Pain.
His entire body ached as though pulverized.
Jackal's eyes opened gradually. The sky above was pitch black. Not ordinary nocturnal darkness—but a firmament punctuated by bizarre, incandescent lights scattered everywhere. Higher still, colossal edifices pierced the heavens, surpassing any fortress he had ever witnessed.
"Where... is this..."
He attempted movement. Immediately, an anomalous sensation cascaded through his entire physiology.
Heavy.
Not heaviness from exhaustion. But heaviness from... gravitational force.
As though an invisible hand was compressing his entire corporeal form against the ground. Every motion required resistance against tremendous pressure.
"Ghhhh..."
Jackal struggled to sit upright. His hand braced against the ground—a material hard, flat, lustrous black, definitively not stone—pushing his body upward. But his arm trembled. Not from weakness. But from some force actively suppressing him.
Finally, he achieved a seated position. Breathing raggedly.
Simply sitting up. Merely that action had depleted his strength entirely.
"What the hell... why is this so heavy..."
The atmosphere itself possessed density. Inhaling felt like swallowing water. Respiration was labored.
Jackal examined his hands. No wounds. No blood. Pristine, as though the arrows and blade from before were mere hallucinations.
Yet he remembered vividly. That agony was real. That death was real.
And yet...
"I died. Definitively perished." He touched his chest. No puncture wounds from arrows. "So what is this? The afterlife? Or..."
Mana.
Jackal attempted to summon his mana. Concentrating his consciousness, sensing the energy current within his body.
Nothing.
Complete emptiness.
Mana—the force that had accompanied him for twenty years, the power he utilized in combat, for survival—had vanished entirely.
"Mana... is gone..."
He surveyed his surroundings. Only now did he truly register his environment.
A broad thoroughfare, level and smooth, constructed from an unfamiliar black material. Flanking it were pedestrian walkways. Surrounding him were towering structures composed of transparent substances and metal. Luminescence blazed everywhere—not torches, not oil lamps, but something that emitted light without flame.
And vehicles.
Metallic conveyances traversing the road without equine propulsion. They moved rapidly, generating peculiar sounds.
"This world..."
Jackal observed a blood pool nearby. Large. Fresh. But not his blood.
Someone had died here. At this exact location.
And he... had manifested there.
"Oh my god! That person came back to life!"
Jackal pivoted. A group of people stood encircling him at several meters' distance. All wore strange garments—not armor, not robes, but thin fabric clothing in vivid colors.
"He survived being hit by a truck?!"
"Call an ambulance! Quickly!"
"Hey! Are you alright?"
A young man approached, voice concerned. "You were hit by a vehicle! Don't move carelessly!"
Jackal regarded him. Wearing a white shirt, blue jeans. Bleached blonde hair. In his hand, a flat luminous device.
"Who... are you?"
The young man recoiled. "Me? I'm just a passerby. You had an accident! A truck launched you several meters!"
Jackal attempted to stand.
Immediately, his legs trembled. Knees threatening to buckle. His entire body felt leaden.
"Ghhh..."
"Hey hey! Don't stand up!" The young man extended his hands. "You're injured!"
"I'm not... injured..." Jackal gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright.
One step.
Just one step. But his body felt shackled by invisible constraints.
Two steps.
Legs quivering. Knees nearly collapsing.
Three steps.
"Hey! You—"
Jackal collapsed.
Knees struck the ground. Both hands braced. Breathing laboriously.
"Damn it... why am I so weak..."
Not weakness. He understood that. Strength remained in his musculature. But this world... this world was suppressing him.
All capabilities nullified. Every movement requiring resistance against tremendous pressure.
A vehicle horn blared. Prolonged, piercing.
A white vehicle with flashing red lights approached, halting directly before him. Doors opened. Three individuals emerged, wearing white uniforms, carrying unfamiliar instruments.
"Lie down! We'll examine you!"
A middle-aged man rushed forward, kneeling beside Jackal.
"Can you hear me? You've had an accident! We're emergency medical personnel!"
Jackal looked at him. Attempting to push his hand away.
But the movement was sluggish. Feeble. Like a child.
"Don't... touch me..."
"You're in shock! Get him on the stretcher immediately!"
Three people carried a flat metallic bed forward. They lifted Jackal—effortlessly, as though he weighed nothing—then pushed him into the vehicle.
