Marcus Vale died on a Tuesday.
Not in a blaze of glory.
Not in a hospital bed surrounded by regret.
He died on the cold concrete floor of a bankrupt office, staring at the ceiling lights he never finished paying for.
His phone buzzed beside his outstretched hand.
One unread message.
Ethan: I'm sorry. It was just business.
Marcus laughed.
A dry, broken sound clawed out of his throat and turned into a cough. Blood followed. Warm. Metallic.
"Business," he whispered.
That word again.
His vision blurred. The edges of the room bent inward like the world was folding him up and throwing him away.
Ten years.
Ten years of grinding.
Ten years of failed startups.
Ten years of trusting the wrong people.
And in the end, it wasn't the market that killed him.
It was his best friend.
The man who smiled while stealing his company.
The man who signed deals behind his back.
The man who testified against him in court, calm and convincing.
Marcus's chest tightened.
So this is it.
No miracle. No second chance.
Just darkness, and then pain.
Sharp. Sudden. Everywhere.
Marcus sucked in a breath and jolted upright.
Air slammed into his lungs like he'd been drowning.
He gasped. Coughed. His heart hammered so hard it felt wrong, like it didn't belong to him.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar.
Not cracked fluorescent lights.
A white fan. Slowly spinning.
He froze.
The smell hit him next. Cheap detergent. Old wood. Something fried from a nearby street vendor.
Marcus's fingers dug into the mattress beneath him.
Too soft.
Too… real.
He swallowed and turned his head.
A narrow room. Faded posters on the wall. A cheap desk by the window. A backpack on the floor.
This isn't the office.
His breathing slowed, controlled by habit. Panic was useless. Panic wasted time.
He swung his legs over the bed.
They touched the floor easily.
Too easily.
Marcus looked down.
Longer legs. Leaner. No scars on his hands. No stress tremor in his fingers.
His hands.
He raised them slowly, inspecting the skin, the knuckles, the veins.
Young.
"Nineteen," he muttered without thinking.
The word felt right.
His heart skipped.
Memories surged in, not new ones, but old ones. Familiar. Buried.
Final year of high school.
A cramped apartment.
A mother working double shifts.
A version of himself that still believed effort alone mattered.
Marcus staggered to the mirror above the desk.
The face staring back at him wasn't the hollow-eyed man of twenty-nine.
It was sharp. Clean. Untired.
Nineteen years old.
Alive.
His reflection stared back in silence.
Then Marcus smiled.
Slow. Dangerous.
"So," he said quietly, voice steady despite the chaos inside him. "I'm not done yet."
The smile vanished.
Because if this was real, if he was truly back,
Then this wasn't mercy.
This was opportunity.
The headache hit him seconds later.
Marcus grabbed the edge of the desk as information flooded his mind.
Not memories.
Data.
Cold. Structured. Precise.
Rebirth confirmed.
Host consciousness stabilized.
Mental age discrepancy detected: 29 / Physical age: 19.
Marcus's pupils constricted.
He didn't shout.
Didn't panic.
He listened.
A translucent blue panel unfolded in the air before him.
Not glowing. Not flashy.
Efficient.
Marcus exhaled slowly.
A system.
Of course it would be a system.
He'd read enough web fiction in his wasted nights to recognize the pattern. But recognition didn't dull the tension curling in his spine.
"Show me," he said.
The panel shifted.
INFLUENCE SYSTEM
Host: Marcus Vale
Age: 19
Mental Age: 29
Current Influence Level: Nobody
Marcus stared at the glowing panel hovering in front of him. Nobody. The word hit differently now. Accurate. He had nothing. No status. No connections. No leverage. Just a name and a number on a screen.
Every other detail scrolled across the panel, but he didn't need it spelled out. Influence defined your place in the world. Control it, and you controlled outcomes. Fail, and the world would chew you up.
Strategic Prediction. Capital Multiplication. Social Leverage. Network Suppression. Locked. All of it waiting for him. Waiting for influence.
Marcus leaned back against the desk. No shortcuts. No instant dominance. Good. Rules meant predictability. And predictability could be exploited.
