Chapter 1: Suffering and Despair
Caw... Caw... Caw...
Under a blazing sky scorched by a merciless sun, a murder of crows circled and shrieked endlessly. Their red eyes were fixed on the corpse sprawled upon the barren crimson earth, as if awaiting a feast yet to be devoured.
Beside the body lay a wrecked black carriage, old and medieval in design, smashed against a massive reddish sandstone boulder. The front was crushed beyond recognition. Of the two horses that had drawn it, one lay twisted in grotesque death, while the other had vanished, leaving behind only frayed and broken reins.
As the blood-eyed crows watched hungrily, one descended upon the corpse, pecking at a dirt-stained, bloodied hand clothed in torn rags. Suddenly... the fingers twitched. They moved again. The closed eyelids trembled, as though forced back into life.
In a flash, the eyes snapped open. The body jolted upright, startling the crow into a panicked scream as it fled. Cold sweat drenched the man's brow, his dilated pupils trembling as if he had glimpsed living hell. He raised a hand to cover part of his face, leaving only his wide, darting eyes exposed.
"By hell…? Where am I? I remember that I—Argh!"
Before he could finish, an infernal pain tore through his skull. He collapsed, writhing and screaming on the ground.
"Arrgh… Aaaaargh…"
Minutes passed before the agony ebbed. Gasping, he staggered to his feet, sweat pouring down his body, while foreign memories surged into his mind.
"It seems… I died. And was reborn in this body… just like in those fantasy stories."
He laughed bitterly. "Wow… never thought what I read could become reality."
The body's former owner had been named Nate, son of a powerful family in the nearby city—the very city he had failed to reach. The carriage crash had flattened the driver like paper, while Nate had been hurled against the earth, his skull meeting death.
The youth staggered to the wreckage.
"Hmm… a water pouch. That will be useful. Otherwise, I'll die of thirst before ever reaching the city."
He rummaged through the trunk, pulling out a small leather canteen filled with water.
Glancing at his shredded garments, he muttered:
"These clothes… I'll have to change. They're useless now."
After swapping clothes and drinking sparingly, he readied himself to move. He strapped the pouch to his waist, draped a cloth over his head against the merciless sun, and muttered:
"Damn… it's already unbearable. My new clothes are soaked in sweat. I need to hurry to the city."
He trudged forward, following faint wheel and hoof marks, dragging himself across the sands.
Through the wasteland, buffeted by wind and grit, Nate staggered as if each step might be his last.
After a long distance, he paused, pulling out the leather flask. He lifted it to cracked lips, desperate for relief. But only a final droplet slid out, stinging his parched mouth.
"…The water's gone. And the city's still far."
Though he had rationed carefully, now nothing remained. Yet he refused to surrender to stillness and death. Staying here meant the end. So he forced himself onward, step after punishing step.
He shambled like an old man leaning on an invisible cane, his back bent, his face pale, his eyes dim and lifeless. His lips split further, his skin reddened by the scorching sun. With a wan smile, he whispered mockingly:
"So… will I die again? What a pathetic end."
Nate had once dreamed of a heroic death. Now he mocked himself, perishing in the wasteland, forgotten and inglorious.
Hours later, his steps faltered into weakness. His legs dragged, strength drained. He tripped, smashing against a stone, collapsing face-first into the sand. His nose filled with grit, his skin scraped raw. He struggled to rise but his body betrayed him.
He lay sprawled, breath ragged, dust filling his lungs. His eyelids drooped. With a fading voice, he whispered:
"It seems… I really will die… never reaching the city…"
Just before his eyes shut for good, something caught his vision. A square shape, black and gray, etched with strange markings. With the last of his will, he forced his eyes open. At the edge of his sight, faint words appeared:
[ System ]
[ Conditions met for activation… ]
[ … ]
His vision dimmed. His eyes closed completely. He fell into a deep sleep… perhaps never to wake again.
Elsewhere in the desert, a plume of dust rose. A luxurious carriage, drawn by powerful steeds and adorned with golden patterns, rolled across the sands.
At the reins sat a man cloaked in brown, shielding himself from sun and storm. Beside him, another figure clad in scarred armor with a sword at his side—a mercenary, battle-worn and vigilant.
Inside the carriage, a lean man radiating authority sat impatiently. When the mercenary spotted something strange on the sands, he barked at the driver to halt and leapt down.
The master inside scowled at the sudden stop, shouting:
"Why have we stopped?!"
The driver hurried to answer:
"My lord, the mercenary ordered it."
"And why?!"
"He… he found someone collapsed not far from here."
The lord's face twisted in fury. "Where is he?! Bring him to me now!"
Moments later, the mercenary returned, carrying a pale body over his back.
At the sight, the lord exploded:
"Idiot! Why bring a corpse here?! You dare act without my command?! Did I hire you to guard me or to collect the dead?!"
The mercenary, calm and unwavering, replied:
"My lord… he is still alive. Would you have me leave him to die?"
The lord's veins bulged, his teeth grinding. "You… you! And what if he is alive, hmm?!"
He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing on the unconscious youth. Slowly, a smile curved his lips.
"Oh…? Very well. Good work. Bring him inside. Place him beside me."
The merce
nary, now grinning, bowed.
"As you command, my lord."