull ache stabbed through his legs, as if the agony from his last death had followed him here.
He stood unsteadily, ignoring his body's protests, and moved toward the cracked door.
The stench hit him immediately as he opened it. The air outside reeked of rot and decay. He stepped out, his small shoes sinking into a thin layer of soil and trash. Piles of refuse stretched as far as the eye could see—rotting food, broken furniture, rusted metal, scraps of paper. Stray dogs tore through the heaps, snapping at each other over bones. In the distance, smoke from burning garbage curled into the gray sky.
The two boys followed him outside.
"Grime, what are you planning to do?" the boy in white asked, his tone full of curiosity.
Donghwan turned to them. His voice was quiet but firm. "From now on, call me Welt Rothes. Or just Welt."
The boys fell silent.
"Are you insane?" the white one barked. "You almost died, and now you're making up a new name?"
"If you don't like it, stay here," Welt said flatly, his tone as emotionless as ever. "I'm leaving."
The boys exchanged a glance. The white one let out a short laugh, his eyes narrowing. "Fine. Go ahead. Let's see how long you last. This place is full of Evolvers. You'll be dead before nightfall."
They both snickered as Welt turned away. He didn't reply, walking past the trash heaps until the stench faded, reaching a stretch of sparse trees and dry grass.
His clothes looked neat: a dark fitted jacket with a vest, a stiff-collared white shirt, a striped tie, and pressed trousers. The outfit made him look like a young noble's son, though the body underneath was frail and small, and he wasn't a noble at all.
He reached into his pocket. A few coins clinked softly. Enough to survive for a few days, maybe more, though he didn't yet understand how the economy here worked.
This isn't Earth. Not the one I know, he thought as he walked.
He ventured deeper into the forest. The trees grew denser as the forest was quite thick, with acacia and oak trees swaying gently in the breeze. As dusk approached, he found a hut far from any road. The roof had collapsed, and the door hung on a single hinge.
Inside the hut, the air was bitterly cold and stuffy. The pale blue moonlight crept through the cracks in the walls, casting faint silver lines on the floor. Welt waited for his eyes to adjust before beginning to search.
"It smells like old stuff, what is this?" Welt whispered.
A skull sat on a chair near the table, its bony fingers frozen around a broken pen. Papers were scattered across the table, their ink faded from time. Several thick, dusty books were piled haphazardly in the corner.
"Oh, damn, why are you here?" Welt muttered to the corpse. "At least don't be a burden, you bastard."
He tapped the skull and played some strange sounds from the fragile, hollow object, fortunately still intact.
He gathered the papers and books, tying them together with a torn piece of curtain. He placed the skull on the stained mattress in the corner of the room. Spider webs clung to the beams, and the smell of mold seeped from every surface, but it was still a shelter. He lay on the floor beside the books, his body aching from exhaustion, and let sleep overtake him. For the first time, Donghwan—or more accurately, Welt—allowed himself to think without hesitation.
...…
Grooom.
Hunger woke him before sunrise. The pain in his head had dulled but hadn't faded completely. His legs still ached when he stood, each step a sudden reminder of his last death.
He packed the books into his emergency satchel and left the hut. The forest was quiet except for the sound of running water nearby. He followed it to a narrow river.
The water was cold enough to numb his fingers, but he waded in without hesitation, as before. He stood still, letting the current wash around his legs. When a cluster of small fish approached, he struck, catching three in quick, practiced motions despite his smaller frame.
He cleaned and gutted the fish with a sharp splinter of wood, gathered dry twigs and stones, and made a small fire. The scent of cooking fish filled the morning air. He ate one, wrapping the other two in cloth for later.
With his stomach partly filled, he headed south.
By noon, the forest began to thin. Smoke rose in the distance, joined by the hiss of steam and the creak of wooden wheels.
A city stretched before him, its streets lined with rows of brick buildings. Horse-drawn carriages rolled by, pulled by muscular horses. In the distance, a train whistled sharply, steam billowing above it.
Victorian era. Or close to it, Welt thought.
He tucked the salvaged books beneath his coat and stepped into the streets. The marketplace district bustled with merchants shouting prices for bread and fruit. The smell of roasted meat mixed with smoke and sweat. Children darted between stalls, some carrying baskets, others slipping hands into coin pouches when no one was looking.
He stopped at a fruit stall. "Two oranges. How much?"
"Three brithe," the vendor said, handing over the fruit.
Memories that weren't his flickered, scraps from this body's previous life. One gold gryn was worth twenty silver grior. One grior was worth eleven bronze slein. One slein was worth twenty copper brithe. One brithe was worth fifty iron pere.
He handed over one slein and received seventeen brithe in change. Peeling an orange as he walked, he observed everything, shops, alleys, the people passing by. Every detail mattered in understanding this world.
On a tall building, an old plaque caught his eye. Though this body's previous owner likely couldn't read, his own mind could decipher the faded words: Otherworlder Explorer Association. The oak door beneath bore a sigil resembling a compass, its needles pointing in every direction. No one around paid it any mind, as if it were a common sight.
