Zeyden, the loser guy from planet Earth, had now reincarnated as the most insolent character and a true bastard in his favorite urban fantasy novel.
Staring at his blood-smeared reflection in the murky puddle in that remote valley, Zeyden felt a strange mix of shock and awe. Even though it was covered in gaping wounds and deep gashes, the features of this face were so familiar to him. He'd seen them countless times in the colored illustrations shared in the exclusive Discord group run by the author of his beloved novel.
What he'd once dismissed as mere fantasy had now turned into a bitter reality. Strangely, a thrill of excitement crept into Zeyden's chest—the rare chance to dive into the world of his favorite novel as the character he idolized the most, even if from the dark side.
But something was off here. In the original story, Zeyden Vorath Arclain never experienced a helicopter crash this fatal. With his calculating nature and sky-high level of caution, it was nearly impossible to find a gap to trap him in any sabotage. Even the main protagonist endured the greatest suffering of his life when facing him. It was only thanks to those competent subordinates that the protagonist managed to bring him down. And even then, the final decisive strike could only be launched if they were there from the start—without them, defeating Zeyden outright was nothing but a pipe dream.
Zeyden tried to stand, his movements slow and careful to avoid triggering even worse pain from the burning wounds and bruises scorching his body. Limping, he walked a few meters away from the helicopter wreckage, still billowing thick black smoke. Up close, the scene was like a mini-hell: charred corpses, scattered body parts buried under twisted metal debris, pools of boiling blood reeking with a sharp, metallic stench. All of this should have been enough to give the ordinary Zeyden from Earth full-blown PTSD—a trauma that could haunt him for life.
But now? All that horror felt utterly ordinary to Zeyden Vorath Arclain, whose soul had been replaced. It was as if every trait, habit, and emotional intelligence of the original character had fused perfectly with him, without any side effects from differing perceptions. Zeyden was fully aware of this change: he hadn't just inherited this tough body, but every mental aspect—ideals, thought frameworks, ways of viewing the world, right down to that ice-cold emotional intelligence. Meanwhile, the knowledge, feelings, mentality, and habits from his old life on Earth were now mere conceptual data, no longer implemented in reality.
"I figured as much, but I didn't expect being Zeyden Vorath Arclain would feel this damn good—completely numb to human death right in front of my eyes," he muttered softly, casually slipping both hands into his pants pockets. He gazed at the gruesome scene with a flat expression, as if watching some mundane show.
Those intimidating yet captivating crimson-red eyes continued to stare calmly at the flickering flames. His gaze suddenly shifted upward as the thunderous roar of Chinook helicopter blades shattered the valley's silence. The rescue team arrived with lightning speed, as expected for a VVIP of his caliber.
"VVIP spotted. He looks seriously injured at a glance, but he's standing tall like nothing happened!" the Chinook helicopter pilot exclaimed over the radio, updating all waiting parties. "In 30 seconds, we'll be ready to land and evacuate the VVIP," he continued without waiting for a reply, then slowly lowered the helicopter vertically onto the rocky ground below.
The Chinook helicopter touched down smoothly on a flat expanse of land ringed by low trees, its rotor wash still whipping the wild grass into a furious frenzy. The side door groaned open with a harsh metallic screech, and dozens of soldiers in pitch-black tactical gear leaped out like living shadows—their combat boots thudding into the dusty earth. Fully armed: M4A1s slung over shoulders, smoke grenades clipped to vests, night-vision helmets dangling at the ready. They snapped into a tight tactical formation—a half-circle encircling the landing zone, eyes scanning the horizon, index fingers hovering on triggers. "Perimeter secure, sir!" the squad leader barked into his radio, his voice cutting through the static-laced silence.
