Darkness.
A cold, suffocating void.
Then—pain.
A motherfucking freight train of it.
Brago's eyes snapped open, lungs clawing for air. He was sprawled on jagged rocks, throat raw, body screaming like it'd been run through a meat grinder.
This wasn't his body. The hands—too pale, too thin, knuckles unscarred—weren't his. The clothes—some tattered, unfamiliar robe—smelled of mold and sweat.
He staggered to his feet, head pounding, and took in the alien world around him.
This wasn't his shithole city.
The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something sharp, like burnt ozone. Trees loomed like fucking skyscrapers, their gnarled branches twisting into the sky, blotting out the sun. The ground was carpeted with moss that pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat.
Everything felt wrong—too vivid, too alive.
He patted his pockets, expecting nothing but finding something. A stone, small and smooth, glowing like a dying ember. It hummed in his palm, warm and slick, like it was sweating.
Strange symbols flickered across its surface, carving themselves into his brain:
---
Name: Brago
Race: Human
Age: Unknown
Main Skill: Immortality – Cannot permanently die. Body regenerates from any injury.
Passive Skill: Fake Death – Can feign death, slowing vitals to near-zero, undetectable by most.
Stats: Strength, Agility, Intelligence—all fucking pathetic. Barely above zero.
---
"Immortality?" Brago rasped, voice rough as gravel.
"I really can't fucking die now?"
A grin split his face, sharp and feral.
He didn't give a shit whose body this was or how he got here. The stone's words were a promise—a sick, beautiful promise.
He needed to test it.
Needed to feel it.
He stumbled toward a cliff's edge, the drop yawning below, a jagged maw of rocks and mist. No hesitation. No fear. He spread his arms and leaped.
---
The fall was a scream of wind and gravity. His body hit the rocks like a bag of meat, bones shattering with wet cracks, skull splitting, blood and brains spraying across the stone.
Pain exploded, white-hot, then faded to a dull throb.
His flesh twitched, knitting itself back together.
Bones crunched, grinding into place.
Skin crawled, sealing over gashes.
His heart kicked back on, thumping like a war drum.
Brago laughed, a raw, guttural sound, lying in a pool of his own gore.
He stood, whole again, blood dripping from his matted hair.
---
"Finally," he growled, spitting a clot of blood onto the rocks,
"a fucking world that gets me."