Chapter 1: The Ash and the Awakening
The fluorescent hum of the office lights was a monotonous drone, a soundtrack to the slow, agonizing bleed of Hiroki's soul. Another Tuesday, another spreadsheet. At thirty-seven, he was a master of the mundane, a connoisseur of cubicle life. His fingers danced across the keyboard, inputting data that meant nothing to him, for a company he barely remembered the name of, producing widgets he couldn't fathom. Life was a relentless cycle of debits and credits, with precious little of the latter in his personal ledger.
"Hiroki, done with the quarterly report projections?" Mr. Tanaka, his department head, loomed over his shoulder, a perpetually constipated frown etched onto his face. Tanaka was everything Hiroki loathed: pompous, inefficient, and utterly oblivious to the subtle art of not micromanaging.
"Almost, sir," Hiroki replied, his voice flat, devoid of the emotion he'd long since perfected the art of suppressing. He typed faster, a hollow ache growing in his chest. An orphan since five, he'd learned early to rely only on himself, to build impenetrable walls around his heart. His existence was a carefully curated routine of work, cheap ramen, and the quiet whir of his gaming PC. It was safe, predictable, and utterly joyless.
The clock finally ticked past five. Freedom. He closed the spreadsheet, powered down his computer, and stood, stretching the knots from his shoulders. The air outside was cool and crisp, a welcome antidote to the recycled breath of the office. He walked past the bustling izakayas, the neon glow reflecting in the puddles from a recent shower, and headed straight for his usual convenience store.
Inside, the chill of the air conditioning was a familiar comfort. He grabbed a can of cheap lager and a packet of instant noodles. His dinner, already decided. At the counter, a young cashier, probably half his age, barely looked up as she scanned his items. He paid, mumbled a polite thank you, and stepped back out into the Tokyo night.
He took a long, slow sip of the lager, the bitterness a familiar burn down his throat. It wasn't about the taste; it was about the routine, the small ritual of unwinding. He walked slowly, letting the city sounds wash over him – the distant wail of a siren, the murmur of conversations, the rhythmic click of bicycle wheels. Home. His tiny, cramped apartment felt less like a sanctuary and more like a waiting room for the next day's grind.
He reached his building, a nondescript concrete block, and climbed the three flights of stairs. The air inside was stale, smelling faintly of dust and old newspapers. He fumbled with his keys, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. The lights were off, the room a canvas of shadows. He kicked off his shoes, dropped his meager purchases on the small kitchen counter, and headed towards the couch.
He didn't even make it that far.
A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his head, like an ice pick driven through his temples. His vision swam, the shadows in his apartment twisting into grotesque shapes. He stumbled, grasping blindly for support, but found only empty air. The floor rushed up to meet him, a sudden, jarring impact, and then… nothing. Not darkness, not light, just… cessation. The hum of his refrigerator, the distant rumble of the city, even the dull ache of his own existence – all dissolved into an absolute, profound silence.
The first sensation was a dull throb, a persistent ache behind his eyes that radiated down to his jaw. Then, a scent. Not the sterile tang of hospital disinfectant, nor the recycled air of his apartment. This was earthy, a mix of old wood, dust, and something metallic, like dried blood and iron. He felt a rough, coarse fabric beneath his cheek.
"Get up, you lazy lump! The sun's been up for hours!"
The voice was unfamiliar, rough as gravel, yet surprisingly warm, like embers in a forgotten hearth. It was female, older. Hiroki's eyes snapped open, but his vision was a chaotic blur of molten red and warm amber. He blinked, hard, and the colors solidified, resolving into a pair of eyes reflecting back at him from a shard of something obsidian-black. His eyes. One, a fiery ember, intensely red. The other, the deep, warm gleam of polished amber. Heterochromia. He didn't have heterochromia.
He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with an unfamiliar stiffness. He was lying on what felt like rough-hewn stone, covered by a threadbare blanket. The room was small, humble, built of thick, gnarled timbers, and light filtered through a single, grimy window, illuminating dancing dust motes. Definitely not his apartment. Definitely not a hospital.
He scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly, his gaze darting around the room. A rickety table with a single chair, a sputtering hearth where a few embers glowed, and a scattering of worn leather and rusted metal hanging on pegs – tools, weapons, old gear. This was…primitive.
"You finally decided to grace us with your presence, eh, Kaelen?" the voice grumbled again, closer now.