Jackal attempted resistance. But his body wouldn't comply. Too heavy. Too weak.
The vehicle doors closed. It accelerated, siren wailing shrilly.
He lay on the stretcher, staring at the vehicle's ceiling. Small lights flickering. Mechanical sounds beeping rhythmically.
"Blood pressure 140/90! Heart rate 98!"
"Check for external injuries!"
"None... there are no wounds whatsoever!"
"How is that possible! Direct truck impact with no injuries?!"
Jackal closed his eyes. Breathing in heavy, measured intervals.
This wasn't his world.
He had died. Beneath Galahad's hand. Beneath the archers' projectiles. Jackal Michael had perished.
Yet now... he lived.
In a completely alien world.
No magic. No swords. No battlefields.
Only these bizarre phenomena.
And gravity. This accursed gravity.
"Damn it..."
The vehicle halted. Doors opened. They pushed the stretcher out, rushing into a massive building.
Brilliant white illumination. Pungent chemical odors. Human voices shouting everywhere.
"Male patient! Truck accident! No external trauma but requires immediate examination!"
They propelled Jackal through elongated corridors. Left turn. Right turn. Into a small chamber.
Brilliant lights overhead. A large apparatus beside the bed. Wires, plastic tubes everywhere.
"Transfer him to the bed!"
They moved Jackal onto a soft mattress. A woman in white approached, holding a small flashlight she directed into his eyes.
"Pupillary response normal."
She checked his pulse. "Pulse stable."
She palpated his limbs. "No fractures."
She turned toward her colleague. "Strange indeed. Struck by a truck with no injuries?"
"Perhaps the driver braked in time?"
"But there was a substantial blood pool at the scene..."
"Run a DNA analysis on the blood. Verify if it's his."
They conversed with each other, utilizing terminology Jackal couldn't comprehend. DNA? Analysis? Brakes?
Jackal remained still, gazing at the ceiling. Attempting regulated breathing.
Each breath was labored.
His body ached.
Not from trauma. But from pressure.
Pressure from this world.
"You'll remain here under observation for 24 hours." The woman stated. "If there are no complications, you may depart."
Depart? To where?
Jackal possessed no residence here. Knew no one here.
He didn't even comprehend where "here" was.
The woman and others exited the room. The door closed.
Jackal was alone.
He looked through the window. Outside sprawled a brilliantly illuminated city. Towering edifices. Shimmering lights. Bustling traffic.
A world utterly unknown to him.
"I've been transported here..." He whispered. "But why? For what purpose am I here?"
No answers emerged.
Only silence.
And the relentless gravitational heaviness.
Jackal reclined, closing his eyes.
His body was exhausted. But his consciousness remained alert.
He needed comprehension. Understanding of this world. Understanding of survival methods.
This world was suppressing him. Prohibiting his strength from manifesting. Mana had vanished. Physical capabilities diminished.
But...
Because regardless...
He remained Jackal Michael.
And he wouldn't perish easily.
---
## ARCANE - WORLD 3
Pain blazed through consciousness.
Arcane's eyes snapped open.
White ceiling. Ornate golden patterns. Crystal chandelier overhead emitting soft luminescence.
"This is..."
He attempted to rise. His body responded. No resistance. No gravitational suppression.
He sat upright on the bed. Soft mattress. Silk sheets. Opulent chamber.
"Where am I?"
Arcane examined his hands. No burns. No wounds. The explosion should have carbonized him completely.
Yet here he was. Unscathed.
"I died. I detonated the entire floor. That's certain." He touched his chest. "So why..."
Mana.
He concentrated. Sensing internal energy flow.
There.
Faint. But present.
Mana existed within him. Not abundant. But functional.
"Mana... I can utilize mana..." Arcane's lips curved. "Excellent."
He rose from the bed. His body moved normally. No oppressive weight. No suppression.
This world... differed from wherever Jackal was transported.
Arcane approached the window, drawing back the curtains.
Outside sprawled an expansive city. Red-tiled rooftops. Broad streets. Bustling populace.
And beyond, a colossal castle loomed.
Medieval architecture. Similar to his world.
But not identical.
Different details. Different banners. Different castle.
"Another world..." Arcane whispered. Then laughed loudly. "Fascinating! I've been transported to another world!"
A knock sounded.
"Enter." Arcane called.
