POV: The Transmigrator (Valerian)
Pain was data.
That was the first thought that coalesced in the screaming void of his consciousness. It wasn't an emotion, nor was it a tragedy. It was simply input—high-intensity neural feedback indicating structural damage.
He tried to open his eyes, but the eyelids felt heavy, sealed shut by a crust of dried blood and filth. The air smelled of wet straw, rust, and the copper tang of hemorrhage. He didn't panic. Panic was inefficient. It clouded judgment and spiked cortisol levels, accelerating fatigue. Instead, he lay perfectly still, letting his mind drift inward, assessing the vessel he now inhabited.
It was weak. Pathetically so. He could feel the irregular thrum of a malnourished heart, the shallow intake of bruised lungs, and the searing agony radiating from his left tibia. Broken. Likely a hairline fracture from a blunt impact.
Where am I?
The question was clinical. He remembered dying. The execution had been precise—a necessary end to a life lived in the shadows of corporate espionage and black-ops liquidation. He had no regrets. Regret implied he believed he had done something wrong. He hadn't. He had simply played the game, won for a long time, and then was removed from the board.
But this… this was not the void of non-existence.
"Initializing sequence."
The voice did not come from the room. It resonated directly against his auditory cortex, a synthetic, genderless hum that felt colder than the stone floor beneath him.
"Scanning host physiology… Incomplete. Trauma detected. Energy reserves: critical. Beginning emergency calibration."
He mentally paused. A hallucination? No. The clarity was too absolute. He focused on that voice, treating it as a new variable. Identify.
"Nano Machine, 7th Generation. Serial Number: Sky Demon-001. Neural link established. Host identity: [Error]. Overwriting… Host accepted."
A ghost of a smile touched his cracked lips in the dark. The prototype. The experimental technology he had stolen—the very reason he had been executed. It seemed it had hitched a ride across the veil of death.
"Report status," he commanded, not with his voice but with his will.
"Affirmative. Current location: unknown. Atmospheric analysis indicates 21% oxygen, traces of unidentifiable energy particles. Host body: male, approximately 14 biological years. Malnutrition severity: high. Blunt force trauma detected in cranial region, ribs, and lower left leg."
"Heal me."
"Negative. Internal energy reserves insufficient. External energy source required. Current battery mode: 1%."
Useless. For now.
He forced his eyes open. The crust cracked, and blurred vision greeted him. He was in a cell. Stone walls, damp and covered in moss. A heavy iron grate barred the only exit. Moonlight filtered through a high, barred window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air.
Memories that were not his own began to bleed into his mind. They didn't wash over him like a tidal wave; they integrated like a file download, sorting themselves into folders of relevance.
Name: Valerian.
Surname: Ironwood.
Status: Illegitimate son of Baron Archibald Ironwood.
Location: The Ironwood Estate, Northern Asura Kingdom.
Current situation: imprisoned for "stealing" a ration of bread he hadn't touched. The real culprit: his half-brother, Gilbert.
Valerian processed the life of the boy whose body he now wore. It was a pathetic existence. A mother who died in childbirth, a father who viewed him as a stain on his honor, and siblings who used him as a punching bag. The boy had possessed a gentle heart. He had endured the beatings, hoping that one day, his family would love him.
"Idiot," the new Valerian whispered, his voice rasping like sandpaper.
Empathy was a biological flaw. It created hesitation. It allowed weakness to fester. This boy had died because he hoped. The entity now inhabiting his skin would not make the same mistake.
Clang.
The sound of a heavy key turning in the lock echoed through the small dungeon. Valerian shifted, ignoring the scream of his fractured leg, and propped himself up against the cold wall. His eyes, dark and adjusting to the gloom, fixed on the door.
It creaked open. Two figures stepped in. One held a torch, the firelight casting long, flickering shadows that danced like demons on the walls. The other held a wooden club.
"Still breathing, mongrel?"
The man with the club was thick-set, wearing the leather livery of the Ironwood house guards. Valerian accessed the boy's memories. Garek. The head guard. A sadist who enjoyed the sound of breaking bones more than his coin.
"Gilbert wants to know if you've learned your lesson," Garek sneered, stepping into the cell. The torchbearer, a younger guard named Hance, stayed by the door, looking uncomfortable.
Valerian looked up. His face was a mask of blood and dirt, but his eyes were clear—unnervingly so. There was no fear in them. No pleading. Just a flat, predatory assessment.