He spun around. Sitting by the hearth, hunched over a steaming, chipped mug, was an old woman. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, etched deep around bright, inquisitive eyes that seemed to miss nothing.
A shock of vibrant red hair, streaked with silver, spilled from under a worn leather cap, giving her a wild, untamed look. She had a lean, wiry frame, but there was an unmistakable aura of resilience, of a life lived hard. A firecracker, his mind supplied, a sudden, overwhelming torrent of information flooding his consciousness.
Kaelen. That was his name now. He was sixteen. This woman was his mother. Her name was Elara. And these new eyes, the red and amber, they were his, a mark of his half-dragon hybrid heritage. The original Kaelen's memories crashed into Hiroki's, a chaotic symphony of childish fears, youthful exuberance, and the deep, abiding love for the woman before him. He saw images of her, younger, stronger, wielding a gleaming axe, battling beasts, laughing around a campfire. She was an adventurer before… before the sickness.
The word resonated with a chilling familiarity. He saw the original Kaelen's fear, his helplessness, his desperation as his mother grew weaker, her coughs worsening. It echoed in Hiroki's own chest, a strange, unfamiliar protectiveness stirring. He'd never had a mother, never known that unconditional bond. The thought that this new mother was sick, that she was suffering, pricked at something long dormant in his cynical heart.
"Mother?" The word felt alien on his tongue, yet instinctively right.
"Aye, Mother," she retorted, taking a long sip from her mug. "Thought that cursed plague-ridden fog had taken you for good. You've been out for two days, boy." She coughed then, a deep, wet, hacking sound that rattled her thin frame, leaving her breathless. It was a cough that spoke of something far more insidious than a common cold. A genuine, debilitating illness.
He watched her, his mind, the mind of a thirty-seven-year-old corporate drone, already racing. Sickness meant treatment. Treatment meant coin. He glanced around the rundown house again. Their poverty was stark, undeniable. This was a hand-to-mouth existence. He, Hiroki, the meticulous budgeter, the man who'd clawed his way to financial stability in his old life, now found himself utterly destitute in this new one.
But then, a different thought ignited. Not just the poverty, but the potential. This wasn't his old world, where money was a slave to inflation and the whims of the stock market.
This was a world of magic, of adventurers, of untold riches waiting to be discovered. His new half-dragon instincts, dormant for so long in Kaelen's naive youth, roared to life. A primal, insatiable love for money surged through him. Not just for survival, but for accumulation, for power, for dominance. He felt an almost physical craving for the glint of gold, the weight of a coin pouch, the whisper of currency changing hands. The very idea of wealth, of controlling it, of orchestrating its flow, sent a thrill through him that even the most satisfying Excel formula never could.
"Mother," he began, his voice surprisingly deep, almost resonant, a stark contrast to the light, youthful voice Kaelen should have possessed. His new maturity, Excelsis' lifetime of calculated risks and observation, was already shaping this new persona. "What exactly happened? And… where are we?"
She looked at him, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "What happened? You were out scavenging near the Whispering Wastes and got caught in a pocket of the miasma. Near killed ya, boy. Lucky I found you." She paused, her gaze lingering on his eyes, on his face. "And where are we? We're in Aethelburg, on the edge of the Veridian Coast, in the Realm of Aerthos. Where else would we be, you dolt?"
The Realm of Aerthos. The name reverberated in his mind. The original Kaelen's fragmented memories supplied the rest: the World of Endless, an infinitely sized macrocosm with ten infinite-sized realms. And the Realm of Aerthos was the weakest of them all. Weakest. That meant they were stronger. And in his past life, he'd always sought to be the best, the most efficient, the one who controlled the numbers. His new, half-dragon heart pulsed with a fierce ambition.
"Aerthos," he repeated, testing the name. He stood, testing his balance. His body felt… different. Stronger. More agile. He moved towards the small, tarnished mirror hanging on the wall. The reflection showed a young man, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with a lean, athletic build. But the eyes… those eyes were ancient, filled with a knowledge and weariness that belied his apparent youth. He looked… good. Really good. And those eyes, red and amber, glowed with an inner fire. He was going to have to get used to people thinking he was younger than he was, but that could be an advantage.
He caught his mother's eye in the reflection. She was watching him closely. "You seem… different, Kaelen," she said, her voice softer now, tinged with a hint of concern. "Are you sure you're alright? You're usually sleeping till noon, cursing the idea of work."
