There was no pain in dying.
Jake Jones had always wondered about that. Not that it mattered anymore.
Now there was nothing.
Not blackness. Not whiteness. Just… absence.
And then, something shifted.
The nothing bent.
It bent inward.
Like a breath.
Then mist, thick and cold, began to roll in from all directions. It wasn't air—it moved like thought, like memory made physical. Jake stood—or thought he did—and waited. That's what he'd always done best. Waiting, watching, calculating.
The fog parted.
A man stepped forward, dressed in clothes that didn't belong to any time Jake knew—half robe, half cloak, deep blue and gold, with a symbol of a sun being eclipsed etched into the chest. His eyes were tired in a way that went beyond sleep. Tired like a man who had lived too many lives and remembered them all.
"You're… not what I expected," the man said quietly.
Jake didn't answer. He didn't flinch. He observed.
"You're calm," the man continued. "Most people scream. Some beg. Some pray."
Jake's voice, when it came, was as cold as the air around them. "Dead is dead."
A pause. The man studied him.
"I suppose that's true," he murmured. Then his tone shifted. "But you're not dead. Not quite. Not yet."
Jake waited.
"I'm what your kind would call a god," the man said. "Of a world not your own. And before you ask—no, I didn't bring you here to punish you. You're not here for judgment. I need something from you."
Jake's brow twitched, barely.
The god noticed. "You don't believe in redemption."
Jake looked past him into the fog. "Redemption." Then shrugged.
That got a genuine reaction. A sharp exhale—something between a laugh and a sigh.
"You're exactly what I need."
He walked in a slow circle around Jake, hands behind his back, cloak whispering against the mist.
"In my world, heroes were summoned. Five of them. From worlds like yours. They fought the Demon King, and won. But victory carries a price. Power changes things. Heroes don't stay heroes."
The fog shifted again. This time, it showed flickers—images without sound. A woman with silver hair impaling a man kneeling before her. A cloaked figure standing over a city in flames. A boy with golden eyes laughing as he shattered the sky.
He turned back to Jake. "In twenty years, they will become tyrants. Or worse."
Jake's voice was quieter now. Not hesitant—just calculated.
"So kill them now."
"I can't," the god said simply. "No one from that world will. And no hero will kill another hero."
Another pause.
"You're not a hero, Jake Jones. You never pretended to be."
Jake didn't blink. "Why me?"
The god's gaze sharpened.
"Because you understand what it means to kill without righteousness. Because you don't lie to yourself about what death is. And because you don't care."
The silence between them stretched long and heavy.
Then the god added, "You'll be reborn in that world. As a child. Eleven years old. You'll receive a system—a tool to guide you. To track yourself. You'll have at most 18 years to eliminate all five. Or they'll become too powerful."
Jake processed the information like a machine, emotionless.
"If I fail?"
"You won't. But if you do… there will be nothing left. For you. Or that world."
Still, Jake said nothing.
Light pierced the fog like a blade. The god stepped back.
"Good luck, Jake Jones."
...
..
.
He woke to the rhythm of wheels grinding over gravel.
Jake Jones opened his eyes to darkness—not the void he'd come from, but the murky shadows of a wooden carriage interior. Rough-hewn planks formed the ceiling, and the occasional creak told him the road was uneven. A faint glow from a lantern revealed rusted iron bars enclosing him and several others.
He was in a cage.
It took only a moment to assess his surroundings. Four others were huddled inside—two adults, a teenager, and a child no older than seven. Shackled. Silent. Haunted.
Outside the cage, voices murmured.
"Another two days to Arlen," a guard muttered. "I swear, if the buyer skips on payment again…"
"Pfft. Long as they're breathing, they'll pay," another replied. "Although that little one in the back—he's half a corpse already."
Jake didn't react. He looked down at his own body. Small hands. Thin arms. His knees stuck out awkwardly from legs too spindly to support much. Hunger gnawed at him, but he ignored it.
'So this is eleven.'
And then it appeared.
Like static fizzing in the air, a translucent screen blinked into existence before his eyes—superimposed against the dim wood and iron.
『SYSTEM INITIALIZING…』
Name: -
Race: Human
Level:2
Exp: 0/50
Mana: 10
Skill: Godly Eye of the Killer (Lv. 1)
Strength: 4 (Average: 10)
Stamina: 4
Endurance: 3
Intelligence: 13
Willpower: 20
---
He read it once. Then again.
The numbers confirmed what he already felt—he was weak, physically. His mind was sharp, though. And Willpower… that was high. Very high. Likely a reflection of the life he'd lived before.
But it was the skill that caught his attention.
Godly Eye of the Killer.
Jake concentrated on the words.
The screen shimmered, and a description expanded.
[Godly Eye of the Killer – Lv. 1]
A passive observational skill born from predatory instinct. Allows the user to perceive key psychological and emotional data about potential victims. The more time spent observing a target, the greater the depth of information revealed.
『Reveals (at current level):
Fears
Recent traumas
Emotional state
Hidden desires
Predictable routines』
Jake read it in silence. There was no fanfare. No dramatic music. No explanation of how to level it up.
Just information.
And that… he could work with.
This wasn't about weaknesses in combat—it was about understanding people like a predator understands prey. This was the instinct of someone who'd done dark things without lies. Without righteousness.
He didn't fully understand how it worked yet.
But he knew this:
It was the kind of skill designed for someone like him.
...
..
.
The wagon slowed. Outside, horses snorted, and a lantern flared. The night deepened into a thick chill. They were stopping to make camp.
Inside the cage, one of the adults groaned and shifted. The teenager clenched his fists. The little girl huddled closer to the corner. Jake simply sat. Unmoving. Watching.
The cage clanged open. A guard tossed a hard, half-moldy loaf of bread inside and slammed the door again. The prisoners scrambled for it.
Then something rippled in his vision.
He turned his eyes to the teenage boy beside him. The system activated without acommand.
---
[Target: Male, Age 16 – Potential Victim]
Emotional State: Fear
Jake blinked slowly.
He turned his gaze next to the girl in the corner.
[Target: Female, Age 7 – Potential Victim]
Emotional State: Confused, anxious
Fears: Being alone, loud noises, men with beards
-It was like reading people's souls from a page.
And it confirmed something he'd already guessed: none of these people were a threat to him.
But they could be tools.
Or distractions.