The rainwasoneofthosethings that just seemed to makeeverything worse. Itdidnotmerelysoak into your clothes or trickle down your face; it seeped into your bones,makingevery breathfeelcold and heavy. I stood at the edge of the curb, staring at the blurred headlights of passing cars, and wondered—andasI did every other day—if this was it.


    Not in a morbid way. I wasn''tgoingtoflingmyselfinto traffic or anything. I wasn''t even sad, not really. Justhollow. Like a husk of ahuman being,ploddingthrough lifeina zombie-like state,nothavingthe energytoactuallycare where I waswalking.


    Every day, again. Wake up, commute, and deal with people who forgot your name came night, home, dinner whatever was quicker and less costly, and then collapsed in front of a screen, and rinse. End.


    They called me"reliable"at work, which Isupposewas their way of saying I never made waves. Just the kind of guy who did what he was told, hit his deadlines, and quietly endured the nonsense.The guy who stayed late when no one else wanted to. The guy who never said no to a project, even when I should have.


    Funny thing wasnobodyreally cared. Not my boss,normycolleagues, not evenI."Reliable"meant invisible,replaceable.


    My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it. Another email about something that didn''t matter. Another reminder that my life was a string of meaningless notifications. I used to dream about doing something different-writing, maybe, or traveling-but reality had a way of beating that out of you.


    I hadn''t been myself for so longby now,andI wasn''t even sure whothatwas. My landlord probably knewmebetterthanany ofmy friends, and my friends.


    well, let''s just say we weren''tthefriendswe used to be. Life happens. People drift apart. I didn''t blame them.


    I let out a sigh, the noise whipped away by the rain as I fastened the strap of my really cheapskate umbrella. The gust of wind snapped it inside out, and I tossed up my hands, letting it get me wet through to the layer of the hoodie underneath; not that it mattered now, anyway. It was late enough, and cold enough to boot, all that stood between me and that dingy, frozen meal I was going to be eating week in and out.


    The crosswalk lightwasblinkinggreen,soI stepped off the curb,sloshingwateroverthe top ofmy sneakers. Headlights blurredinglowing streaks as I stareddownat thesidewalk, countingwitheach step to distract myself from the chill creeping intothesocks.


    Twelve steps. Thirteen.Fourteen—


    First wasthe sound.Squealingtiresagainst wetpavement. I looked up just in time to see the headlightscomingstraightforme, too close, too fast.


    Itcametome a split second before the car did: This is it.


    Abadsmellenteredmynostrilsthe firsttimeIopenedmyeyes.


    Not antiseptic or the coppery tang of blood-thoughthatlingered faintly. No, this wasolder, heavier. Acombinationof burnt wood and stale air, like thesmellof an ancient church left to rot.


    The second thing I noticed was pain.


    It wasn''t sharp,asIhadexpected it to be, but dull and throbbing, like somethinginsideofme had broken. My chestscreamedwith every shallow breath, andwitheveryattemptto sit up, the pain flaredenoughto forceme backonto my back.


    Thatiswhen I saw it.


    Blood.


    Ittrickledthrough a thick black-and-gold coatthatI didn''tknowIowned,puddlingon the cold stone flooraround my feet. Isatthere, immobile, staringat itall,tryingtoconnectthedotsofwhere I was and how Ihadgotten here.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    A ripple of movement caught myattention. I looked up,andmy stomachdropped.


    I was in a big room. The torches lit it dimly: they were flickering and spitting. Intricately embroidered tapestries covered the walls, now faded into colors that in their bright hues could again tell stories of battle and of glory. The floor beneath my feet was a mosaic of polished stone, slick with blood. It was my blood.


    Figures surrounded me—men and women dressed in ornate robes and armor, their faces pale with fear. Some whispered to one another, their voices hushed and urgent. Others simply stared, their wide eyes fixed on me as though I''d grown a second head.


    "Impossible," one of themwhispered back.


    "Heisdead," anotherbreathed. "We allwatchedhim die."


    Itriedtosaysomething, but mywordscouldnotpass. The pain inthechestoncemore ignited, and myhandtouchedmy chestinstinctivelyagainandpressedagainst thegapingwound. ThatishowI realized something wasseriouslywrong.


    These weren''t my hands.


    They were pale, almost translucent, with veins threading beneath the surface like cracks in marble. Rings adorned each finger, heavy and cold, set with stones that gleamed like fire. My breath quickened as I looked down at the rest of myself—at the coat, the boots, the sword strapped to my side. This wasn''t my body.


    A screampiercedthestillness.


    "He''s breathing!"


    Pandemonium broke out in the room. The figures there scattered back, overturning chairs, grabbing one another and crying. Others snatched for arms; eyes moved between me and the open doors at the end of the room.


    And then,they came.


    Assassins.Theywerelikeghosts;theirdarkcloaksswirledas theyranthrough the doors withknivesdrawn. I scrambledbackward,puttingas muchspacebetweenthemandmeasmy bodywouldallow.Butitslimbs feltasifwading throughmire.


    Hewentintothelunges, and I froze.


    Butjustbefore theknifecouldstrike, somethingchanged.


    There,insideme,alowandchillvoice-notmyvoice-waswhispering.


    "Skill Activated: Gluttony."


    My bodystartedmovingon its own.


    I twisted out of the way, my hand snapping up to catch the assassin''s wrist. With a strength I didn''t know I had, I wrenched it to the side, and the sharp crack of bone filled the room. The assassin screamed, but the sound barely registered. My arm shot forward, plunging the blade I didn''t remember drawing into his chest.


    I did not feelthe next few moments. My body moved like a marionette, dodging strikes, disarming opponents, killing. Each death sent a jolt through me—a rush of heat and power, followed by something darker.


    It ended, I stood up in the centre of that room, with the air gasping between my lungs, my all blood-slippery palms. Everywhere around me were those killers, scattered across the floor, with eyes that would never gaze at anything.


    A faint chimewasechoingin my ears.


    <blockquote>


    "Level Up. Attributes Absorbed. Skills Acquired."


    </blockquote>


    My vision blurred as a glowing window appeared before me, words etched in shimmering gold:


    <blockquote>


    Name: Alaric Varelius


    Title: King of Varestia


    Status: Wounded (Recovering)


    Skills: Gluttony (Active), Blade Proficiency (Acquired), Stealth (Acquired)


    Level: 7 (+3)


    </blockquote>


    I stumbled backward, clutching at my head. The window faded, but its meaning lingered, undeniable and cruel.


    This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t my body. And this sure as hell wasn’t my world.


    I wasn’t Harley anymore.


    I was a king. A dead king.


    And the only thing more terrifying than that... was the hunger clawing at my chest, whispering for more.