Moments later, a woman with long, wild dark-green hair stepped from the cabin, her slightly brighter irises gleaming with captivating beauty like emeralds under the sunset's glow. Her form-fitting uniform hugged her athletic curves, but her face was ghostly pale. Beside her shuffled a burly, balding man in his fifties, cold sweat beading on his gleaming scalp, looking utterly nervous and desperate. His body was bound tight with zip ties biting into his wrists until they turned red, his mouth sealed with wide black duct tape like a real hostage—his breaths ragged, chest heaving in panic. His eyes twitched wildly in terror as he accidentally locked gazes with Zeyden's crimson-red stare—a crushing glare that pierced the soul like a red-hot dagger, leaving the man writhing helplessly.
Zeyden's face and hair were caked in dried blood clumps mixed with dust and sweat, making him look like a monster in human form freshly risen from hell—especially to those who knew his ruthless, bloodthirsty, merciless nature. Only a handful dared approach, and the green-haired woman was one of them: Flora, his irreplaceable secretary.
With quick but controlled steps, she rushed toward Zeyden, clutching an unbreakable aluminum pill bottle and a special gold-labeled bottle of miracle water. The wind still battered her, sending her uniform skirt fluttering wildly. "Sir, please take this super-speed healing enhancement pill right away, with the miracle water!" she urged, her voice laced with desperate concern, hands trembling faintly—not from fear, but from deep empathy.
Her eyes brimmed with worry, pity, and genuine regret, like a mother beholding her wounded child. Perhaps only Flora could offer such care—rooted in profound compassion for the man who had saved her from a tragic fate in the original story. Anyone else? They'd have fled in terror, knowing Zeyden's villainous ways: a cold-blooded killer who tortured before slaughtering without mercy.
Zeyden nodded faintly, acknowledging her with a rare thin smile. In his heart, he felt immense relief: Flora hadn't died in the helicopter crash earlier, even though she'd boarded out of fanatical loyalty that valued his life above her own. In this novel's original tale, Flora was a genius character—an elite strategist and scientist—fought over by the protagonist for his harem. But now, her devotion to Zeyden surpassed everything; she considered herself wholly his, body and soul, ready to die for a single smile from him.
He swallowed the bitter metallic blue pill with a gulp of miracle water that tasted like sacred mountain dew, and the effects exploded like wildfire. The external and internal wounds healed so dramatically, it was visible to the naked eye—the surrounding soldiers held their breath, eyes widening in awe. The gaping chest wound (15 cm wide, cracked ribs) and deep arm slash (10 cm) sealed shut in an instant, pink flesh creeping like living serpents to knit the gashes, regenerating down to the cellular level—blood ceased flowing, skin rejuvenating smooth as a baby's. The internal injuries mended similarly: punctured lungs stitching themselves, clogged blood vessels clearing, though the more complex vital organs took slightly longer—Zeyden felt a warm surge spreading from within, like a river of healing lava.
Flora signaled the nearest soldier with a swift hand gesture. "Folding chair, now!" He sprinted over with one, and with the attentiveness of royal service, she unfolded it for Zeyden to sit comfortably—his back propped plush, legs stretched out on the grassy earth.
Half an hour later, all of Zeyden's wounds were completely healed—no pain, no itch, perfect as if he'd been reborn. He stretched his body slowly: shoulders rotating, arms swinging high, waist twisting—all fluid without hindrance. At first, raising his arm had been agonizing, like hellfire searing his nerves. Now? Utterly natural, muscles flexing strong as steel.
Even though he'd known the wonders of his company's pills and water (production cost: $500,000 per dose, from mutant stem cell extracts and synthetic holy water), Zeyden was truly impressed only after feeling it firsthand. Revolutionary—for this world or his old one, where war had cost him half his body. The price was exorbitant, exclusive to super-elites like oil kings or dictators, with limited stock of 100 units per month. As the owner, Zeyden kept a massive reserve in his private vault—for betrayals or surprise attacks.
He was always ultra-cautious: never hospitalized carelessly, fearing medical records leaking to the public or vengeful enemies—his DNA alone was encrypted in three layers.
Gazing at the upright Flora, Zeyden spoke for the first time, his voice hoarse but brimming with absolute authority. "Flora, light my cigar!"
