Darkness.
It was silent, and for a moment, the protagonist thought he was dreaming—floating in a vast void without beginning or end. But then something shifted.
He opened his eyes.
Crack.
A sharp pain pulsed through his skull like a mallet hitting bone. His breath hitched. Light filtered through the cracks of a broken wooden ceiling. His body felt cold—too cold. The air was dry, but it reeked of damp mold and decay. Something was off. Everything was too vivid for a dream.
He tried to move, but his limbs felt fragile, brittle even, as though any sudden movement would snap them.
"…Huh?"
His voice croaked like sandpaper rubbed across a stone. Looking down at his hands, his heart skipped a beat. They were too small. Bony. Pale. Dirt crusted beneath his nails. His arms trembled just from lifting them. His shirt—if it could be called that—was nothing more than torn linen barely clinging to his thin frame.
Panicked, he stumbled over to a cracked piece of glass lying on the floor nearby. He picked it up with shaking fingers and peered into the reflection.
Long black hair fell messily around a sharp, angular face. Crimson eyes—like burning rubies—stared back at him. The skin on his cheeks was hollow, stretched over the bones.
"This… isn't me," he muttered.
And then—crack! A lightning bolt of pain split his mind in two. His vision blurred. The ground tilted. He collapsed, clutching his head. Memories—fragmented, wild—came rushing in like a dam broken open.
A name surfaced: Chen Mo.
Fourteen years old. Orphan. Homeless. Starved.
And… dead.
Yes. The original owner of this body had perished. Hunger, loneliness, and despair had gnawed him down to his final breath. The ache in his stomach confirmed it.
The protagonist—no, the soul now inside this frail body—finally understood.
He had transmigrated.
"…This is insane."
He tried to remember his own name but even that felt distant now. All he remembered clearly was how he had died—alone in a small apartment, hunched over his desk, after yet another fourteen-hour shift. The flicker of his computer screen was the last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him.
Why had he worked so hard? The answer came bitterly: because he was kind.
Too kind. Too soft.
People took advantage of that kindness. "Can you help me with this?" "Could you cover my shift?" "You're the only one I trust with this task…" Day after day, he shouldered more than he should have. Until his body finally said enough.
And now… here he was.
The memories of this world were still murky, as if someone had wiped a fogged-up mirror and only cleared a few streaks. But one thing was certain: he wasn't in his old world anymore.
He needed food.
Crawling to his feet, Chen Mo—or rather, the soul now inhabiting his body—looked around. The room was barely more than a wooden shack. Cracked walls. Broken shelves. A tattered mat in the corner. Nothing but decay and rot.
He searched every corner, overturning old boards, lifting cloth sacks that crumbled in his hands, until something caught his eye.
A piece of bread. If it could still be called that.
It lay under a pile of dusty cloth, mold dotting the edges. Its center looked mostly intact, and hunger overpowered his hesitation. With trembling fingers, he grabbed it and shoved it into his mouth, chewing ravenously.
Each bite tasted like dust and sour mildew. But to him, it was a banquet.
As the food slid down his throat, warmth trickled back into his fingers. His chest heaved with quiet sobs. He didn't know if they were his or Chen Mo's.
He slumped back against the wall, chewing slowly now, and let his mind wander.
"This is… just like those light novels," he muttered. "Guy dies. Wakes up in another world. A new body. A new life."
His gaze sharpened.
"If this is like those stories… then where's my system?"
A pause.
No chime. No blue screen. No robotic voice declaring, "Welcome to the Transmigration Assistance System."
Nothing.
He waved his hand in front of his face. "Status screen? Menu? Inventory?"
Silence.
His heart sank.
"No system…?"
He bit his lower lip.
In all those novels, the protagonist always got some kind of cheat—an all-powerful system, a legendary weapon, a godly bloodline. But him? All he got was an empty stomach, torn clothes, and the body of a dead boy.
"Of course," he chuckled darkly. "Even in another world… I get the short end."
But despair didn't consume him. If anything, there was a strange clarity in the unfairness.
He had been given another chance.
System or no system, cheat or no cheat—he was alive.
He stood up slowly, balancing against the cracked wall. His legs wobbled but held.
"Okay… first, I need to survive."
His crimson eyes scanned the small shack.
"No one's coming to save me. I'll have to save myself."
He clenched his fists.
"Let's begin again."