Darkness.
Silence.
Then, awareness.
He remembered the explosion: the heat, the flash, the smell of burning flesh. After that, there was only nothing.
And yet, his consciousness persisted.
"Where am I?"
His voice did not echo. It wasn't a voice at all, only a thought drifting in a void that stretched beyond imagination.
"That bomb tore me apart, so why am I still thinking?"
No answer came, only endless, pervasive cold.
Then, without warning, a blinding light flared directly in front of him, sharp and merciless.
"What the hell! Do you not understand basic manners? Who turns on the light in someone's face?"
The complaint came out naturally, almost instinctively.
A glowing screen appeared, its letters shifting like living fire.
[Initializing System Interface…]
He stared at it blankly. "System? What is this, some kind of joke? Did dying melt my brain so badly that I am hallucinating a floating tablet?"
[Greetings, compatible soul. Do not be alarmed.]
"Oh, I am not alarmed at all," he muttered. "I'm just casually chatting with a glowing box in the afterlife. Perfectly normal."
If the system had lungs, it would have sighed.
[Your sarcasm is noted. You have been selected for reincarnation assistance.]
"Reincarnation?" He frowned. "So I am dead?"
[Your physical body ceased to exist. However, your consciousness remains stable. My function is to relocate you to a compatible world.]
He narrowed his eyes. "So I died, and now a random program is deciding my next place? You expect me to believe that?"
[Belief is irrelevant. The process is already in motion.]
"Comforting," he muttered. "So what do you gain? Nobody gives favors for free, especially not glowing rectangles trapped in eternal darkness."
[Compatibility ensures my continued existence. Without a host, I will cease to function.]
That desperate tone made him pause.
"So you need me."
[Correct.]
"And I can refuse?"
[You can attempt to.]
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "You are terrible at persuasion."
The system paused, analyzing the man who, against all odds, refused to panic.
[Your survival is statistically beneficial for both of us. Assistance will be provided.]
He stared at the glowing text for a long moment, then sighed.
"Fine. I will play along. But if I wake up as a frog, I am coming back here to kill you."
[Reincarnation process beginning.]
"Wait, hold on—"
The void exploded into white light.
He gasped as sensation rushed back in a torrent: air, warmth, and sound.
His instincts flared; the reflex to reach for a weapon came instantly, but his tiny limbs failed to respond.
He had small hands, tiny legs—the body of an infant.
"You have got to be kidding me. You turned me into an infant?"
[Reincarnation successful.]
[Warning: Host life in danger.]
"What now?" he thought sharply.
A tall man loomed over the crib. Crimson eyes burned with hatred, and his black hair shimmered like obsidian. Every line of his face twisted with pure hostility.
[Warning: Host life in danger.]
"I got that the first time," he snapped internally.
The man moved in an instant, blurring across the room. He grabbed the newborn by the neck, the grip crushing his delicate throat.
For the first time in decades, fear crept into the assassin's heart. It wasn't panic or shock, but a cold, primal fear of helplessness.
The man hissed something in a harsh, unfamiliar tongue before throwing the baby toward a stone wall.
"I knew this was a bad idea."
Strong arms caught him just before impact. It was another man, expression grim, who held him tightly. The two adults immediately erupted into shouting, their voices sharp, furious, and frantic, cutting through the air.
He couldn't understand the words, but the tone was clear: accusation, panic, and desperation.
He was quickly handed to a maid. Her grip was firm but gentle, and without hesitation, she wrapped him in a thick cloth, plunging him into darkness.
Only sound remained now: hurried footsteps, slamming doors, and rushed breaths.
Then came the tell-tale clatter of wheels.
"A carriage. So I am being smuggled out. Someone wants me dead before I can even cry properly. Wonderful."
The system flickered weakly.
[Situation stabilizing. External threat temporarily evaded.]
"Good to know," he muttered. "Next time, choose a spawn point that does not involve attempted murder."
The system stayed silent. For once, it had nothing to say.
The carriage rocked steadily. His new body was too fragile to fight the exhaustion, and sleep soon pulled him under.
Darkness gathered around him once more.
For a moment, he thought he had returned to the void, but then a heavy stench filled his nose. It was thick, metallic, and warm: the unmistakable smell of blood.
He tried to breathe, but the air felt rotten.
The ground under him was soft and uneven, as if he were standing on layers of flesh rather than soil.
"Something is wrong. This place is wrong."
Shapes moved around him, blurred and twisted. Every direction he turned, he felt the presence of countless bodies.
He couldn't see their faces, yet he could sense the decay, the broken bones, the torn armor.
The battlefield stretched endlessly, a graveyard made of stacked corpses.
Screams echoed in the distance.
The sound of steel tearing into flesh rang again and again, establishing a cruel, relentless rhythm.
His instincts sharpened. The old assassin inside him moved without needing eyes.
Somewhere close, someone was fighting, someone powerful enough to shake the air itself.
The fog parted for only a moment.
A tall figure stood in the absolute middle of the carnage, approximately 190 centimeters tall.
He was muscular, with broad shoulders, his stance firm like a mountain. Blonde-brown hair clung to his forehead, messy from battle, and his blue eyes glowed like the heart of the ocean, bright even in this world of ash.
Both his hands held swords.
One radiated a cold, biting light.
The other hummed with a violent, destructive aura.
The man breathed hard, but his posture never wavered; he looked like a hero carved out of war itself.
For exactly two seconds, the man's face became perfectly clear—not blurred, not distorted, but clear enough to carve itself permanently into Damyan's memory.
Hatred.
A kind so pure and deep that even the assassin in Damyan felt his heart tighten.
The man tightened his grip on his swords. His jaw clenched. His eyes locked directly onto Damyan, and it felt as if the world froze.
A single word erupted from the man's mouth, filled with venom stronger than anything Damyan had heard in his entire life.
It was a word Damyan could not understand, yet he understood perfectly.
It was a name, or a curse, or a declaration of hatred.
Whatever it was, every syllable was aimed only at him.
A cold shiver crawled down Damyan's spine.
He felt as if the hatred itself was cutting through him like a blade.
For the first time in years, he felt true danger.
The world around the warrior shattered like glass. The battlefield dissolved, the bodies melted, and the screams faded.
He woke up sharply, inhaling like a drowning man breaking the surface. The golden ceiling of the crib loomed above him.
His tiny body trembled.
Inside the system, something flickered.
A single quiet thought, not spoken aloud, not shown on the screen, just an internal whisper of panic.
"What kind of monster did I just attach myself to…"
[Host… what exactly are you?]