"What's the starting point?" he muttered.
The panel flickered.
Mission 001: First Footing.
He read the objective slowly: gain your first measurable influence. The requirement: accumulate $500,000 legally within thirty days. The reward: unlock Strategic Prediction (Basic), and a minor promotion to Local Player. Failure meant the system would go dormant for twelve months.
$500,000.
Marcus snorted.
In his past life, that amount wouldn't have impressed anyone.
At nineteen?
With no capital, no connections, and no reputation?
That was a challenge.
Good.
He straightened.
"Legal," he repeated. "So no shortcuts."
The system didn't answer.
It didn't need to.
Marcus's gaze drifted to the window.
Outside, the city buzzed. Buses honked. People shouted. Money moved. Deals happened.
This city didn't care who you were.
Only what you controlled.
Marcus closed his eyes.
His past life replayed behind them.
The mistakes.
The blind trust.
The contracts he never read carefully enough.
The friend he should've crushed instead of embracing.
His jaw tightened.
"Not again," he whispered.
Hours later, Marcus walked out of the apartment with a backpack slung over one shoulder.
No dramatic music.
No sudden confidence surge.
Just calm intent.
He checked his phone.
Date confirmed.
Ten years before everything went wrong.
Before Ethan built his empire on Marcus's ideas.
Before the lawsuits.
Before the betrayal.
Marcus slipped the phone into his pocket.
Step one: information.
He headed toward the bus stop, eyes scanning faces, stores, signs.
He wasn't looking at the city.
He was dissecting it.
Who was desperate.
Who was careless.
Where money moved inefficiently.
At a red light, his gaze snagged on a small crowd gathered around a man shouting into a megaphone.
"Limited spots! Learn digital sales! Online business! Make money from your phone!"
Marcus stopped.
The man's pitch was sloppy. Overpromised. Amateur.
But the crowd was listening.
Young people. Students. Hustlers.
Marcus tilted his head.
Education scams.
Low cost.
High margin.
Fast turnover.
Most failed because they lacked structure.
Marcus smiled faintly.
"I can optimize that," he murmured.
The system panel flickered:Observation registered.
Marcus didn't react.
He stepped closer to the crowd.
And that was when he felt it.
A pressure.
Subtle. Hostile.
Someone else watching him.
Marcus turned.
Across the street, leaning against a black sedan, was a man in a tailored suit, phone pressed to his ear.
The man's gaze met Marcus's.
Cold. Assessing.
Not a random passerby.
Not a coincidence.
Marcus's instincts screamed.
Trouble.
The man smiled slightly… then turned away, speaking softly into the phone.
Marcus's pulse quickened.
Enemies already?
At Nobody level?
He exhaled.
So the game starts early.
That night, Marcus sat at the desk, scribbling figures on paper.
Costs.
Margins.
Scalability.
He didn't need passion.
He needed leverage.
His phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
He stared at it for two seconds before answering.
"Yes?"
A familiar voice chuckled on the other end.
Too familiar.
"Marcus," the voice said smoothly. "Long time no hear."
Marcus's blood went cold.
That voice.
Even ten years earlier, he recognized it instantly.
Ethan.
"How did you get this number?" Marcus asked, tone flat.
A pause.
Then laughter.
"Relax. I just heard you were… back in town. Thought I'd say hi."
Marcus closed his eyes.
So fate wasn't done testing him.
Not yet.
Ethan continued, casual. "We should catch up. Talk about business."
Marcus smiled.
A cold, humorless curve of his lips.
"Sure," he said. "I'd love that."
He ended the call before Ethan could reply.
Marcus stared at the wall.
The system panel pulsed once.
Warning: High-risk variable detected.
Marcus leaned back in his chair.
His reflection stared at him from the darkened screen.
Calm.
Focused.
Ruthless.
"So you came early," he said softly. "That's fine."
His fingers curled into a fist.
"I won't lose twice."
The ceiling fan hummed overhead.
Outside, the city kept moving.
And somewhere in the dark, enemies were already taking interest in a nineteen-year-old nobody who should have stayed invisible.
Marcus Vale smiled.
The game had begun.