I died at twenty-five because I tripped over my own shoelaces.
I fell down in a subway station staircase during rush hour. Seventeen steps. My neck snapped on the landing. At least it was quick.
My name was Kenji Takahashi, and my life had been aggressively mediocre. Average grades at a third-tier university. A dead-end job at a company that treated employees like disposable parts. No girlfriend, despite trying online dating for two years. No real friends, just coworkers who forgot about me the moment I left the office. No ambitions beyond maybe getting promoted someday. Just existing day to day, paying rent, eating convenience store food, watching anime alone until I passed out, then waking up to do it all over again.
Death should have been the end.
Instead, I woke up in literal garbage.
Not some poetic description of a bad situation. Actual rotting garbage in an alley that smelled like someone had died, decomposed, and been left to ferment for several months. My body was tiny—a child's body, maybe eight or nine years old. Skeletal. Every bone was visible through papery skin. Infected wounds covered my arms and legs—some fresh, some badly scarred over. The rags I wore had more holes than fabric, barely covering anything. Hunger gnawed at my stomach like a living creature trying to eat its way out from the inside.
Pain radiated from everywhere. My head throbbed. My chest felt like someone had kicked it repeatedly. Even breathing hurt.
A translucent blue screen flickered into existence in front of my face, floating in the air like some kind of augmented reality display.
[REINCARNATION PROTOCOL: COMPLETE]
[WORLD: ASTRALHEIM]
[IDENTITY: UNREGISTERED]
[DESIGNATION: NONE]
[BASE STATISTICS]
STRENGTH: 2
VITALITY: 3
AGILITY: 4
INTELLIGENCE: 7
MAGIC: 0
LUCK: 1
[CLASS: UNASSIGNED]
[ABILITIES: NONE]
[CURRENT AFFLICTIONS: MALNUTRITION (SEVERE), INFECTION (MULTIPLE), PARASITES, CHRONIC PAIN, VITAMIN DEFICIENCY]
Two strength. Zero magic. One luck.
I stared at the numbers, my brain struggling to process what I was seeing.
"Are you kidding me?" I croaked. My throat felt like I'd swallowed sandpaper mixed with broken glass. "This is worse than being dead!"
"Talking to yourself is the first sign you've gone mad."
The voice came from a shadowy corner of the alley, where piles of trash formed something almost resembling shelter. Another kid emerged—maybe nine years old, just as skeletal as my new body, but with sharp, alert eyes that tracked my every movement with predatory awareness. His hair was matted with filth, forming dark clumps that might have been brown or black underneath the grime. Scars crisscrossed his exposed arms—some thin and precise like knife cuts, others ragged like he'd been clawed by animals.
"Madness implies having something to lose," I replied, my voice coming out weak and raspy. "We're already at the bottom."
He snorted—a harsh, bitter sound that seemed too old for his young face. "Bottom? This isn't the bottom. The bottom is when the disease takes your mind and you forget you were ever human. When you can't remember your own thoughts. When you become an animal waiting to die." He gestured at the garbage-strewn alley with one scarred hand. "This is just regular suffering. We still know we're suffering. That means we're still human. Barely."
"That's... cheerful."
"Realistic," he corrected. "Optimism kills people like us. Makes you take risks and risks get you dead faster." He tilted his head, studying me with those unnervingly intelligent eyes. "You're different though. Your eyes aren't vacant like most new gutter spawn. You're thinking and considering options. That means your brain still works properly, which is rare."
"Gutter spawn?" The term sounded dehumanizing even before I knew what it meant.
"What the city calls us. The unnamed ones. The unwanted. Children born in the slums who were never registered with the census. Orphans dumped here by families who couldn't afford to feed them. Runaways from abusive situations who ended up here because nowhere else would take them. We don't get recorded in official documents. Don't exist legally. Aren't recognized as citizens or even as people really. Just vermin that sometimes needs exterminating when the population gets too large and the wealthy districts complain about us spreading disease." His tone was matter-of-fact, like he was describing the weather or discussing what to have for dinner.
My stomach churned. Not from hunger this time—from pure, visceral rage at the casual cruelty embedded in what he was describing.
"That's insane. That's systematic genocide."
"That's reality." He shrugged, the motion making his too-thin shoulders stand out sharply. "I'm lucky compared to most. Been scavenging for three years now. Learned which trash is safe to eat and which will kill you. Figured out which alleys to avoid when certain gangs are active. Memorized the guard patrol schedules so I know when to hide. Most gutter spawn last maybe six months before starvation, disease, violence, or the elements get them."
Three years.
This kid had survived three years in conditions that would break most adults in weeks.
"You have a name?" I asked, trying to bring some humanity back to the conversation.
He shook his head slowly. "Names are for people with futures. People who might grow up, get jobs, start families, leave legacies. We don't have futures. We have 'maybe tomorrow' and 'hopefully next week' and 'please let me see another sunrise.' Names imply permanence. We're temporary by nature."
