Chapter 1: The Day I Died
I was a security guard, living a life that felt empty and forgettable. Each day blurred into the next, with nothing new, nothing exciting, nothing worth remembering. The bar where I worked was filled with drunken faces I forgot the moment I saw them. Nothing changed. Nothing ever did.
On my day off, I went to a bar and drank beer. I wanted to relax, but the place was loud, packed with men who thought shouting made their stories funnier. Maybe it was because I was drunk, maybe because I was tired of life itself, but the laughter and shouting grated against my ears like nails on metal.
I slammed my glass on the table and glared at the group. "Hey, can you shut up!"
They turned, surprised, then smirked like I was a joke. That laugh—the mocking kind that makes your blood boil—echoed between us.
I stood and shoved the nearest man, my voice low and sharp. "What's so funny?"
The fight exploded. Chairs scraped across the floor, bottles clattered, fists swung. This wasn't new to me—I'd broken up scraps before. My body remembered how to fight even if my mind was clouded by alcohol. One push, a twist, a knee to the ribs. Another man down. My fists moved on their own, years of security work giving me an edge against drunk, sloppy swings.
I took three of them down before anyone else could think straight. My heart pounded; adrenaline burned the alcohol away.
Then the last man lunged. I saw the glint too late. Steel. A flash. A hot, sharp pain exploded in my back.
The world tilted. My breath hitched. My shirt grew warm and wet in seconds.
The man who stabbed me froze, eyes wide, knife hand trembling. He looked more afraid than I did. His face drained of color, and then—like a coward—he turned and ran, leaving me to collapse on the blood-stained floor.
I tried to stand, but my legs gave out. Shouts echoed, people scattering—some yelling for help, others just watching. The taste of iron filled my mouth. My vision narrowed, colors bleeding into black.
The last thing I felt was the cold spreading through my body, heavier than sleep.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on soft ground.
I gasped, clutching my chest, certain I had died—but there was no blood, no pain. My body was whole.
Slowly I pushed myself up and looked around. Towering trees rose above me, thicker and taller than any building I had ever seen. Their branches stretched endlessly, crowns swallowing the sky. Shafts of sunlight pierced the leaves, scattering light across flowers and moss that carpeted the forest floor. The air smelled fresh and rich—so different from the smoke and liquor stench of the bar.
Panic surged. I stumbled forward, then broke into a run, crashing through bushes and roots without direction. My footsteps thundered in my ears; my heart raced faster than during the fight.
Then the ground gave way and I tumbled into a river.
The water was cool but not harsh. It carried me gently, flowing so calm it felt almost unnatural. Pulling myself up, I leaned over the bank—and froze.
The water's surface was still as glass, a perfect mirror.
The reflection staring back wasn't me.
It wasn't the tired security guard with messy short hair, dark circles under his eyes, a life worn into his skin. The man reflected had sharper eyes, a younger face, and long black hair that fell to his shoulders like silk. His jawline was firm; his body was leaner, stronger—fit in ways mine had never been.
My hand shook as I touched my cheek. The reflection copied me. "This… isn't me."
Memories crashed through me—the bar, the fight, the knife. I had died. And yet here I was, alive. Different.
Could I be in another body?
My chest tightened as I looked down. The clothes I wore weren't mine. They weren't proper clothes—just rough, torn fabric tied at the waist with a piece of rope. Dirt stained the rags; the seams were worn from long use.
These weren't the clothes of a traveler. Not a soldier. Not even a farmer.
They were the clothes of a slave.
The realization hit harder than the knife in my back.
Why this body? Why here? Why me?
The river rippled and broke my reflection apart. My fists clenched, trembling. I had no answers—only fear, confusion, and the faintest spark of something else.
Survival.