The last thing Leo remembered was the screech of tires, the grotesque crunch of metal, and the startling warmth of his own blood flooding his mouth. His final, coherent thought was not one of profound regret, but a simple, annoyed, "Well, this is a stupid way to go. And I just washed this shirt."
Then, nothing.
Not blackness. Not silence. True nothingness. A void without temperature, time, or customer service.
And within that nothingness, a… presence. Not a voice, but an intention, vast and ancient, pulling at the scattered pieces of what he had been. Weaving him back together. It felt less like a rescue and more like a cosmic manager reassigning him to the worst branch office imaginable.
"The feeling's not mutual," Leo tried to say, but he had no mouth. A profound violation of his right to complain.
The first sensation was pressure. Then, a crushing, suffocating tightness. He was being forced into a container far too small, his consciousness squeezed into a shape that was not his own. Memories that were not his flooded in—a cold cot, a bowl of thin broth that looked like dishwater, the stern face of a man who clearly enjoyed his job too much, and the aching hope for a miracle called an Awakening. A name: Kaelen.
He woke up gasping.
The air was cold and smelled of damp stone and profound disappointment. He was lying on a thin, lumpy mattress that seemed to be made of recycled regrets. Pale morning light filtered through a high, narrow window barred with iron.
"Charming," he tried to mutter, but his new voice came out as a reedy croak.
Slowly, pushing himself up on arms that felt too thin and weak to lift a decent paperback, he looked down at himself.
This was not his body.
He was wearing a rough, greyish tunic and trousers that had the fashion sense of a potato sack. The hands that pushed against the mattress were pale and slender, the wrists bony and delicate. He was… small. Thin in a way that spoke of missed meals and a lifestyle that was aggressively anti-gym. He brought a hand to his face, his fingers tracing unfamiliar features. A jaw that was still soft with youth, a nose that was straighter than his had been. His skin was pale, almost sallow.
"Great. I've been isekai'd into a Victorian workhouse," he groaned. His new voice was higher than he was used to.
Stumbling from the bed, his legs shaky and uncooperative, he moved toward a small, cracked washbasin in the corner. The water within was icy. Staring back at him from its trembling surface was a stranger.
A boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. A mess of unruly black hair fell across his forehead like a startled crow had landed there. His face was lean, with high cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin. It was a face that might have been handsome if it weren't for the shadows under his eyes—deep, bruise-like purplish smudges that screamed, 'I've seen things… and most of them were deeply underwhelming.'
"Wow," Leo-in-Kaelen breathed. "I look like a consumptive poet. A really, really bad one."
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
A jarring, metallic bell shattered the silence, sounding like it was being hit by an angry metal giant with a grudge. Leo-in-Kaelen flinched so hard he almost became one with the wall.
The door to the small room swung open. A tall, severe-looking man in grey robes stood there, his expression one of bored impatience, as if personally offended by the need to wake people up. "Up. Now. Devotions are not optional, Kaelen. Move your feet unless you wish to skip breakfast as well."
Ah, the new memories supplied. Brother Theron. The human equivalent of a parking ticket.
"Right. Devotions. "My favorite," Leo-in-Kaelen mumbled, stumbling into line with other boys in identical grey tunics. "Just once, I'd like an isekai that starts with a spa day."
He was marched to a chapel that smelled powerfully of old incense and repressed feelings. He mimicked the others, kneeling, standing, and reciting responses he didn't understand. The prayers were to a Goddess Eva and a world spirit called Gaia.
"Gaia, Mother of All, bless this mess," he whispered his own edit to the prayer. "Eva, She Who Sees, might want to get her eyes checked if this is the best she can do."
His new life became a monotonous rhythm dictated by the iron bell. Its obnoxious clang ruled every hour.
The Devotion Bell: For prayers he mumbled to gods he didn't know in a language he was still struggling to fully grasp. The sermons were real fire-and-brimstone stuff. "The Outer Dark will get you if you don't eat your vegetables!" he summarized quietly, earning a sharp look from Brother Theron.
The Sustenance Bell: For bland, meager meals eaten in silence. The food was a constant reminder of his place. "Ah, gruel à la disappointment," he'd think, poking at the greyish sludge. "My favorite."
The Labor Bell: For scrubbing floors until his knees ached ("My dream of becoming a floor-based superhero is finally coming true"), mending robes with clumsy fingers ("I'm not sewing, I'm adding 'character'"), and hauling supplies ("Call me Sisyphus. This rock is my new best friend").
The Reflection Bell: For hours of enforced silence in the dormitory. This was the worst. With nothing to do but think, the reality would crash down. "Okay, inventory," he'd think. "New body: scrawny. New home: a monastery run by Dementors. New career path: unknown. Prospects: dismal. Yep, that's a full-blown existential crisis bingo."
He learned the hierarchy. The priests who could manifest Light were the most revered. "Show-offs," Leo-in-Kaelen grumbled internally. "Bet they never have to look for a flashlight." Those with Water aspects worked in the infirmary. "Useful. Can they make this broth taste like anything?" Those with Earth maintained the building. "Probably great at DIY. Annoying."
He saw the desperate hope in the other boys' eyes. The Awakening was their Judgment Day. "No pressure, kids," he thought. "Just your entire future and sense of self-worth riding on a cosmic lottery. What could go wrong?"
He found a strange, grim solace in the routine. As Leo, his life had been a chaotic mess of bad jobs and existential dread. Here, as Kaelen, his world was terrifyingly small, but its rules were clear. Obey the bell, do your chores, and pray to the gods, and you will be fed and sheltered. The walls of the orphanage, though a cage, were also a shield from a vast, confusing world. "It's like a really depressing all-inclusive resort," he decided. "The food is terrible, and the activities are mandatory, but hey, free lodging."
Almost.
Because underneath the rigid routine, a deep and terrifying unease festered. The Church's doctrine was absolute. Heretical Elements were a corruption. Those who manifested such powers were not just unfortunate; they were evil. Monsters.
He'd overhear snippets from the priests. Talk of "incursions" at the city's edge. "So it's not all prayers and gruel," he mused. "There's also a side of existential horror. Fantastic. Do we get hazard pay?"
The pressure built. The approaching Awakening wasn't just a test; it was the moment of truth. "Alright, universe," Leo-in-Kaelen thought, staring at the ceiling one night. "Let's see what you've got. Just, you know, maybe nothing that gets me set on fire. A nice, boring element. Beige. I'd be great at beige."
He was Kaelen. He was Leo. He was a prisoner of hope, a citizen of fear, and the owner of a truly spectacular set of eyebags, waiting for a bell that would change everything. He just hoped it wouldn't involve torches and pitchforks.
A guy could dream.