Chapter 2: A New Life
The last thing Don Victor felt was that he was beginning to lose consciousness. He was losing the final strands of strength stored in his body. His body became rigid and heavy, as though a mountain had fallen upon him. He didn't even realize that he was living his very last breaths in that moment!
"To think that I would die in my bed like some damned whore, unable even to stand up on my own… it's truly disgusting," Victor thought to himself. "Well, even the strongest men suffer in the presence of death!" he consoled himself.
His surroundings were pitch black. He could see nothing but absolute, oppressive darkness. One thing he was certain of: he was no longer alive.
That sensation of death was an experience he never wanted to live through again—and perhaps he never would, since he was already dead.
Several minutes passed, perhaps hours, in that same state within his dark surroundings. He felt as though he were inside a pit. There was no source of light—only absolute blackness, as if he had fallen into the depths of an abyss.
Time continued like that until the very concept of time became unclear. He didn't know how long had passed. At one point he even started counting seconds, reaching millions before losing the correct number, starting over again and again until he finally gave up and surrendered himself to fate to decide his destiny.
Perhaps this was some corner of hell where he would pay for the evils he had committed in life. But it didn't feel like that. Instead, he felt trapped in an endless time loop. Perhaps he would remain like this forever.
He completely gave up. He stopped thinking too much—thinking too hard seemed to drain his consciousness and slow him down even more. Somehow, he slipped into a kind of sleep that lasted for an unknown duration.
When he awoke again, he felt his consciousness had returned to its original state—perhaps even a little stronger. Then he fell back into the same routine in that silent, lightless place, a situation that would likely cause severe psychological problems for any ordinary, weak-willed person and could drive those with nyctophobia to madness.
He counted seconds, tried not to think too much, then returned to sleep or hibernation again. And so the time passed over him.
Perhaps months passed, perhaps years, perhaps even decades in that desolate place. Yet he didn't feel even a trace of fear. All he felt was boredom—boredom intense enough to make anyone crave release.
Suddenly, without warning, that sleep-like sensation returned. This time it was so powerful that he couldn't resist it even slightly. He woke briefly and was certain he could stay awake much longer, but unexpectedly his consciousness began to fade again, dimming gradually until it vanished completely after just a few seconds.
In the exact moment his consciousness disappeared entirely, he awoke once more. But this time, his surroundings were filled with light. He immediately closed what he assumed were his eyes, relying purely on sensation.
He felt a faint warmth—something impossible since he had lost all senses after dying. Yet he chose to open his eyes and confront the light he had sensed so strangely after spending who-knows-how-long in that pitch-black void.
He slowly opened his eyes. The first thing that entered his field of vision was unexpected: a strange white ceiling of some room. Reflected sunlight caused the warmth he had felt earlier. But that wasn't important. What mattered now was his thought: "What is this place?"
He felt a strange bitterness and acidity in his mouth, causing his expression to twist as he quickly turned his head and spat out a mouthful of whitish-yellowish liquid.
He tried to organize his thoughts, but a sharp, violent pain interrupted him. He clutched his head tightly and fell back onto the bed. "Aaaagh…"
The intense pain concentrated madly in the back of his head and his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut from the agony, clenched his teeth hard, and cursed inwardly.
A massive flood of information poured into his mind—a huge volume of memories his brain couldn't process all at once. This only intensified the pain and anger at this damned sensation that made him want to tear his own flesh or even decapitate himself. Yet he endured it. A mere feeling of pain like this would not make him show weakness. He would face it and bear it just as he had borne far worse before!
The torrent of memories continued pouring in and arranging themselves as though taking their natural places, until it finally stopped after some time. The ordeal left the veins bulging in his temples and all across his neck from the strain. He cursed—who knows how many times.
At last he relaxed, keeping his eyes closed as the final waves of pain faded. His irregular breathing gradually returned to normal. He tried to stop himself from thinking at all… and immediately fell into a deep, involuntary sleep…
When he woke again, sunlight was streaming through the window and falling onto his face once more. He sat up halfway, held his forehead where his long golden hair partially obstructed his vision, and began to examine the room—which felt both strange and strangely familiar at the same time!
It was a medium-sized room that could fit a double bed, a red wooden study desk showing signs of age, and a two-door wardrobe.
Sunlight reflected off the window glass onto his face, which looked pale from lack of sleep, revealing the pitiful state of his new body!
In his new memories, he discovered he was no longer Victor Salvatore. He had become Damian Monteros—a man whose wife and daughter had been killed in a mysterious, unsolved murder case that the authorities had abandoned after only a few days of investigation.
And now, after a short time since losing his wife and daughter, Damian had followed them… and Don Victor had taken over his body after his death!
From the white liquid he had spat out earlier—some of which still clung to the corners of his mouth—he deduced that he (Damian) had died by choking on his own vomit while asleep!
How pathetic!
That was what Victor thought about Damian's life. The man had been the embodiment of misfortune in every sense of the word. It hadn't ended with the death of his wife and daughter—his mother had also fallen into recurring comas for unknown reasons, adding grief upon worry.
As for his father, their relationship couldn't possibly have been worse, especially after the father assaulted the mother when he learned she had given Damian money some time before her condition began. Even though Damian hadn't asked for it, she had insisted on helping, telling him it was just a small amount and that he needed to adjust to his new reality—he was no longer a child; he had a family now. She had loved him and helped him however she could without his father's knowledge.
"To die like that without ever knowing who did this to your family… you really were pitiable, my friend," Victor—or rather, Damian—said with a soft sigh.
