A sharp sting flared across his back.
"Ow… my spine's killing me," Aric Miller muttered without opening his eyes.
He shifted to his side, only to feel something cold and heavy around his ankles—like a metal ring weighing him down. His brows tightened. That wasn't normal. Very slowly, he forced his eyes open and pushed himself upright.
Aric froze.
He was sitting on a cold floor inside a dim, grimy room. A thick iron shackle clamped around his ankles, a chain snaking from it into the wall.
"What the hell…? Why am I here?"
The air was icy enough to raise goosebumps on his skin. As his gaze drifted around, the room revealed nothing but decay. Tiny cracks ran along the walls, ants crawling in and out as if the place belonged to them. Cobwebs clung to the corners like abandoned flags of time gone rotten.
It wasn't just filthy—it felt forgotten
He looked down at himself and felt a jolt of shock. His clothes were filthy—torn, wrinkled, and stained with dirt as if he had been dragged across the ground.
"Was I… kidnapped?"
The thought rushed into his mind like a nightmare he didn't want to believe.
Could it be his friends—the ones he had borrowed money from?
Did they really kidnap him just to force the money out of him?
"No, Aric. Don't think like that," he whispered to himself. "No matter what, they're still my friends. They wouldn't go that far… would they?"
Another suspicion crept in—far more disturbing.
Mr. Robart, his landlord.
Aric had once seen Mr. Robart sleeping with Miss Marry, a beautiful woman living in the neighborhood. She wasn't his wife, but everyone knew Mr. Robart was obsessed with her. What if Aric knowing their secret had become a threat?
What if Mr. Robart got him kidnapped so he wouldn't expose him?
Aric clutched his head, his thoughts spinning.
"That actually makes sense. Mr. Robart is a horrible man. If I'm even a little late with the rent, he acts like he owns my life."
But Miss Marry… someone that beautiful, graceful, and charming—what could she possibly see in a man like Robart? The man was overweight, short-tempered, and hardly had a working brain cell beyond counting rent money.
If only Aric wasn't just a sixteen-year-old kid. If he were older—around Miss Marry's age—he would build the perfect body, impress her, win her heart, marry her… maybe even have children with her. A perfect little dream.
He exhaled, letting the fantasy dissolve.
"No… forget it, Aric. Just forget her."
His eyes narrowed with a spark of determination.
"If Mr. Robart really had him kidnapped, then Aric would make him pay for it."
His attention shifted to his hands. On the back of his right palm, he noticed a small mark—shaped like a crescent. It glowed faintly with a silvery sheen, and when he looked closer, he could see tiny dot-like patterns inside it, almost like a constellation.
"What… is this?" Aric whispered under his breath.
Suddenly, a sharp pain exploded inside his head. He grabbed his skull with both hands, teeth clenched.
Flashes flooded his mind—rapid, disjointed images.
A boy.
An old man.
Screams.
Faces he had never seen before.
Scenes that didn't belong to his life.
The pain grew unbearable, as if needles were being driven into his brain. And then—just as quickly as it came—it vanished. Gone, as though it had never existed.
"What was that? I've never felt pain like that before." His breath trembled. "And those… visions. It felt like someone was forcefully loading memories into my head. Someone else's entire life…"
One name echoed faintly in his mind—Kael Ariston.
Were those fragments… his memories?
Whatever it was, this wasn't the time to think. He needed to escape first.
Aric stood up and tugged hard at the chain. It didn't budge—thick, solid, and firmly anchored to the wall. He tried to pry the ring off his ankles, twisting and pulling until his skin reddened, but it was useless.
That's when he heard it.
Footsteps.
Someone was approaching the room.
The door swung open. A man filled the frame—broad-shouldered, hair cropped close, every muscle like coiled rope. He looked like someone from a fantasy brigand's roster: layered leather jerkin over a rough linen shirt, heavy boots that came up to his calves, a wide belt bristling with pouches, and a dark cloak pinned at one shoulder. Tattoos crawled up his forearms in ash-gray spirals; his face was weathered, the jaw square and unkind.
In a voice that could crack stone he barked, "You awake, boy?"
His tone left no room for answer. "Did yesterday's beating teach you anything? Anyone who tries to run from here knows exactly how they are punished." A low, ugly chuckle followed.
He didn't speak English—his words came in a harsh, foreign cadence—but Aric understood every syllable as if the meaning had been translated straight into his head. Maybe it was the residue of Kael Ariston's memories still humming inside him; maybe his mind was playing tricks. Either way, the words landed like blows.
Aric's memory flashed: in those visions he had watched someone get beaten the day before—thin, stinging lashes of a stick across someone's back. The sting of that remembered punishment crawled over his own spine.
The man reached down, unfastened the shackle from the wall, and gripped the chain in his fist. "Follow me," he ordered, voice harder than iron.
Aric rose on unsteady legs and obeyed. Fear pushed him forward; he did not resist. As they stepped out of the cell, the corridor opened into a dimly lit passage. Faint lamps cast long shadows that seemed to lean and listen. By the wall, the man lifted a short, stout staff—weathered wood with iron bands—like a tool and a weapon both.
"You don't understand until you're beaten properly," he sneered, the smile under the words thin and cruel.
"Slave." The word rattled in Aric's head. He felt it like a label stamped to his skin. I'm a slave? The thought tasted wrong and terrible.
The man shoved him into a smaller room down the hall. It was sparse but not empty: a dressing mirror propped against the right wall, a narrow wardrobe beside it, and a simple table stacked with a few folded garments. The light there was colder, a single lamp guttering on the table.
Aric stood in the doorway, the door closing behind them with a soft click, and the man let the chain slip from his grip but kept a hand tight on the end—ownership that didn't need words.
Once the door shut behind them, the man's voice rumbled through the room. "Put the clothes on. Call me when you're done."
Aric stood frozen. His mind could not keep up with any of this. Almost on autopilot, he stepped toward the dressing table.
The moment he saw his reflection, his breath caught.
The face staring back wasn't his.
"This… this is Kael Ariston's face," he whispered, raising trembling fingers to his cheeks, tracing unfamiliar features.
"What… no way. Did my soul enter Kael Ariston's body? That only happens in movies…"
His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling rapidly. His heartbeat thudded against his ribs like a trapped animal.
Calm down. Calm down, Aric. Just breathe. He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself.
Could this be like those isekai anime—reincarnation or transmigration into another world and another body?
But if fate really wanted to throw him into a fantasy world… couldn't it at least put him in the body of a prince or a king?
"That would've been perfect… living my dream life. But no—I end up as a slave?" he muttered through clenched teeth.
A harsh voice cut through his thoughts from outside the door. "What's taking so long? Do I need to come in there?"
"I—I'm coming!" Aric called out, fear tightening his voice.
He grabbed the clothes from the table and hurriedly put them on.