The night was smothered in shadows, the sky itself a sheet of black that seemed to bleed into the earth. Screams rang out through the village—high-pitched, desperate, cut short by wet snarls. The guards had formed a line near the square, shields raised, spears braced.
But it was useless.
The kobolds had changed. No longer the scrawny scavengers that hid in caverns, these things were twisted mockeries—black, leathery skin stretched over sinew, their bodies marked with glowing violet cracks that pulsed like open wounds. From their jaws dripped thick, tar-like saliva, burning holes in the dirt where it fell. Their violet eyes burned with hunger.
The guards barely lasted a moment. One by one, their shields shattered under the sheer force of the kobolds' claws. Armor split. Men screamed as the beasts tore them apart. Blood sprayed, glinting faintly in the dark.
I ran.
The streets blurred past me, shadows twisting in every corner. My chest burned, my legs heavy, but fear was heavier. I stumbled through broken doors, past crumbling homes, until the church loomed ahead—a hollow silhouette against the moonless sky.
Inside, silence pressed down like a weight. The air smelled of old incense and dust. I collapsed in the corner, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the heavy wooden doors. They were barred shut. Safe. For now.
Then I heard it.
A low, guttural snarl. Not outside—above.
My eyes dragged upward, heart freezing. From the rafters, a shape peeled itself out of the dark. A kobold, but its body was warped further, wings stretching wide like torn leather, dripping with black fluid that hissed as it hit the stone floor. Its jaw unhinged far too wide, violet fire burning in its throat.
I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. The thing lunged—
And I woke.
Sweat soaked my skin, breath ragged as I stared at the ceiling above my bed. Just a dream. Another one. But outside, the night was still dark. Too quiet. And deep inside, I wondered—how much of that dream was truly mine… and how much was a memory of something yet to come?
For a moment he sat still, breath uneven, as if listening for something only he could hear. Then he straightened, stretching muscles that carried no vanity, only survival. His presence was quiet, yet the air around him seemed heavier for it.
The sharp trill of an alarm broke the silence. He turned, the dim red glow of the digits on the clock reading 6:00. Early still. He had time. More time than most. A long breath left his lungs as he swung his legs to the floor, the remnants of the nightmare slipping like shadows into the corners of his mind.
Today was different. The Awakening Ceremony.
He rose, padding across the creaking boards of the small apartment, and stepped into the narrow washroom. Cold water splashed over his face, chasing the clammy sweat away, grounding him. By the time he straightened and looked into the mirror, the boy who looked back was familiar and yet strangely distant.
A frame of 5'5, lean but toned, met his own gaze. Shoulder-length black hair clung damp to pale white skin. Eyes that should have been black glimmered faintly red in the reflection, as if secrets burned quietly behind them. A sharp jawline cut his features into something more striking than he often cared to admit. Handsome? Perhaps. But in his mind, the looks were nothing more than a mask—an unearned gift when survival was all he truly owned.
He thought briefly of training, of meditation, of refining the acting skills he used as much in daily survival as in battle. But he pushed it aside. Not today. Today was not for routine.
Instead, he remembered.
The first time he had opened his eyes on this world—eight years old, alone, standing before the gates of a crumbling orphanage. They had taken him in, raised him until he was fifteen. But three months ago, he had left. Since then, he lived on his own, working in a small supermarket, scraping enough coin together to survive. Life had never been more fragile, but at least it was his.
And the dreams. The damned dreams.
They had started when he was twelve. At first, he had thought them visions, maybe even blessings. The stances, the forms, the way to hold a blade or steady one's breath—all whispered to him in sleep. Lessons no teacher had ever given him, yet branded into his bones. They had kept him alive.
But then the emotions came. The pain. The fear. The suffocating despair. They bled into him as if he had lived each horror himself. He no longer knew if the dreams were guidance or curse. Only that they had carved him into what he was.
He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if shaking away smoke. Not today. Today he could not afford to stumble into the shadows of yesterday.
He pulled on his black top, fastened his worn belt, and stepped into the cracked leather shoes by the door. His old apartment creaked farewell as he opened the door to the waking city.
Whatever those dreams meant, whatever paths they promised or threatened—none of it mattered now. Today was the first step into his second life.
And he would not waste it.
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