Though he didn't truly care, if something like that had happened to him, it would have been due to his own weakness and lack of resourcefulness. He could blame no one but himself. The same applied to Damian—he had been weak and helpless, and he died helpless too. He achieved nothing. He lived a meaningless life!
Even a cold man like Victor Salvatore felt a tiny flicker of pity for this wretched soul. He might even take revenge on the killer of the wife and daughter if their paths ever crossed. That would be the least he could do in exchange for taking the man's body.
In the face of any enemy, Victor had never once retreated. Long ago he had resolved never to be the one whose door gets knocked on. So he spent his life uprooting every bad seed after every operation, always ensuring he possessed enough power to control his own fate with his own hands.
Therefore, only God would decide the fate of those people. Since they never came to him and he never learned of them, that would be a blessing upon their entire lineage.
He never felt pity toward any enemy. He would do whatever it took to be the last one standing!
There was a chance the killer of Damian's wife and daughter might come after him—it was possible. If Victor himself had been the perpetrator, he would never leave a single seed that could grow into flowers of revenge. He would cut it at the root without the slightest sympathy or mercy.
Deep down, he never considered himself a good person—but he wasn't evil either. His life and position had forced him to be decisive, and that had shaped his character in the best possible way.
He had little trust in others. Only two people had ever earned even a small portion of his trust: his sons!
One might ask—why only a little trust even though they were his sons? The answer: there is no loyalty in this world that cannot be bought. Everything runs on interests—even parental bonds can be shattered by profit. Not to mention men of the mafia and gangs—they were all bastards, and he admitted it even though he was one of them.
He had lived among flocks of sheep wearing wolf skins, and wolves wearing sheep skins. That had sharpened his mindset and taught him the true nature of social and family ties—how they are built and how easily they can be destroyed.
He would place absolute trust only in two people: his parents!
Even your own son can betray you—but your parents never will. No one will ever love you the way your parents do. You can be certain of that.
"But thinking about it… this world is somewhat interesting," Damian said.
A world more than twice the size of Earth. But what shocked him most was how similar it was to medieval Europe—still following a system of fiefdoms, kingdoms, and empires. It was truly astonishing.
He was now in an empire called Tirval Empire, a massive empire occupying roughly forty percent of the southern continent. He and his small family lived in a city under Viscount Anderson, located in the southeast of the empire—a medium-sized city famous for its landmarks and economy called Rokin. It was also the location of the Viscount's palace and his family!
Rokin was the largest of the three main cities in Viscount Anderson's territory. Despite being in the eastern part of the empire, the area was heavily forested—yet that did not diminish its urban character or unique charm. In fact, it made the Viscount's lands larger than those of other viscounts in more urbanized regions, since a significant portion of his territory consisted of forest!
A loud growl erupted from Victor's stomach, interrupting the flow of thoughts in his mind. It was the cry of a body deprived of its basic needs.
Victor stood up, left his room, and headed to the bathroom. He washed his face and mouth, removing the lingering acidic taste of vomit. Water droplets slipped between the strands of his beard as he lifted his head after washing, and his gaze fell on the mirror—part of which was cracked—revealing his new appearance!
A man in his late twenties with golden beard and unkempt mustache. His light beard and goatee gave him a handsome look despite his currently pale face. Dark circles from lack of sleep shadowed his calm blue eyes, partially hidden by strands of golden hair falling across them.
Truth be told, despite his recent heavy drinking and whiskey consumption, he still had a powerful build—arguably even gigantic. He was noticeably taller than the previous Victor, who had already exceeded 180 cm by several centimeters!
His body was good, though not in the condition he was accustomed to. Still, excluding his pale face and dark eye circles, he looked quite strong.
After examining his new appearance in the mirror for a moment, he left the bathroom.
The kitchen was a mirror of despair. He found some stale bread, a small piece of hard cheese, and a few stored vegetables. He prepared a simple meal, forgetting all the fine-dining protocols of his previous life. He sat at the kitchen table and ate slowly, feeling every bite fall into his empty stomach.
Thinking about it… he had found the answer to something scientists on Earth had never been able to confirm despite all their technological progress: the existence of living beings beyond Earth!
Haha. Who would have believed there was another civilization besides ours? It makes you wonder how many inhabited planets exist across this vast universe. Well, it wouldn't make sense for it to be completely empty—but the fact still isn't proven even today.
The thought made him want to laugh. Well… he was alive after all. And that alone deserved celebration.
After finishing his meal, Damian took his brown coat and gray hat and left the house without further thought.
He glanced at the clock above the long-cold fireplace—its ashes clearly untouched for ages—and saw the hands pointing just past eleven.
"With this atmosphere… it'll take me some time to fully get used to it!"
When he stepped outside, a light breeze struck his face, bringing a sense of relief. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt fresh air without worries or problems—at least until now.
A wide street lined with two- and three-story houses appeared before him. A long carriage drawn by two strong horses—one white, one black—passed by. Through the small window he could vaguely make out the silhouette of someone inside, blurred by distance and the type of glass.
He tightened his leather coat against the slightly chilly air, descended the three steps in front of his door, and turned right along the street.
Horse-drawn carriages were the main mode of transportation, moving through the streets. Victor observed everything, amazed by the unique architectural style, discovering this new place and the world he would now live in from this moment onward.
Truth be told, he still couldn't quite believe it. But he had no choice—he had been given a second chance at life, and he intended to hold onto it. No matter the place or the circumstances, he was not the type to weep over good fortune. He would make sure to live his life exactly as he wished—and to the fullest!