A rainy night.
Blinding lightning tore across the sky. Torrents of rain poured down. The aging electrical system of the rundown neighborhood flickered a few times before finally giving out.
The cold rain slapped against Richard's face, jolting him awake from the darkness.
He stumbled to his feet, drenched and disoriented.
"Where... am I?"
"I'm not dead?"
"That's... great."
Even though it felt like his head had been repeatedly smashed by a hammer, the realization that he was still alive brought a smile to his face.
Though, with his muscles spasming uncontrollably, that smile came out twisted and grim.
Leaning against the wall, Richard shook his head to clear it as the rain soaked through his clothes. It took him a long while to regain his senses. A quick scan of his body revealed no missing limbs, but the unfamiliar weakness in his limbs was deeply unsettling.
Once, his body brimmed with magic so dense it warped the fabric of reality. He had once gone toe-to-toe with Mechanshuth for three days and nights without pause. But now… now he was weak.
As a Grand Arcanist, Witch-King, Astral Wanderer, and master of the Floating City "Star of Wisdom," Richard had spent countless years traversing the Astral Plane, harvesting rare resources—even fragments of divinity.
With his power, he could have escaped even the descent of a true god. But fate had its own plans. While exploring the battlefield of the Old Gods, just as he subdued a powerful Abomination and was preparing to extract its divine essence to forge an artifact, a sudden space-time storm erupted.
The entire battlefield was consumed. Even the ancient, near-eternal corpses of the Old Gods were shattered. Richard, the unlucky one, was swept into it as well.
To survive, he unleashed everything he had. He tore open a rift in the storm at great cost—barely slipping through with his life.
"Mana depleted. Mental energy depleted. Soul Sea severely damaged. All equipment destroyed. The semi-artifact was sacrificed to escape the rift. Magic temporarily unavailable. Bloodline powers severely weakened but still barely usable."
After spending several minutes examining himself, Richard concluded—well, it could've been worse. First thing's first: find shelter. And while he was at it, get out of these rags.
His once-prized enchanted robes—crafted from dragonhide and woven with mithril thread—had been reduced to little more than shredded beggar's clothing. No protection, no magic, and not even worth repairing.
After restoring some strength, Richard took in his surroundings—and froze.
"English newspapers?"
Faded memories deep within the maze of his soul stirred.
In disbelief, he picked up the soggy newspaper lying in a puddle and skimmed through it.
Moments later, he dropped the paper, his face a mixture of relief and confusion. He had returned… to Earth. More specifically, to the United States. That was the good news.
The bad news? It wasn't the Earth he remembered.
The date on the paper was 1998—and the President wasn't Clinton.
Another bit of good news: he was safe—for now. In his current powerless state, had he landed in a place like the Abyss, the Elemental Planes, or even Faerûn's Material Realm… he'd probably be dead already.
Richard looked around and decided to find shelter, some food, and a change of clothes. Just then, a commotion echoed from the alley's entrance.
A scuffle broke out near the mouth of the alley. A bald white man with a knife was threatening a skinny, helpless guy. The thug was burly and aggressive—clearly dangerous.
The skinny guy quickly handed over his wallet. But just as the thug reached out, he tossed it to the side and bolted.
The thug didn't bother chasing him. He picked up the wallet, muttering, "F***ing cheapskate—only twenty bucks?!"
Grumbling, he headed deeper into the alley—until he saw a vagrant standing there, soaked and ragged.
"F***, another broke-ass bum," he spat, glancing at Richard as if he were trash and tried to walk past.
But then, in the dim light, he noticed something.
This "vagrant" wasn't just tall and well-built—he was absurdly good-looking.
Richard's dragon bloodline and divine essence naturally gave him a strikingly noble appearance. After all, no real sorcerer ever looked ugly.
A strange gleam flashed in the thug's eyes.
His demeanor shifted.
"Hey there, buddy. You hungry?" he said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
Catching Richard's gaze, the thug pressed on: "I've got burgers and sandwiches at my place. And a hot shower. Bet you could use both."
Richard needed someone to give him insight into this world. So this offer, however shady, was oddly perfect. Like a pillow falling into the arms of a drowsy man, he nodded in agreement.
The bald man led him through the rain-slicked streets and into a rundown neighborhood. Even in this weather, a few homeless souls lingered in the shadows.
Soon, they arrived at a grimy apartment. Trash was strewn across the floor, something unidentifiable rotted in the bin, and half-eaten burgers littered the table. The air was thick with sour, rancid stench. Richard wrinkled his nose.
Bang! The door slammed shut behind him.
He turned around—just in time to see the thug strip off his shirt, revealing a hairy chest, and give Richard a greasy grin.
"Come on, baby," he leered. "Let's play a little game…"
As he reached for Richard, the mage's face went dark. "You disgusting pervert."
Richard sidestepped the grab and drove a punch straight into the man's left armpit.
The thug, shocked that this "harmless pretty boy" dared to fight back, had no time to react.
Crack! Several ribs shattered. Screaming in pain, he crumpled to the ground.
Richard stepped forward and finished it with a solid kick to the head—sending the man into a baby-like sleep.
With that dealt with, Richard rummaged through the apartment.
He started by taking a hot shower, tossing his ruined robes, and putting on clean clothes. Then he helped himself to food and some reading material to get up to speed on this world.
From what he could gather, this world didn't seem to have any obvious supernatural phenomena. Technology was on par with his original Earth. History, too, looked familiar.
A parallel Earth, it seemed—one without the supernatural.
But his soul told a different story.
Elemental energy did exist here—though much weaker than in worlds like Mothrella. Still, by the Grand Arcanists' classification, this place ranked somewhere between Low-Magic and Mid-Magic realms.
Yet no paper, magazine, or even that thug revealed anything about magic. Either this world truly lacked the supernatural… or it was being deliberately hidden.
Richard mulled this over, then knelt by the unconscious thug, pulling a few hundred dollars in cash from his pockets. "Consider this compensation for trying to molest me."
He turned to leave, but paused. Looking back at the bruised, battered pervert, Richard sighed and—out of sheer kindness—used the guy's own phone to call an ambulance.
Wouldn't want the guy dying in a filthy room, after all.
"Man," Richard muttered, "I'm just too kind for this world."