Have you ever wished for power?
Every single day, I did. I dreamed of it, longed for it, prayed for it. Power, strength, anything that could lift me from this pit of misery. But why would the universe bother granting someone like me—someone ugly, overweight, and pathetic—such a gift? Someone who had nothing of value to offer.
My life has been a perpetual cycle of torment and suffering. For four years, I’ve been the target of ridicule, bullying, and emotional abuse. Day in, day out, my existence has been reduced to nothing more than a punching bag for those around me. I’ve been trampled on by the people who should have been my peers, my colleagues. And yet, through all of it, a small part of me clings to the hope that one day things will change. That one day, somehow, I’ll be granted the power to fight back.
Today, however, is no different. The sky above is dark and heavy, the clouds swollen with rain. I glance outside the office window, and the thought crosses my mind—did I bring my umbrella? I reach into my bag and feel the empty space.
“Hey, Samuel,” one of my co-workers sneers from behind me, his voice dripping with mockery. “Use your big, fat body to shield me from the rain, will you?” His laughter echoes through the office, sharp and cutting, as though every word were a knife aimed straight at my heart.
“SHUT UP!” I snap back, my voice betraying the frustration bubbling up inside me.
A female co-worker chuckles, her voice dripping with venom. “Careful, don’t make him angry—he might belly-flop us to death.” She snickers, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.
The taunts rain down on me as I leave the office, my head bowed, my body heavy with the weight of their words. The rain hits me like a torrent of icy needles, and the chill seeps into my bones. I pat my pockets, knowing already what I’ll find—or, more accurately, what I won’t.
No umbrella.
Of course, I didn’t bring it. Because why would today be any different from the countless other days I’ve trudged through, hoping for even a sliver of good fortune?
The walk home is worse than usual. The rain falls in sheets, drenching me through, clinging to my skin like a second, suffocating layer. Every step feels heavier than the last, as though the very earth is trying to pull me under. My house looms in the distance, a sad, dilapidated structure hidden behind a thicket of overgrown weeds and thorny bushes. It’s a place as neglected and abandoned as I am.
I reach the front door, fumbling for my keys. The familiar clink of metal against metal rings in the stillness of the night. But something feels off.
My door—it''s slightly ajar.
I pause. Could I have forgotten to lock it this morning? Or is something else at play? The knot in my stomach tightens, but I push the thought aside. Who cares? It saves me the trouble of fumbling with the lock, right?
I step inside, the familiar smell of stale air and old furniture greeting me like an old friend. But tonight, something’s different. The shadows feel deeper, more oppressive. Hunger gnaws at my insides, a desperate, aching need to fill the emptiness inside me. I stagger toward the fridge, the light spilling out like an oasis in the desert.
My stomach growls, louder than the thunder outside. I open the fridge door, the cool air washing over me, soothing my overheated, clammy skin. It’s the only comfort I’ve known for years—standing in front of this refrigerator, debating between the few scraps of food I have left. A chocolate bar sounds good. Or maybe...
“Hello, Samuel.”
The voice, low and cold, cuts through the silence like a razor. My body freezes. My heart skips a beat.
I turn slowly, dread pooling in the pit of my stomach. “W-Who are you? How did you get in?”
There, emerging from the shadows, stands the one person who has made my life a living hell for as long as I can remember. Clinton. The man who has done everything in his power to break me, to destroy whatever shred of dignity I have left.
“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t recognize me, Samuel,” he sneers, his voice oozing with contempt. “It’s Clinton. Your friend.” He places a mocking emphasis on the word, as though it’s some cruel joke.
Clinton, the ringleader of the office bullies. The man who’s turned every day at work into a nightmare. The one who’s made my existence feel like it’s worth nothing.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” Clinton continues, his smirk widening. “Your so-called friends paid me to kill you.”
A wave of shock crashes over me, paralyzing me. My mouth runs dry. “Th-that’s impossible.” I take a step back, my voice trembling. “My friends would never—”
Clinton cuts me off, pulling out his phone with a flourish. “Don’t be so naive, Samuel. Listen to this.”
He plays a recording, and the voice that emerges from the speakers is unmistakable.
“Please, just get rid of him,” a familiar voice says, dripping with venom. “I’ll pay you whatever you want. He’s disgusting, useless, and a waste of space. Honestly, the world would be better off without him.”
The words hit me like a slap, each one a knife to my soul. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat. Even the people I thought I could trust—the ones I leaned on for some semblance of comfort—have betrayed me.
Clinton’s grin widens as he raises his pistol. “So, what’s it gonna be? The easy way or the hard way?”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My body moves on its own, my eyes scanning the kitchen. I see the knives on the counter, their gleaming blades taunting me. Without thinking, I grab one and hurl it at Clinton. The blade slices across his shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood.
Clinton’s grin falters for a moment before he regains his composure. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Too bad it’s not enough to save you.”
With a dark chuckle, he pulls the trigger.
Bang.
The first bullet rips through my abdomen, sending a searing wave of pain through my body.
Bang.
The second finds its mark in my lung. I can’t breathe.
Bang.
The third bullet pierces my other lung.
I collapse to the floor, the world spinning around me, the weight of my own blood pulling me deeper into the abyss. I press my hands against the wounds, trying to stem the tide of crimson, but I know it’s useless.
Clinton stands over me, his face twisted in glee. “How does it feel, Sam? To know your pathetic life is finally over?”
I want to respond, to scream at him, but the words get lost in the blood filling my mouth. Instead, all I can do is stare up at him as my vision darkens.
My thoughts are a blur of regrets. Missed opportunities. My wasted life. The people I failed. The dreams I never got to chase.
And then, in that fleeting moment of pain and sorrow, something inside me breaks. I want to ask for help, for salvation, for anything. But it’s too late.
As Clinton laughs, my body goes limp, the weight of my last breath pressing down on me.
And then, darkness.<hr>
I wake—or rather, I feel something shift, a sensation that’s both foreign and familiar. The world around me is gone, replaced by an endless void. I float, weightless, suspended between life and death, my body lost in a space where time doesn’t exist.
The silence is profound, all-encompassing, until a voice, soft as a whisper, breaks through the stillness.
“Samuel…”
It’s the voice of a woman, cool and gentle, yet somehow filled with an immeasurable power.
I turn toward the sound, my eyes straining to focus on the figure that has materialized before me. She’s breathtaking—silver hair that shimmers like moonlight, eyes the color of storm clouds, glowing with an ancient knowledge.
“You’ve suffered greatly,” she says, her words like a balm to my broken soul. “But your story is not yet over, Samuel.”
The space around us begins to warp and twist, and I feel myself being pulled, torn away from this endless void, thrust into something unknown.
Where am I? What is this?
I don’t know. But I know one thing for certain: my story is far from finished.
Quest Completed: Determination of the weak!
You have met all target''s to become the player do you accept!
Y/N
Yes
Starting reincarnation process!
Process complete!
New Name!
Samuel Raveish!
Age
0
Race
Human
Error
Fatal Error!
Analysing data!
Error fixed
90% Human
10% of unknown origin
Attributes
None
<strong style="color: rgba(53, 152, 219, 1)"> You have learned skill Language Comprehension
<strong style="color: rgba(53, 152, 219, 1)"> <strong style="color: rgba(53, 152, 219, 1)"> Accept Skill? Y/N
<strong style="color: rgba(53, 152, 219, 1)"> Congratulations you have learned your first skill Language Comprehension!
<strong style="color: rgba(53, 152, 219, 1)"> Good luck player!