Otherworlder. Explorer. Evolvers, he thought, committing each term to memory.
He turned down a narrower street. The air here was heavier, the buildings pressed close together. Trash piled in corners, though not as badly as in the slums. A few children played near a cracked barrel, their faces smeared with soot.
From a doorway's shadow, a rough, gravelly voice called out. "You're new, aren't you?"
An old man stepped into the light. His beard was long and white, and he brushed dust from his worn vest. Thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Behind him, shelves of old books filled the dim shop.
"Yes," Welt answered cautiously.
The man studied him for a few moments. "There's something in your eyes. I could call it potential, maybe, or trouble. What brings you to Nine Cruches?"
"Information," Welt said.
The man's mouth tightened. "Information comes at a price. What kind?"
"Evolver." The word was quiet but firm.
The old man's faint smile vanished. "Don't say that word outside," he said, his tone dropping. "Come in."
Welt stepped inside. The door creaked shut behind him. The air smelled of dust and ink. Lanterns hung low from the ceiling, casting dim light over the shelves.
"Sit," the old man said, pointing to a wooden chair. Welt sat.
The man pulled a thick, leather-bound book from a shelf and set it on the table.
"Silas. That's my name. Yours?"
"Welt Rothes."
Silas opened the book. The fragile pages rustled softly. "Evolvers are those touched by the World's Essence. Some call it a blessing. Others call it a curse. They can do things ordinary people can't."
"World's Essence?" Welt asked.
Silas pointed upward with his crooked finger. "This world isn't empty. There's energy most people can't sense. Some are born able to feel it, absorb it, shape it. That's what makes an Evolver."
"What can they do?" Welt asked.
"They control known elements. Some of them can heal themselves, some can also revive dead plants. The most dangerous ones can see the past or the future. It depends on the Path they take and the Essence they master," Silas said. "The Grand Consul of Eastern Cledestine monitors all of them through the Essence Keeper Order. Registration isn't optional."
"And if they refuse?"
"They're hunted. Declared threats. The Order doesn't stop until they're caught or dead. No one survives alone forever, no matter how strong," Silas said, eyeing Welt carefully. "Why do you ask? Do you have the gift?"
"No," Welt said flatly. "I'm just curious."
Silas leaned back but didn't press. He poured two cups of black coffee, the bitter scent cutting through the stale air.
"Be careful, Rothes," Silas said. "Power here draws eyes. Eyes bring chains. Even this conversation has its cost."
Welt sipped the coffee. Its bitterness sharpened his thoughts for a moment. "Understood."
Silas closed the book. "That's enough for today. The rest will cost you."
Welt placed one brithe on the table. Silas accepted it with a small nod.
"Remember this," Silas said. "The weak don't last here. The careless don't either."
...…
Night fell over Nine Cruches. The streets dimmed as carriages and trains halted. Gas lamps flickered in the wind.
Welt walked toward Sanctum District. The streets were wider and cleaner. The people wore polished shoes and coats, their eyes heavy with exhaustion, though they seemed forced to stay alert.
"Doesn't matter if it's my world or this one, nothing changes. Corporate slaves, working overtime even without better pay," Welt muttered.
Ahead, a cathedral loomed over the district. Its black stone walls rose high into the night sky, tall windows glowing faintly with colored light. Above the gate hung a sigil: an eye bound in red chains.
Guards stood at the entrance, their uniforms marked with the same emblem. Each held a long staff etched with strange carvings, faintly glowing with a light Welt couldn't place.
Welt watched from a distance, counting their numbers, memorizing the square and connected streets. He didn't dare approach. Too dangerous.
"For now, I'll get some rest again. I'm pushing this brain too hard for a child's body," he muttered, turning away. He walked a few hundred meters to the end of a quiet street, where a small wooden sign creaked above a door. The words read: The Southville-yard Inn.
Inside, the air smelled of beer, tobacco, and unwashed clothes. A few men hunched over tables, speaking in low voices. Behind the counter, a weary woman with red eyes stared back at him.
"One room," Welt said.
"Two brithe. No food."
He handed over the coins. The woman slid a worn key across. "Upstairs. Room seven."
Welt took the key. The stairs creaked loudly as he climbed. The hallway was dim, the floorboards soft beneath his feet. Room seven's door stuck slightly, but opened with a hard push.
The room was small, with a wooden bed, a tiny table, and one window facing a dark alley. The air was damp and stale, just what you'd expect from a cheap inn.
Welt locked the door. From his cloth satchel, he pulled the books he'd taken from the hut. He lit the lantern on the table, its dim light spreading across the pages.
The first book's title read: Throne of Nothing. The script was strange, but he could slowly understand it.
He opened it, reading the first page. The book spoke of a world divided by Essence, of Evolvers and the rigid hierarchies that controlled them from the shadows.
After a while, he closed the book and looked out the window. The city lights shone faintly in the distance. His head was still throbbing softly, his legs still ached, but somehow, he was still alive after all that.
Alive, and enough to start again.