The smell hit him first. It smelled like old wood, dirty water, and rotting meat.
Louis peeled his face off the cold stones. His head throbbed.
"Ugh... my head," he croaked. His voice sounded dry.
He sat up and rubbed the dust from his eyes. He was in the corner of a narrow alley, leaning against a damp wall. He looked left, then right.
"Where the hell..."
The buildings were strange. They had curved roofs, wooden balconies, and dusty paper lanterns hanging from beams. It looked like a movie set for an old Chinese drama, but gray and empty.
"Okay, Louis. Think," he whispered, holding his head. "What happened last night?"
The street was dead silent. No cars. No electricity. No city noise. Just the wind blowing through cracked tiles.
He tried to stand, but his legs shook. He felt too light. He looked down at his body.
No shirt. No jeans. He was wearing rough pants made of hemp, held up by a rope. But that wasn't the worst part.
He was starving. He could count every rib. His stomach was caved in, and his arms looked like sticks.
"What is this?" Panic rose in his chest. "Whose body is this?"
He crawled toward a horse trough filled with dirty water. He gripped the slimy wood and looked down.
A stranger stared back.
The face was skinny, with hollow eyes that glowed yellow. But Louis stared at the top of his head.
He had horns.
They curved back from his forehead, smooth and black. They looked like heavy bone.
"Demon…"
He said it without thinking.
Pain slammed into his skull.
Louis screamed and clutched his head. It felt like something sharp had been driven straight into his brain, twisting. Images poured in—too fast, too many.
This wasn't Earth.
Stone cities under gray skies. Flying swords cutting through clouds. Spells burning the air. And demons—tall, strong, horned—hunted through the streets and cut down like animals.
Shenlu.
The Divine Lands
He sucked in a sharp breath.
The memories kept coming.
Chains around his neck. A collar digging into his skin. Orders shouted like he was an animal. Hands that fed him when he worked and beat him when he didn't.
I'm a slave.
The truth settled heavy in his chest. This body wasn't a hero's. It belonged to someone who had survived by enduring. Taken as a child. Sold. Worked until his bones showed because demons were strong and slow to die.
The pain faded, leaving a dull ache behind his eyes. Louis wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and looked back at the silent street.
Now he knew why it was empty.
He looked up at the gray clouds. The memories showed him a different sky. Ten years ago, it had cracked open. A massive tear ran across the heavens.
That tear brought the sickness.
It wasn't a normal disease. It spread through the contact with ones already affected. There was no cure. If you caught it, you died.
The Cultivators—the powerful warriors who were supposed to protect the world—didn't help. They couldn't. Their power actually made it worse. The more Qi they had, the faster the sickness ate them.
So they ran. The great Sects locked their gates. The Empires shut down their borders. They left the common people to rot.
In ten years, half of humanity had died.
Louis looked down at his dirty, scarred hands. He understood why he was half-naked in an alley.
When the plague hit, food became hard to find. His masters didn't want to waste rice on a slave. They kicked him out.
He saw flashes of the last few years. Sleeping in the mud. Fighting rats for scraps of old food. Drinking from puddles.
He had survived on trash and luck, just waiting for the end.
What do I do?
The thought looped in his mind, synchronized with the painful cramping of his empty stomach.
I can't fight. I can barely stand. If I stay here, I starve. If I go out there... what? I get beaten? I catch the plague?
He licked his cracked lips, tasting grit and iron. The hunger was a physical weight, dragging his shoulders down. He needed water. He needed rice. Hell, he'd settle for a rat if he could catch one.
Move, he commanded his new limbs. Just move.
He was about to drag himself toward the mouth of the alley when the sound of heavy boots crunching on gravel froze him.
Louis shrank back against the damp wall, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Two figures stepped out from the side street.
They wore dull armor layered over thick cloth robes. The cloth was wrapped tight around their bodies, stained dark from old blood and medicine. Heavy hoods hung low over their faces, and long scarves were tied around their mouths and noses.
No skin showed.
Only their eyes were visible—cold, sharp, and wary.
They carried spears with blackened tips.
Plague Guards.
In a world where sickness clung to the air and a single touch meant death, this was how the City Guard survived.
They spotted him instantly.
Both men leveled their spears, the iron tips wavering slightly. But they didn't charge. They slammed their heels into the ground, halting a good twenty feet away.
Louis raised his hands slowly, palms open. but his arms trembled with weakness.
"I..." Louis tried to speak, but his throat was like sandpaper. He coughed, a dry, hacking sound.
The guards flinched, taking a unified step back. The one on the left tightened his grip on the spear, his knuckles white even through his gloves.
"Don't move, filth," the guard on the right barked. His voice was muffled by the layers of cloth, thick and nasal.
Louis froze. He watched them exchange a glance. They clearly didn't want to be here. They didn't want to be anywhere near this alley.
"You. Demon Boy," the muffled voice called out again, sounding disgusted. "You're still breathing?"
Louis nodded slowly. "Barely."
The guard gestured with his spear, waving it toward the main street, though he kept his distance scrupulously maintained.
"Count your luck, horned trash. Usually, we burn refuse like you to keep the air clean." The guard paused, staring at Louis's emaciated frame with cold, hard eyes. "But the City Lord wants an audience."