"I learned," Valerian said softly.
Garek chuckled, slapping the club into his open palm. "Good. Then you won't mind a few more reminders. The Baron doesn't want to see you at the banquet tomorrow, so we need to make sure you can't walk."
"Nano," Valerian thought, his mind moving with the precision of a scalpel. "Analyze target. Garek. Weapon: oak club. Musculature: heavy but slow. Weak points?"
"Scanning… Target analysis complete. Right rotator cuff shows signs of previous injury. Left knee favors weight distribution. Reaction time estimated: 0.4 seconds. Probability of victory in current state: 12%."
Twelve percent.
"Increase adrenaline secretion," Valerian commanded. "Divert all remaining energy to sensory processing and motor cortex stimulation. I need two seconds of peak performance."
"Warning. This will deplete reserves to 0.1%. System shutdown imminent post-action."
"Do it."
A jolt, electric and sharp, surged through his spine. The pain in his leg didn't vanish, but it became irrelevant. Data. Just data to be ignored. Time seemed to slow. The flickering of the torch flame became a frame-by-frame slideshow.
Garek raised the club. He was sloppy. Overconfident. He expected the boy to cower, to cover his head.
Valerian didn't cower.
As the club descended, Valerian didn't try to block. He lunged forward.
It was a suicidal move for a cripple, but Garek had calculated the arc of his swing for a target on the floor, not one launching at his waist. Valerian's small, malnourished body slammed into Garek's midsection.
The guard grunted, stumbling back, but he didn't fall. He was too heavy.
"You little rat!" Garek roared, raising the club for a killing blow.
"Targeting assistant: active."
Valerian's hand, small and grime-stained, shot out. He didn't make a fist. He stiffened his fingers into a spear-hand, guided by the microscopic adjustments of the Nano Machine.
Strike point: trachea.
Thwack.
It wasn't a hard blow. Valerian lacked the strength for brute force. But he didn't need power; he needed precision. His fingertips crushed the soft cartilage of the windpipe with mathematical exactness.
Garek's roar turned into a wet, horrifying gurgle. The club dropped from his hand, clattering loudly on the stone. The guard clutched at his throat, his eyes bulging, face turning a mottled shade of purple.
"Garek?" Hance, the guard at the door, took a step forward, lowering the torch. "What the—"
Valerian collapsed to the floor, his energy spent, his chest heaving. The adrenaline dump left him trembling, but he watched with cold fascination as Garek fell to his knees, gasping for air that could no longer pass through his collapsed throat.
It took thirty seconds for the man to die.
Hance stood frozen, the torch trembling in his hand. He looked from the convulsing body of his superior to the small, broken boy sitting in the straw.
"You…" Hance whispered, horror dawning on his face. "You killed him."
Valerian looked up. The Nano Machine's interface flickered in his vision, a red warning light pulsing.
"Battery critical. Entering hibernation mode. Good luck, Host."
The overlay vanished. Valerian was alone, crippled, in a cell with a dead body and a terrified witness.
He tilted his head, his expression void of anything resembling humanity.
"He tripped," Valerian lied, his voice calm, smooth, and utterly devoid of fear. "Close the door, Hance. Unless you want to explain to the Baron why his head guard was drunk on duty and choked on his own vomit."
Hance stared at the crushed throat. It clearly wasn't vomit. But he looked at the boy's eyes—those abyss-like eyes that seemed to swallow the light—and he felt a primal chill that had nothing to do with the dungeon's temperature.
"I…" Hance stammered.
"He used to beat you too, didn't he?" Valerian said, pulling a random memory from the original host. "Took a cut of your wages? Called you a coward?"
Hance's jaw tightened.
"Dead men tell no tales, Hance," Valerian whispered, dragging himself back to the corner. "And living men… they can rise. If they choose the right side."
Hance looked at the dead body of the man who had tormented him for years. Then he looked at the illegitimate child who had just executed him with a single strike.
Slowly, Hance stepped back. He reached for the door handle.
"He… he had a heart attack," Hance muttered, his voice shaking.
"A tragedy," Valerian agreed.
The door slammed shut. The key turned.
Valerian sat in the darkness, listening to the retreating footsteps. He looked at his trembling hands. Weak. So incredibly weak. But the potential…
He closed his eyes.
Step one complete.
End of Part 1