A strange warmth enveloped me—as if divine hands had gently stirred my soul awake from a dreamless sleep.
My eyes fluttered open.
The illusion didn't last.
The moment I took a breath, the harsh reality slammed into me like a hammer. The air was thick—rancid, heavy with the stench of rot, piss, smoke, and decay. It clung to my lungs like poison. I gagged, my stomach twisting in protest.
I was lying in a pile of filth.
Rusted metal. Broken glass. Maggots wriggling through half-eaten food. Rats scurried close—unafraid, their beady eyes watching me like I was just another corpse.
Where the hell…?
I tried to move, but pain erupted all over my body. My arms and legs screamed in protest—burning, throbbing. I forced myself to sit up, only to feel something warm trickling down my side.
Blood.
My clothes were in tatters—ripped and soaked in a mixture of dirt, grime, and crimson. Cuts and bruises decorated my skin like I'd been beaten and thrown away.
I looked at my hands.
Pale. Shaky. Too thin.
This… this isn't a dream, is it?
Panic clawed its way into my chest, but I pushed it down.
Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the nearest wall for support and pulled myself to my feet. The uneven stones scratched my palms as I limped toward the narrow opening between buildings.
Then—light.
Harsh sunlight flooded my vision as I stumbled out of the alleyway. I blinked rapidly, squinting against the sudden brightness.
The world that greeted me was… alien.
A town straight out of a medieval fantasy. Stone houses with wooden beams, rooftops layered with thatch and shingles. Market stalls bursting with goods—fruits, fabrics, tools—all manned by people in cloaks, leather tunics, and handmade dresses. Horses pulled carts. Children ran barefoot across cobbled streets. No electricity. No phones. No street signs or neon lights. Just a hum of conversation, bartering, and distant blacksmiths hammering metal.
I stood frozen in the middle of it all.
Then I noticed the stares.
People were watching me—disgust, pity, and fear written on their faces. A few mothers pulled their children away. Some merchants whispered behind their stalls. To them, I must've looked like a madman—a half-dead beggar crawling out of the slums.
While walking in silence, I dragged my aching body down the narrow dirt path between crumbling buildings. My clothes hung in tatters, barely clinging to me, soaked in dried blood and grime. Every step sent jolts of pain through my legs, but I kept moving—instinct more than reason.
I needed water. Anything.
Then I spotted it—a stone well tucked beside a crooked house, its moss-covered edges hinting at age. The wooden roof above it creaked gently with the wind, as if groaning under the weight of time. A rusted bucket dangled from a frayed rope, swaying slightly. It looked like it hadn't been used in days, maybe weeks.
But it was water.
I staggered toward it, gripping the cold stone rim for balance. My fingers were scraped raw, and the pain flared again as I pulled the rope, listening to the splash echo from below. The bucket rose slowly, heavy with the weight of salvation.
Without hesitation, I poured it over my head. The shock of cold hit me hard, biting into my skin, washing away layers of filth, blood, and confusion. I hissed from the sting of open wounds, but I welcomed it.
I leaned over the rim, panting—and froze.
A face stared back at me in the rippling water. Mine… and not mine.
It was a stranger's face that stared back at me from the surface of the well's water—yet somehow, it still felt like mine.
Messy black hair clung damply to my forehead, slightly longer than I remembered, with strands falling just above my brows. There was a natural wave to it, rough and unkempt, but it gave me a kind of rugged look. My skin, though smudged with grime and pale from exhaustion, was smooth beneath the dirt—save for a few bruises and scrapes that added to the worn-down appearance.
But it was the eyes that unsettled me the most.
A deep violet. Like twilight trapped in glass. Unnatural... yet hauntingly beautiful. They weren't the warm brown I had back home—these were colder, sharper, more mysterious. They held a quiet weight, as if they'd seen things I hadn't yet remembered. And when I stared long enough, I almost felt like they were staring back at me.
I wasn't strikingly handsome—but there was something... intriguing about my appearance now. My features were more defined than I remembered: a sharper jawline, straighter nose, slightly high cheekbones. Attractive but not a women would scream after seeing it.
Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through my skull like a dagger being twisted behind my eyes. I staggered back from the well, gripping the edge with white-knuckled fingers as a guttural groan escaped through clenched teeth. The world spun. My vision pulsed. It felt like my head was about to split open.
Then came the memories.
They weren't mine
Flashes of another life. Another version of me. A name I didn't recognize but somehow knew—Aiden Nightfield.
He was born into nobility. The third son of the prestigious Nightfield House, known across the empire for their mastery of fire magic. His family's bloodline blazed with crimson flame—generations of powerful mages who carved their names into the annals of history with heat and destruction.
Except him.
Aiden was a disgrace in their eyes. His mana refused to awaken with the family's flame. The embers never answered him, no matter how hard he trained. He couldn't hold a sword without trembling, couldn't spar without gasping for breath. The maids whispered. The tutors scoffed. Even his own brothers laughed behind his back.
So he lashed out.
Not with strength—but with cruelty. Arrogance became his armor. He insulted servants, looked down on commoners, started fights he couldn't finish. And when his temper grew unbearable, his family finally cast him out. Stripped of his title. Banished from the capital. Forgotten.
He wandered then, bitter and proud, clinging to the fragments of a status that no longer meant anything. But his arrogance didn't die. Not even poverty could humble him.
He insulted the wrong people.
Slum-dwellers. Desperate men with nothing to lose. They beat him until he couldn't stand. Kicked him until his ribs cracked. Stole what little he had left. And they left him there in the alley—broken, bleeding, and alone.
That's when I woke up.
Panting, I clutched my head as the vision faded, the pain receding like a storm passing overhead. My knees hit the ground beside the well.