The resignation in his voice was worse than anger would have been. He'd accepted this as immutable truth.
"Then I'll call you Rat," I said firmly.
His eyes widened, something flickering across his face—surprise, maybe? "What?"
"You said you scavenge. Survive where others die. Know every alley, every hiding spot, every escape route. That's what rats do. They're survivors. They adapt. They find ways to live in conditions that would kill anything else. They're clever, resourceful, and nearly impossible to eliminate completely no matter how hard people try." I met his gaze directly. "It's a compliment. The highest one I can give right now."
For a long moment, he just stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then the corner of his mouth twitched upward. Not quite a smile—like he'd forgotten how to make that expression—but close.
"Rat," he tested the word, rolling it around in his mouth like something foreign. "Never had anything to call myself before. Never needed one since no one talks to us anyway." He pointed at me with one dirty finger. "What about you? What should I call you?"
I thought about it carefully. Kenji Takahashi was dead. Gone. That life, that world, that identity—all finished. Left behind in a world I could never return to. Whatever I was now, whoever I would become in this harsh new reality, it wouldn't be that person.
"Nothing yet," I said slowly. "I'll earn a name when I've done something worth naming. When I've proven I deserve to be called something beyond just another gutter spawn."
Rat nodded, a gesture of understanding passing between us. "You're ambitious for someone who can barely stand without shaking."
He was right. My legs trembled just from sitting upright against the alley wall. My vision kept swimming in and out of focus. Every breath felt like work, like my lungs weren't sure they wanted to keep functioning. My heart beat irregularly in my chest, sometimes racing, sometimes sluggish.
But I had something most people in this world didn't have.
Memories. Complete, intact memories of twenty-five years lived in another world. A world with modern technology, advanced medicine, sophisticated social systems, accumulated human knowledge spanning millennia. Understanding of nutrition, hygiene, resource management, organizational theory, basic engineering principles, strategic thinking. Twenty-five years of information from a civilization that had solved many of the problems this medieval nightmare still struggled with.
I couldn't tell him that though. Revealing I was from another world would make me sound insane at best.
"Rat," I said carefully. "Tell me everything about this city. The districts. The power structure. The economy. Who has power and how they use it. Everything you know."
"Why?" He leaned back, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What good does knowing do? Can't eat knowledge. Can't use information to heal infected wounds or find shelter from winter cold."
"Because knowledge is the only weapon we have right now. The only advantage. And I plan to use every weapon available, no matter how small or seemingly useless."
He studied me for a long, calculating moment. Something shifted in his expression—recognition maybe, or at least curiosity about what made me different from every other gutter spawn he'd encountered.
Then he crawled closer, each movement careful and pained. I could see now that he was favoring his left side, probably from broken ribs that had healed incorrectly.
"Okay," he said quietly. "But don't get your hopes up. People like us don't rise. We don't climb social ladders or better our situations. We just try not to sink further into the muck. That's the reality of being born at the bottom."
"Then we'll be the first to break that pattern."
He laughed—a harsh, bitter sound like breaking glass. "You really are crazy."
"Probably," I admitted. "Tell me anyway."
And so he did.
Rat's explanation painted a grim picture, delivered in the monotone of someone who'd long since accepted horror as normalcy.
Veridian City was divided into five distinct districts, each separated by high stone walls that functioned as both physical and social barriers. The walls weren't just architecture—they were statements. Declarations that certain people belonged in certain places and should never cross those boundaries.
The Royal District occupied the city's highest point, built on a hill that literally looked down on everything else. Nobility lived there in mansions that could house a hundred people each. Magic academies trained children of wealthy families in arts that cost more than most people earned in lifetimes. Protected by elite guards who were themselves minor nobles, equipped with enchanted armor and weapons worth small fortunes. Citizens of lower districts couldn't even approach the walls without permission, on pain of imprisonment or death.
The Merchant District formed a ring around the Royal District, slightly lower on the hill but still elevated above the rest. This was where money flowed like water. Shops selling goods imported from distant lands. Guildhalls where merchants formed cartels to control prices. Markets where a single transaction could involve more gold than a common laborer would see in a year. Guards here were numerous and brutal—anyone who looked too poor was immediately escorted out, often violently. Gutter spawn caught in the Merchant District were killed on sight, no questions asked, no consequences for the killers.
The Craft District sprawled across the flatlands, taking up the most space. Workshops and smithies filled every street. Artisans who weren't wealthy enough for the Merchant District but skilled enough to make decent livings created everything the city needed. Blacksmiths, carpenters, tailors, cobblers, chandlers, coopers, and hundreds of other trades. This district was marginally safer for the poor—you might only get beaten instead of killed if you wandered in looking for scraps. But the artisans formed tight-knit guilds that didn't welcome outsiders, especially not ragged children.