The door opened. A servant in white entered, carrying a food tray. Upon seeing Arcane, the servant immediately bowed.
"Greetings, sir! You've awakened!"
"Sir?" Arcane narrowed his eyes. "You address me as 'sir'?"
"Yes! We're immensely relieved that you've recovered!" The servant placed the tray on the table. "After the battle with the Demon King, you were comatose for three days. The entire kingdom was concerned!"
Arcane froze.
Demon King? Battle?
"Elaborate." He approached. "What did I do?"
The servant regarded him peculiarly. "Sir... don't you remember? You annihilated the Demon King! You saved the entire kingdom!"
"I... annihilated the Demon King?" Arcane scoffed. "Intriguing. Most intriguing."
The servant looked up, worried. "Do you remember your own name, sir? Perhaps you sustained head trauma..."
"My name?" Arcane regarded the servant. An idea crystallized.
If they believed him to be the Demon King's slayer...
If they believed him to be the hero...
"I don't remember." Arcane spoke slowly. "I only recall... combat. Then darkness."
"Good heavens! You have amnesia!" The servant panicked. "I must inform the Duke immediately!"
The servant rushed out.
Arcane stood alone in the chamber, smiling faintly.
Perfect.
They believed him a hero. But didn't know his identity.
Then... he would fabricate a new identity.
The door reopened. This time, not one person.
A group of nobles in resplendent robes entered. Leading them was an elderly duke, silver-bearded, face etched with wrinkles.
"Hero! You've awakened!" The duke smiled broadly, approaching. "The entire kingdom rejoices!"
Arcane observed them. Five individuals. All high-ranking aristocrats.
Exactly like the Valensteins.
"Who are you?" He inquired.
"I am Duke Redfield, Prime Minister of the kingdom." The duke bowed. "These are Marquis Henderson, Duchess Marianne, Baron Viktor, and Archmage Reynolds."
They bowed sequentially.
"We are profoundly grateful that you saved the kingdom from the Demon King!"
Arcane nodded slowly. "I... remember little."
"Oh no!" Duchess Marianne exclaimed. "You have amnesia?"
"It appears so." Arcane touched his head. "I only recall... combat. And the Demon King's death. Everything else... is hazy."
The nobles exchanged worried glances.
"Do you remember your own name?" Reynolds asked.
Arcane feigned contemplation. "No. I don't recall."
"Good heavens..." Duke Redfield sighed. "But that's alright. What matters is you're alive. Your identity may return later."
"Or..." Marquis Henderson suggested. "We could bestow upon you a new name? To commemorate your rebirth?"
"Excellent idea!" Marianne clapped. "A new name for our new hero!"
Arcane laughed internally. Too easy.
"What name would you bestow upon me?" He asked.
"Hmm..." Redfield pondered. "It must be a powerful name. Worthy of the Demon King's vanquisher."
"What about you?" Reynolds turned to Arcane. "Would you prefer to choose your own name?"
Arcane regarded them. Then smiled.
"No. You decide. I'll accept whatever designation you provide."
"Excellent!" Redfield nodded. "We'll devise a worthy name!"
They deliberated amongst themselves. Proposing various names.
Arcane didn't care. He simply observed them with sardonic amusement.
Fools.
They were welcoming a villain into the palace.
"Well, we'll discuss this later." Redfield said. "For now, you must rest. Tomorrow, a celebration will be held. The entire kingdom will honor you!"
"A celebration?" Arcane narrowed his eyes.
"Precisely! The king will bestow a medal. The populace will cheer. You'll be granted the highest noble rank!" Marianne smiled. "You are our hero!"
Hero.
They wanted him to be their hero.
"Very well..." Arcane nodded slowly. "I shall be your hero."
The nobles rejoiced.
"Wonderful! Please rest. We shall prepare everything!"
They bowed, withdrawing.
The door closed.
Arcane stood alone.
He approached the window, gazing at the sprawling city below.
A kingdom.
They believed they'd saved a hero.
But in reality...
"You've just invited a demon into your home..." Arcane whispered with dark amusement. "And you will pay the price."
He observed his hand. Mana danced across his fingertips.
This time, he wouldn't merely destroy one estate.
This time, he would incinerate this entire kingdom.
From within.
"Hero..." He murmured, laughing loudly. "I shall be the most catastrophic hero you've ever witnessed."