He turned from the mirror, a new resolve hardening his features. His past as an orphan, his current status as a potential provider for his sick mother – it all converged into a single, pragmatic directive. "I'm fine, Mother," he said, his voice firm, resolute. He reached out, his hand hovering over her thin shoulder. He wouldn't let her suffer. Not if he could help it. "In fact, I'm better than fine. Mother… where can I get a job?"
Elara stared at him, her jaw dropping slightly, her sharp eyes wide with utter bewilderment. "A… a job?" She burst into a dry, hacking laugh that quickly devolved into another bout of coughing. "The boy who wouldn't lift a finger to save his own hide wants a job? What in the blazes has gotten into you?" She looked him over, a speculative glint entering her eyes. "Are you finally growing a spine? Or did that miasma scramble your brains?"
Kaelen ignored the teasing, his gaze sweeping over the impoverished room, already envisioning ways to transform it.
"Times change, Mother. And so do people. Or, rather, dragons. I need to understand this city. Where's the busiest market? The merchant's guild? The… the banks?" He wanted to ask about the specific mechanics of his new "Banking system" that he vaguely sensed, but decided against it for now. He didn't want to seem too insane, not right out of the gate.
Elara slowly rose from her seat, still watching him with a mixture of confusion and cautious optimism. "Well, if you're serious, the main market square is just past the Old Mill district. You can ask about odd jobs there. And the Merchant's Guildhall is in the High Quarter, but you'd need coins just to sniff their door, let alone join. As for banks… We don't have 'banks' like that here. We have coin lenders, sure, and the Treasury for the Lord, but not… what you're thinking."
A flicker of disappointment, quickly replaced by a predatory gleam, entered Kaelen's eyes. No established banking system? Excellent. A virgin market. An infinitely sized world, and no central banking authority. The possibilities were… endless. His half-dragon blood pulsed with exhilaration.
"Good," Kaelen said, a slow, calculated grin spreading across his face. A banker's grin. A dragon's grin. "That simplifies things. I'll start at the market. Don't wait up." He grabbed a worn, patched cloak from a hook by the door.
Elara just stared, dumbfounded, as her suddenly proactive son strode to the door. "Kaelen, wait! You're still weak from the miasma! You need to eat!"
"I'll eat when I've earned it," Kaelen called back, already pulling the heavy wooden door open. The sun, already high in the sky, streamed into the dim room. The outside air was surprisingly fresh, carrying the faint scent of pine and distant salt. He looked back at his mother, her worried, fiery gaze fixed on him. "Don't worry, Mother. Things are going to change. For the better."
He stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. The small, rundown house was perched on a gentle slope at the outskirts of Aethelburg, a scattering of similar humble dwellings around it. A narrow, muddy track led downwards, winding through sparse trees and past overgrown fields. In the distance, beyond the rolling hills, he could see the silhouette of buildings rising against the sky – not modern skyscrapers, but sturdy stone structures, with tiled roofs and the occasional glint of metal. The city.
He started walking, his steps firm, resolute. The old Hiroki, the corporate drone, was dead. Kaelen, the half-dragon, the orphan who would protect his new family, the nascent King of Banking, was alive. He pulled the hood of his cloak up, obscuring his distinctive eyes, and pushed onward. With every step, a new thought formed, a new strategy. He'd start small, learn the lay of the land, understand the flow of wealth, the needs of the people. And then, he'd build. From the ground up.
The path widened, becoming a dirt road. Soon, he heard the faint sounds of distant chatter, the clatter of wagons, the indistinct murmur of a bustling place. The air grew thicker with the smells of woodsmoke, cooking food, and a thousand indistinguishable human activities. He pressed on, his heart pounding not with fear, but with a fierce, almost predatory excitement.
Finally, the road curved, revealing a vast, impressive wooden palisade, reinforced with stone. A massive gate, flanked by watchtowers, stood open, figures moving through it. Aethelburg.
Kaelen stood before the gates, taking a deep breath, the scent of opportunity filling his lungs. His red and amber eyes, hidden beneath the cloak, burned with a cold, calculating fire. The old life was over. The new one had just begun. The Realm of Aerthos, the weakest of the ten. Perfect. More room to grow. More wealth to amass.
New opportunities awaited. And he, Kaelen, was ready to seize them all.