Alpha learned what hunger was before he knew how to speak.
His earliest memories were fragments of cold nights, filled with the smell of damp earth, and the sound of non ending cough
His mother was thin, her hands rough, and her eyes seemed perpetually tired. His father was never mentioned.
They lived in a house barely standing, at the edge of a small village,. Alpha always wondered if the roof would collapse before morning.
wrong....
From the very beginning, his life felt… wrong.
As a kid he always worked, while others played. He was always silent, observing.
When food was divided, his portion was always the smallest.
Villagers always whispered behind his back:
"That child is cursed."
"Disaster follows him."
"Best to keep your distance."
Alpha heard them. He always did.
But he endured. He endured it all.
He worked harder than anyone else. He spoke little. He never complained. He believed that effort could change fate.
But alas fate didn't favour him.
When he was eight, winter came early and lasted long. during this winter his mother fell ill. There was no medicine, and no healer was willing to help.
She died quietly one night, her breathing slowing until it simply stopped.
Alpha sat beside her body until morning.
He didn't cry.
Not because he wasn't sad, but because something inside him felt strangely numb, as if grief itself had lost meaning long ago.
After that, A minor cultivation sect needed servants. He was taken in.
Alpha was cheap, obedient, and strong enough for labor. That was all they required.
Life at the sect was harsher than the village.
He chopped wood until his palms split. He hauled water until his back screamed. He was beaten for mistakes and ignored for his effort.
like the village, nights were cold, meals were scarce. Still, he endured.
When the sect tested disciples for cultivation talent, Alpha stood among them. His heart raced.
For the first time in years, hope flickered.
The stone glowed faintly.
"Barely passable."
That single sentence decided his fate.
He was allowed to stay, but only just. He was given the weakest manuals and the worst tasks. No guidance. No protection.
Others advanced. He did not.
Techniques failed in his hands. Pills lost their effect. Injuries healed slower than they should. Even when he succeeded, something always followed to drag him back down.
By sixteen, Alpha had stopped hoping. Hope hurt too much.
Then came the errand. Then the rain. Then the blade.
And then, death.
Now, lying on a crude wooden bed, Alpha stared at a ceiling he did not recognize.
The air smelled different. His body felt wrong—lighter, smaller, weaker. His limbs trembled when he tried to move. Pain still lingered, but it was no longer the same pain.
Someone was breathing nearby.
"Easy," a woman said softly. "Don't move."
Her voice was unfamiliar. Alpha opened his mouth to speak, but his throat burned. Only a hoarse sound came out.
Panic rose in his chest. Where am I?
The question echoed, but another, deeper unease followed it. Something was off. He could not explain it. He had no memories of another life, no images, no faces. And yet, a strange sense of repetition pressed against his thoughts.
As if this moment, had happened before.
Alpha closed his eyes.
He didn't know who he truly was. He didn't know why suffering followed him so closely.
But one thing was already clear: No matter where he was born, or what name he carried, this world would never let him live easily.
And somewhere beyond his understanding, fate watched him silently, waiting for him to die again.