Elias awakens alone in the dark, freezing and soaked in industrial runoff, his body foreign and aching. He doesn't know where he is — or when. The only certainty is that he shouldn't be alive.
Darkness. Not the kind that cradles sleep — the kind that chokes. It filled his mouth, his lungs, the back of his throat. Cold liquid stung his nose and sloshed around his body, thick and foul like sewage but carrying the reek of chemicals and old blood.
Elias gasped and snapped upright, coughing violently.
He emerged from a half-submerged pipe into a rust-colored canal of standing fluid, its stench instantly searing his sinuses. His throat burned. His ribs screamed. Every joint in his body throbbed like he'd been beaten with a crowbar.
Where the hell—
No.
Not "hell." Not yet.
Think.
His eyes adjusted slowly. A faint green glow emanated from a cracked chemical bulb embedded in the wall above, casting long shadows through hanging pipes and broken steel mesh. Everything was metal, rotting concrete, and slime.
He blinked. Blinked again.
His vision swam. Words formed in his brain, loose and oily:
–urban sewer–
–military-grade decay–
–HVAC piping, post-industrial–
Am I analyzing things like a field report? What the hell is this?
He looked down.
He was wearing torn fatigues, soaked through. His chest was bare, pale with a livid bruise spreading along his side. No body armor. No rifle. No comms. No dog tags.
No memory.
A sharp pain flashed behind his eyes. His own name came slowly — like it had been clawed out of him:
"...Elias Mercer," he said aloud, just to make it real. His voice was hoarse, almost broken.
Where was the rest? His last memory—
Nothing. A haze. Rain, maybe. Boots. Screams in the distance?
Something about a mission. Black ops. A breach. A body. His body?
"Am I dead?"
The question floated in the air, answered only by the groan of pipes and the distant hiss of steam.
He tried to stand. His legs buckled. His bare feet slipped in grime. He steadied himself on the wall, only to find it flaking and sharp, layered with what looked like coagulated grease or mold. He gagged.
More light. Find more light.
He moved slowly, hand brushing against rusted conduits as he limped down the canal, sloshing through ankle-deep filth. His breath came in short, cold bursts. Somewhere above, metal creaked — a sound of shifting pressure plates or ancient ventilation. No natural wind. No night sky. No stars.
This wasn't Earth. Not any Earth he'd known.
Ten minutes later — or an hour — he found a corner where the sewer widened into a junction. A corpse sat slumped against the far wall.
Human. Male. Half-armored. Legs missing below the knee. The face was half-eaten by rats. Maggots crawled in the beard.
Elias froze.
He didn't move closer. Not right away. His mind split between training and revulsion.
Check for equipment. Scavenge. Secure a weapon.
He'd done worse in the field. Hadn't he?
Field… where?
He shoved the thought down.
Moving cautiously, Elias crouched beside the corpse and examined what little remained intact: A belt. A laspistol holster. Dog tags. The uniform was stained black, but the emblem caught his eye — a winged skull over a capital "I."
Not American. Not NATO. Not Russian.
Elias lifted the stub pistol from the holster and checked it by instinct. Charge cell intact. Safety on. Lightweight, unfamiliar make — but built to kill.
He found a half-rotted satchel beside the corpse. Inside: two protein bricks sealed in plastic, a dented water canteen, and a half-functional wrist communicator covered in grime. The screen was shattered.
He took it all.
He sat against the opposite wall, chewing the first protein brick with difficulty. It tasted like boiled metal and ash. Still — it was food. The water was tainted but drinkable. His body shivered as warmth crept back into his muscles.
He stared at the corpse. The rats had returned.
"Sorry," Elias muttered. "Survival first."
He looked up. Faint writing had been burned into the concrete above the corpse — carved with fire or acid:
"Praise the True Flesh. The Emperor is a Lie."
He didn't know what it meant.
He just knew it wasn't good.
Somewhere deeper in the tunnel, he heard footsteps.
Boots. At least three pairs. They were approaching fast. A voice called out, echoing harshly:
"Got movement down this pipe! Somethin' alive!"
Another voice — higher, rougher: "If it's still breathin', we eat it."
Elias froze. Instinct took over. He stuffed the last protein bar in his pocket, pulled the stub pistol, and ducked into the shadows behind the junction column, controlling his breath.
A second later, three figures emerged from the dark.
Hive gangers. Skin like leather, faces pierced with bone and scrap metal. One held a jagged machete. Another had a shotgun fused with tubes and wires. The third sniffed the air like a dog.
"Somethin's here," the third hissed.
Elias gripped the pistol tighter, heart pounding, mind calculating.
He had no armor, no allies, and no powers.
At least — that's what he thought.
Until the first ganger stepped close enough for him to see his own reflection in the man's blade.
For a second, Elias saw something behind his own eyes. Like a red lens. Like a seal being broken.
And then—
> SYSTEM ONLINE
> Host Detected: ELIAS MERCER
> Condition: POST-MORTAL TRANSFER (REINCARNATE)
> Dimensional Contamination: Warp Index [HIGH]
> Combat Class: [SHINOBI-TYPE]
> Chakra Pool: 2/2
> Skill Unlocked: [Clone Technique – Rank E]
> WARNING: Host Neurological Adaptation Incomplete
Elias didn't understand a single word.
He didn't need to.
Because the ganger lunged at him — and Elias's body moved on its own.
His left hand flew through a gesture he'd never learned.
Poof.
A flickering copy of himself appeared to the left.
The ganger turned instinctively — slashing at the fake. It evaporated in a puff of smoke.
And Elias drove the butt of his pistol into the man's throat.
The ganger collapsed, gasping.
The others turned, too slow. Elias fired once — missed. Fired again — hit. The shot burned a smoking hole through the second ganger's shoulder.
The last one screamed and ran.
Elias stood there, chest heaving, stunned.
The pistol trembled in his hand. The clone's image was already gone, but the memory of it — the speed, the feel of that power flowing from his fingers — it clung to him.
Chakra?
No. That's fiction.
Isn't it?
But the footsteps in the sewer were real.
So was the blood.
And this wasn't fiction.
This was something else.
[END OF PART 1]