The streets reeked of smoke, mud, and decay. Shattered glass glinted in the weak sunlight, and the buildings leaned as if exhausted from decades of neglect. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, but no one noticed. In this city, the strong thrived, the ruthless survived, and the weak were crushed without mercy. I knew this. I had thrived.
I had been eighteen. Learning came easily—too easily. Movements, techniques, patterns; once I saw them, they stayed with me. A single demonstration was enough. Doors to universities and futures I never wanted stood open, but I turned away. Comfort, praise, prestige—none of it mattered. I craved only conflict, only the edge where fear and violence stripped people down to their truth. Life was a fight, and I had chosen my battlefield.
That's why I joined the most notorious delinquent school in the country—a place where gangs ruled, knives decided hierarchy, and only the strongest survived. Three months was all it took for me to rise to the top. Knives, fists, bats — fire, broken bones, blood — whatever they threw at me, I survived. Whatever they planned, I predicted. Thirty students once thought they could take me down at once. They fell, one by one, broken, bleeding, screaming. I walked through them like a storm, untouchable, unshakable, feared by everyone who had doubted me.
And then a car hit me.
I woke to cold metal against my skin. My body was no longer mine. Fifteen years old. The first son of a minor lord, a boy everyone called the "trash son." Weak. Hated. Ruined. His father had squandered everything — money, reputation, life — on gambling, alcohol, women, and drugs. The townsfolk bullied him. Everyone avoided him. No one mourned his death… except now, he hadn't.
Nothing was missing. My memories were intact—every lesson learned, every fight survived, every decision that had kept me alive. The past hadn't faded with death. It followed me here, sharp and unbroken.
The streets around me were worse than I expected. Mud, broken walls, garbage piled high. Servants avoided me. Children whispered, laughed, stared. Bullies spat in my path and kicked my shins for amusement.
I did not flinch.
Three days. I watched. I measured. I learned the hierarchy, the patterns, the openings. The strong, the weak, the worthless — every detail cataloged in my mind.
And then the first challenger arrived.
"Trash son," the young man in polished armor sneered, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Still alive, I see? Pathetic. Worthless. A disgrace to your father."
I tilted my head, the corner of my mouth lifting just enough to suggest amusement.
"Even dogs bark louder when their master is watching."
Rage twisted his features. His strike came fast, a lunge meant to break me before I even started.
Pain. Sharp. Stinging. But I adapted. My body was weak, yes, but my mind was not. Openings revealed themselves in the smallest twitch of his movement, the way his balance shifted, the rhythm of his attack. I found his vital points, exploited them with precision, and struck. Efficient. Ruthless. Perfect.
He collapsed, gasping, bleeding, humiliated. The crowd murmured, their surprise audible. They had underestimated the "trash son."
I did not celebrate. I did not smile. I only observed. Calculated. Planned.
This world had strong people — knights, nobles, aura users, even creatures not entirely human. They would kill the weak without hesitation.
Good. Perfect.
"So there are strong people here… I'll fight them all."
"I'll rise. I'll conquer."
"This world… will be fun."
A spark of fear, small but undeniable, rippled through the onlookers. And I grinned. This was only the beginning.