The Common District housed the working people who kept the city functioning. Laborers, servants, dockworkers, street sweepers, waste collectors, and other necessary but low-status occupations. Cramped apartments stacked on top of each other, narrow streets always crowded with people trying to get to work or back home. The communities here were insular, suspicious of strangers, but at least they didn't immediately murder you for existing. Still, they had nothing to spare for beggars and no interest in helping those even lower than themselves.
And finally, The Slum District.
Rat's voice got quieter when he talked about our home.
Officially, it wasn't even recognized as part of Veridian City. Not marked on maps. Not included in population counts. Not governed by city laws. Just a festering wound that existed outside the walls where society dumped everything it wanted to forget. Criminals who'd fled other districts. Workers who'd lost everything and had nowhere else to go. The diseased. The disabled. The elderly who could no longer work. And children. So many children.
"There's maybe five thousand people here," Rat explained, his voice flat. "Most are adults who committed crimes or lost everything to debt. Can't leave because other cities won't accept refugees from Veridian—we're marked as undesirables. Stuck here until they die, which usually doesn't take long."
"And children?" I asked, though I dreaded the answer.
"Maybe five hundred of us at any given time. Numbers fluctuate based on how many are born, dumped, or run away versus how many die each week." His expression was distant, like he was reciting facts about strangers rather than describing his own community. "We're the absolute lowest. Adults steal from us because we're too weak to fight back. Gangs use us as lookouts or couriers, then don't pay us or beat us if we ask for the promised food. Guards from the other districts sometimes come here for 'training exercises'—which means practicing their combat skills on living targets that don't matter."
My hands clenched into fists despite my weakness. "Guards murder children?"
"We're not legally people. Can't be charged with murder if the victim doesn't exist in any official records. No birth certificates. No citizenship papers. No one to report us missing because no one knows we exist." He said it so casually it made my blood boil. "It's actually good practice for them—moving targets, realistic combat experience, no legal consequences. Very efficient from their perspective."
This world was rotten. Fundamentally, systematically, deliberately rotten.
"How do you survive day to day?" I forced myself to ask.
"Scavenging trash from the other districts. Merchants throw out spoiled food that's only mostly rotten—if you eat around the really bad parts, it won't kill you immediately. Drinking from rain puddles since the wells here are contaminated. Sleeping in groups during winter for shared warmth, though that also means fighting off people trying to steal your spot. Hiding from gangs who want to use us. Running from guards who want target practice. Avoiding adults with... other interests in children." He didn't elaborate on that last part. Didn't need to.
"What about skills? Magic? Levels? The system seems to exist here."
Rat shrugged. "Most of us never awaken a class. Awakening requires proper nutrition during developmental years. Our bodies are too damaged, too malnourished. Even if someone did awaken, they'd be too weak to matter. Classes need training, which requires resources, teachers, time, and safety—things we'll never have. The system exists for people who already have advantages. For us, it's just another reminder of everything we'll never be."
A system designed to keep the powerful powerful and the weak powerless. Structured oppression disguised as meritocracy.
But systems could be broken. Exploited. Turned against themselves.
I just needed time to figure out how.
"Alright," I said, my mind already racing through possibilities despite my body's weakness. "First priority: we need to not die. That means addressing immediate threats—starvation, disease, exposure. We need food that won't kill us, clean water, basic shelter."
"Where would we get those things?" Rat asked, his tone suggesting he thought I was delusional. "Everything requires money we don't have or strength we don't possess."
"We make them. Create them from resources others don't recognize as valuable."
"That's impossible."
"So is surviving three years in this hellhole, but you managed." I looked at him directly. "You're smart, Rat. Smarter than you give yourself credit for. You've learned patterns, recognized dangers, adapted to impossible conditions. That's not just survival instinct—that's intelligence. We combine your knowledge of this place with my... different way of seeing things. Between us, maybe we can figure out how to not starve to death."
He stared at me for a long moment, those sharp eyes searching for something—sincerity maybe, or madness that matched his own desperation.
"You're not like other gutter spawn. You see possibilities where everyone else just sees trash." He said.
"So you'll help me?" I asked.
"Help you do what exactly? Not die tomorrow? Find food that won't poison us? Clean enough water to drink without getting dysentery?" His voice was skeptical but curious.
"Yeah. Exactly that. Just... survive. One day at a time." I held out my filth-covered hand, the gesture absurd given our circumstances but feeling necessary. "Work with me. Two heads are better than one, right?"
Rat looked at my offered hand like it was a foreign object whose purpose he couldn't quite grasp.
Then, slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and clasped it. His grip was weak, his hand skeletal, but the gesture meant everything.
"Alright," he said quietly. "I've got nothing better to do than die slowly anyway. Let's see if your 'different way of seeing things' actually keeps us alive longer than a week."
"A week sounds ambitious. Let's start with tomorrow."
He snorted—but this time it sounded almost like a laugh. "Tomorrow. Right. One impossible day at a time."
"Exactly."