She nodded obediently, reaching into her black leather bag to retrieve a Gurkha Royal Courtesan—the world's most expensive cigar, $1,000 a stick, made from golden Himalayan tobacco leaves. She sliced the tip precisely with a silver cutter, then lit it with an antique Zippo lighter—the steady flame licking the end until it glowed red-hot, rich tobacco aroma filling the air. With natural grace—she'd done this thousands of times—she placed it directly between his lips, her delicate fingers brushing them for a fleeting moment.
Huff...Zeyden exhaled smoke contentedly, white clouds dancing in the evening breeze. "So, he's the helicopter technician from my ride?"
Flora stood rigid beside him like a loyal statue, her eyes narrowing with pure hatred toward the balding man kneeling in the mud—his knees shivering, urine now soaking his pants in a dark stain. "Exactly right, sir. This trash is the head technician on your helicopter—he sabotaged the main rotor for 50 million from our pharmaceutical business rivals."
Zeyden drew deeply on the cigar, exhaling smoke in a perfect ring. "The rest?"
"All eliminated, sir," Flora replied casually, as if discussing the weather—human lives meant nothing to her. She flashed a sinister grin like a starving demon, her gaze stabbing the man until he curled into a ball. His eight underlings: two shot in the head while sleeping, three strangled in the warehouse, the rest burned alive in a container—the faint scent of charred flesh still lingered in her memory.
The technician's head jerked violently. Sweat poured like a waterfall, his face paling to corpse-white, pupils dilating in total shock. His crew—friends, brothers—slaughtered without mercy, without explanation. A true devil... even devils compromise before their atrocities! I... I just needed the money for my sick kid... his mind screamed, guilt and horror twisting inside. Tears streamed, snot dripped, his body convulsed—he shat himself in terror, the foul stench spreading.
"So this fuckup was pure human error?" Zeyden asked, glancing at the beautiful Flora, his lips curling in a cynical smirk.
Flora adjusted her glasses with an elegant index finger, nodding lightly before confirming verbally with crisp precision. "Spot on, sir. Manual sabotage—the main rotor bolts were loosened by 20%."
Zeyden's gaze shifted forward. Suddenly, his casual expression sharpened into a scalpel's edge. The chilling coldness sent ice through the technician's veins, goosebumps erupting, his body shuddering uncontrollably like a leaf in a storm—he mumbled incoherently behind the tape, drool spilling.
"Flora," Zeyden called, his voice arctic cold, piercing to the bone.
She knew what it meant: end him. She reached into her bag, drew a .45 ACP Colt M1911—big, gleaming black, 8-round magnum. Handed it to him politely with both hands, eyes unblinking.
Realizing the gun was for him, the technician screamed hysterically through the muffled tape—MMMMPH! deafening. He tried to bolt—fight-or-flight exploding, knees shoving against the dirt. But Flora flung a special poison dart (paralytic neurotoxin, 5-second effect) straight into his neck; his body froze rigid in place, eyes bulging in panic, heart pounding wildly.
"Unprofessionalism at this level... a mistake you couldn't redeem with 10,000 lives," Zeyden growled irritably, face still terrifyingly cold, cigar dangling from his lips. "But don't worry, I'll start your cycle early. You can wrap up those 10,000 lives quick—reincarnate as a worm, maybe." His words rang like divine judgment, forcing the man to almost thank him for the "mercy." The soldiers around stifled dark chuckles, familiar with Zeyden's mad philosophy on eternal karma.
Without hesitation, Zeyden pulled the trigger. BAM! The hot .45 slug tore through the tape, brain, and skull—bone fragments sprayed like shrapnel, fresh blood mixed with fried brains erupting three meters back, staining the grass red. The body slumped thud face-down, legs twitching twice, then still—gunpowder and blood stench thick in the air.
The air hung silent as a grave, broken only by the evening breeze, drifting cigar smoke, and the soldiers' awed breaths. Zeyden exhaled his final puff, crimson eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Clean up this trash. We're heading to base." His order was light, but the world trembled beneath it.