What happens after death? A question as old and sacred as what is the meaning of life?
And just as unknowable—at least to the living.
But the dead… the dead know.
One such soul was Cheng Wang, a once-ordinary university student.
He'd lived as well as he could—scraping into a prestigious university, trying to make his parents proud.
He studied. He gamed. He read. He laughed. He loved.
It wasn't perfect, but it was enough.
And then, it ended. How? Not even he remembered anymore.
That's what an eternity in hell does to a person.
Everything faded—family, joy, purpose. All reduced to flickering shadows in the back of his mind. In Hell, only pain remained. Cheng suffered beneath the tyrant of that realm for so long that time lost meaning. But eventually, rage found him. Bitterness took root, and with it came strength.
He fought.
He killed.
He devoured.
He turned torment into fuel and forced the very monsters that once tortured him to bend to his will.
Each layer of Hell tasted his vengeance. And then—finally—he challenged the King.
The Devil.
But the Devil was not what he expected. Neither human nor demon. It was… incomprehensible. A being beyond reason, beyond form, beyond nightmares. A god of suffering.
Yet it offered him a chance.
"If you can best me in a contest of your choosing," it said, "the throne is yours."
Cheng, ever the opportunist, chose the deadliest game known to man. Game where not even the devil can outwit him, a game where only fortune and luck mattered no amount of scheming or intelligence would bring the victory; it was the only game where Cheng stood a chance.
Uno.
And he won.
He won.
He became the King of Hell.
For a time, he ruled. For a longer time, he was bored. No challengers. No rebellion. No stakes.
So, when the opportunity came for a new game, a new life, a new story—he took it.
And he was reborn.
In a remote bandit camp cloaked in fog and filth, a young boy swung a wooden sword against a weather-worn tree.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Black hair like spilled ink. Eyes as red as blood. Semi-pointed ears—evidence of his elven heritage. He wore crude clothes stitched from fur, the grey pelts barely shielding his small, wiry frame.
Each swing of his sword was wild. Erratic. Yet—strangely modern. A memory of discipline buried beneath savagery.
Who was he?
A bandit.
Born of a slave and one of many brutes who'd forced himself on her. No one knew who his father was.
And none cared.
He bore only the traits of his mother. The elf woman. The one the camp leader had eventually killed.
After hundreds more swings, the boy returned to his tent—a small structure of stitched wolf hide, assembled by his own hand. He'd hunted for it. Earned it.
Unlike the woman who raised him, another slave—too old or too plain to attract the pigs around her.
Lying down, he breathed rhythmically, each inhale drawing a subtle warmth into his core. It wasn't unfamiliar. This heat—this gentle energy—was the same kind that once surrounded him in Hell. Tamer, yes, but still potent.
"Guess Mom's obsession with yoga came in handy. Breathing technique… still works. Though… without Hell, my memories are fading. Huh. Whatever. I'll just make new ones here."
"So this is manna i wonder how many strong people i can fight in this world in the world of beginning after the end yes yes it was one of the more action packed novels i think"