The last thing Kael remembered was the blinding headlights and the crunch of metal. He was pretty sure his life didn't have a replay button, but in those final milliseconds, floods of regret, missed opportunities, and a dull sense of resignation washed over him.
He'd always hated the night shift. The city's rain-slicked streets shimmered with neon and exhaustion. "Just one more week," he'd mumbled, hands numb on the handle of his battered bicycle. "Then maybe I can…" The thought never finished. The truck barreled through the red light, a horn splitting the air, and then—
Nothing.
—
The world returned in fragments.
First was the sensation of warmth—too much of it. Not the sterile, humming fluorescent lights of a hospital, but the sticky, muggy warmth of a small room without ventilation. Then came the smell: musty straw, sweat, something faintly sour. Kael's head pounded.
He squinted, forcing his eyes open. The ceiling above him was not the off-white tiles he expected but rough, dark beams, cobwebbed and ancient. He blinked, once, twice. There were no beeping monitors. Instead, sunlight slashed through a cracked window, dust motes swirling in its path.
He sat up too quickly. Pain lanced through his skull—a different pain, as if his entire head was the wrong shape. He glanced down at his hands. They were smaller, paler, calloused in unfamiliar ways.
A threadbare blanket fell off his chest, revealing a body that wasn't his—narrow-shouldered, almost scrawny. He scrambled off the straw mattress, heart thudding like a drumline.
"What the…?" His voice came out thin, younger. He staggered to a small, warped mirror propped against the wall. The face that stared back was not his own. Sunken cheeks, a mess of dark hair, wide brown eyes rimmed with fatigue, and a faint bruise on the jaw.
He touched his face, half-expecting it to peel away like a mask. No such luck. The reflection copied his every tremble.
"This… this isn't real." He stared, willing the world to make sense. "Am I dreaming?"
The room was tiny—a cot, the mirror, a battered chest at the foot of the bed, and a wobbly wooden chair. The door was closed, but outside he could hear the muffled sounds of a bustling manor: shouting, laughter, the clang of metal on metal.
He pinched himself. Hard.
"Ow!" Definitely not a dream.
Panic fluttered in his chest. He paced, searching for any sign of familiarity. His mind raced, fragments of memory slamming together—he was Kael, 23, a nobody. Poor, overworked, invisible. Then a truck. Then… here.
A pounding echoed from the door. "Get up, you useless brat! The lord's breakfast isn't going to serve itself!" a woman's voice barked.
Kael flinched. "What the hell is going on?"
The door burst open, and a squat, red-faced woman stormed in. "Did you go deaf overnight too, bastard boy?" she spat. "Move your arse before I fetch the stick."
He stared at her, dumbfounded. "I, uh… Sorry. I just…."
She rolled her eyes. "Pathetic. No wonder the others walk all over you."
He stumbled past her, out into a torch-lit hallway. The manor was sprawling, ancient, and cold despite the heat. Servants hurried by, some children, some adults, all carefully avoiding his gaze.
Kael's mind reeled. This wasn't his world. It couldn't be.
He caught snippets of conversation as he moved through the halls.
"Did you hear? The lord's planning another feast tonight. More waste—"
"—that bastard's son, the ninth one? Useless, just like his mother—"
He gritted his teeth, something hot sparking inside him. He didn't know these people, but their contempt was palpable.
He found himself in a cavernous kitchen, the smell of baking bread and roasting meat making his stomach rumble. A portly cook shoved a tray into his hands.
"Take it up to the lord's study. And don't drop it this time, gutter spawn."
Kael took the tray, hands shaking, and made his way up a winding staircase. He passed portraits of haughty men and women, all with the same proud nose and cold eyes.
He paused outside a heavy oak door. From within came the sound of raucous laughter—several men and women, the clink of goblets, and a voice that boomed above the rest.
Kael hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to turn and run, but something in him rebelled. He squared his shoulders and pushed the door open.
Inside, a corpulent man lounged behind a massive desk, surrounded by sycophants. He barely glanced up as Kael entered.
"Ah, the ninth. Still alive, are you?" The lord's lips curled in a sneer. "Set it down and get out of my sight."
Kael complied, placing the tray carefully on the desk. The lord's eyes narrowed.
"You look different today, boy. Less… broken. Don't get ideas. You'll always be what you are."
Kael bit back a retort, his anger simmering. He turned to leave, but as he closed the door behind him, a strange sensation washed over him—like a thousand ants crawling beneath his skin.
A voice echoed in his mind, smooth and oddly cheerful:
[Initializing Glutton Devour System… Host compatibility: 100%. Welcome, Kael. Your path to ascendance begins now.]
Kael froze, eyes wide.
"What the—?"